Twenty Years Later

Thompson is my name. Jason Thompson. I have killed two people in my lifetime. My original quota of six, the number of evil, I fear is not going to happen. I am much too old now. I will have to settle for one more. I only have the strength for one more.
I stood slowly and gripped my cane.
You may be asking how a seventy year old man can kill someone.
Well, you see, this kill will not be nearly as brutal as my previous two.
I will have to kill someone close to my age. Old. It will be a woman though. They are less aware.

An old woman across the street, her name is Mrs. Shafer. Her husband died ten years ago due to a fatal car accident. She had survived, but it left her paralyzed from the waist down.
An easy kill, I thought to myself.
I slowly limped over to the door with the help of my cane.
I would kill her now. It was the perfect time. It was a beautiful, sunny day and all the other neighbors would be at work.
I made my way casually across the street to Mrs. Shafer’s house.
I rang the doorbell and grabbed a flower from a set of petunias outside.
Mrs. Shafer came rolling in her wheelchair and opened the door. I took the liberty of walking in and handing her the flower.
“That’s so nice of you, Billy.”
Billy? He must be one of the neighbor boys.
“Yes. Yes my name is Billy.” I lied.
“Come sit.” She told me.
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Oh, all right then.”

I casually watched as she wheeled herself into the living room. I solely followed her. An idea of how I would murder her quickly presented itself. A door leading to the basement was open. I moved silently behind her. Like a ninja.
“What’s down there?” I asked.
“ Down there is the basement, sweetie.”

She wheeled herself to the stairs and pointed down into the darkness.

I took the opportunity and shoved her as hard as I could. Thump! Thump!

Thump!

I watched her body tumble and then lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs,

in the darkness.

That poor old woman. She would have been dead soon anyway.

I sighed. I was satisfied with my life’s work. My life was complete. Seventy years
old. Three people are dead by my hand.

I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and returned to the stairs.

I would take my own life now. I am a coward, kind of like Hitler.

I stepped forward, and let my toes hang off the stair’s edge.

I muffled a quick prayer, even though I knew it would not save me from Hell.

I quickly plunged the knife through my chest and briefly felt myself fall forward.

I hit the cold, stone floor, dead.

Don’t think of me as a murderer. I was an artist that took pride in my art, killing.