The Soul Thief

A retelling of a crime so brutal it shocked the nation.

       Holding the gun, my hands began to shake violently. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Yet, I had to. She knew too much. It had to be one of us.

              I looked her in the eye mercilessly, pretending like I didn’t care. Before me stood the woman I once used to love to pieces. I should have seen that coming. In the end, I was the one who told her about my grim nature. I was nothing but a serial killer. Her ethereal face: skin as precious as porcelain, the purest of ice in her eyes, the fire in her hair. Everything I could have possibly asked for in a woman. What a shame it would turn out to be. But if I didn’t end it right here, she would betray me in the cruelest of ways, exposing my somber past, my hidden thrill. 

             A choice had to be made: my flesh and bones rotting to dust in prison or taking away another innocent life. Not even her silent pleas for forgiveness could help : the deer in the headlights stance, that slight tilt of her head, the joining of her hands together in an attempt to whisper her last prayer, being aware of my following actions. She was not only going to be physically hurt but mentally drained as well. So why make this a process in which she would end up dying the slow paced, tormented way? Even I wasn’t that heartless. I was just going to make this easier for the both of us. That’s why my weapon of choice was a shooter, an AK- 47 to be precise.

I stepped forward, hearing the screeching sound of my black rubber boots on the cold cemented flooring of the abandoned warehouse I had discovered a while back. I shot once, the bullet missed her by that much, projecting itself in the moldy cracked ceiling. The second attempt would be a different approach, hopefully better than the first try. My fingers clutched tightly on the handle, my thumb pressed against the trigger, barely setting off. Pulling my arm back, I aimed precisely, as I had done that so many times, it had become a routine, a “pleasant” habits of my sickened judgment. 

Firing the second time, the bullet launched itself straight into her belly, her eyes widened,  her face turned pale and she gasped out of a sudden while falling flat on her back. Blood began to gush out of the wound, staining her light colored clothes. Skeptically approaching her corpse, I crouched down to check for any vital signs, check if, maybe, that hadn’t been effective enough. Her pulse was no longer there. The deed was completed, the scent of gunpowder heavy in the air. Now, covering my tracks was going to be a breeze. Half an hour later I looked back at what I had done, feeling not even the slightest bit of guilt or remorse.

        I was nothing more but a sociopath, a psychopath, meant to free the world of the society’s lowlifes. I would extend this activity until I would be arrested by the police, imprisoned behind bars. I’m writing this letter from a small cell, 20 years later, but the memories come back to me, as vivid as ever. For one thing that happened 2 decades ago, I am now to die in jail until the end of time.

  Many people fear me, if you cross my path, better beware, as I’m the infamous soul thief.

Author's Note

Just something I wrote about 2 or 3 years ago. Although the themes I approach are often dark, this was my first dabble into crime fiction.

Reviews

[Tula M]

Hi! I'm also a bit morbid(so I've been told;). I loved it, I could really imagine what was going on. The end confused me a little, but i still liked it.

[Inject Positivity]

Superb write Ioana. I find your story to be very well organized and presented for the read. From the beginning where two people standing in the midst of difficulty of choice, although only one person had the choice to do what he/she wanted to do. I see a hint of flashback fusion technique in this story, or expressionism. The build up was excellent as well as the scene of the bullet being fired into her belly which knocks her down on her back.

A power-packed short write. Well done...

Sincerely
Dhiman