Who By Fire?

For as long as I can remember, there has been a persistent impulse within me, a feeling that pulses just beneath the surface of my consciousness. It’s difficult to articulate, but it carries a weight that feels both dark and ancient, as if it has been woven into the very fabric of my being. This sensation often surfaces in quiet moments, whispering secrets I can’t quite grasp, urging me to explore depths I’ve yet to fully understand.

It feels primordial, echoing through the corridors of time, resonating with something deep within my soul. There’s an allure to it, a call to venture into shadows that most shy away from. Yet, alongside that allure is a sense of trepidation, as if I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, drawn to its depths while acutely aware of the risks it poses. This impulse is a riddle, a haunting melody that both fascinates and terrifies me, compelling me to confront the mysteries of my own existence.

To put it simply, I wanted to kill. 

I didn’t exactly have the perfect childhood. My father was a drinker and fiend, he threw things and alcohol made him violent. He beat on my mother and it wasn’t long before he beat on me, too. My mother, as sweet as she was, just took the abuse and moved on, pretending it didn’t happen. And when my father turned his sights on me, she simply watched in a dazed way and very seldom stopped it. 

As I grew older, I eventually fought back against my father but I seldom won. He was a bigger, stronger man than me, he was a cowboy who worked on a ranch and in the oil fields. And when I tired of being the scapegoat for his rage, I left that small corner of Texas and somehow, arrived in Montana. I did odd jobs, worked as a bartender, things like that. I saw violent men frequently. I could spot them a mile away. One night in particular, a man got drunk at the bar I was working at and hit the girl he was with. He was dragged away by his buddies outside. I clocked out early and followed him home, watching as he smoked a cigarette in his car. I watched as he entered his house and flipped on the TV.

And that feeling rose up in me. That feeling to kill. Rage overflowed within me. I clenched my fists and reached for my glove compartment where I kept my pistol. I got out of my car and went to his door. I knocked three times. He answered. And without either of us saying a word, I lifted my gun and shot him point blank in the chest. He fell backwards. I moved into the house as he spluttered blood. I watched him wiggle on the ground. I watched the fear in his eyes. And then I shot him in the head. 

As I walked away from the house, a sensation akin to pride swelled within me. Something thrilling had just transpired, an event that felt monumental in its significance. Yet, that exhilaration did little to quell the darker urges bubbling beneath the surface. Instead, it ignited them, intensifying my cravings.

I felt a bloodthirsty hunger rising up, ravenous and insatiable. It was as if I had opened a door to a world of possibilities, and now, the mere taste of excitement left me yearning for more. Each step away from the house amplified this restless desire, pulling me deeper into the shadows of my own ambition. The thrill of what had just happened was a mere appetizer; I craved the feast that lay beyond, the unknown adventures and challenges that awaited. The rush was intoxicating, and I couldn’t help but wonder how far I was willing to go to satisfy this newfound appetite.

A couple weeks went by. My hunger to kill again rumbled deep within me. On the news, I saw a story about a man who had harmed a child in an unforgivable way. He was released on bond. It didn’t take much internet searching to find out where he lived. I went to his house, knocked on his door, and when he answered, I pushed him inside and he fell to the ground. “Please, man, don’t hurt me, I’ll give you anything you want,” he said. I laughed. He thought I was here to rob him. This time I wanted to try a different method. I straddled him as he struggled and I wrapped my hands around his throat. He fought back, gurgling, eyes bulging, until finally, he stopped and faded away. This didn’t excite me as much as I thought it would but it did satisfy my craving. 

And so I continued to do this for a while, find a man guilty of something horrendous and then find them and put an end to their meaningless existence. But each time, my hunger wasn’t satisfied. 

Then I heard that my father was dying. So I returned to Texas. 

My father laid in a hospital bed, cloaked in white, attached to a machine that helped him breathe. I watched him for a while until he finally noticed me. “Jack?” He said. 

I didn’t answer. I moved further into the room and grabbed gloves from a box. He chuckled. “Oh, I see,” he said in a gritty voice. “You’ve come to get your revenge.”

I stood over his bed, looking down at the pitiful sight he had become. He wasn’t as big as once was, and wasn't as terrifying. I was satisfied to know that, even without my planned intervention, his death would be painful. He had grayed and wrinkled and weakened since the last time I saw him. “Charlie couldn’t kill me in the jungle. Couldn’t kill me and because of that, I was convinced I would live a long and happy life,” he said and then chuckled. “Stupid of me, huh?”

Still, I said nothing. Just stared at him. 

“Shame your mother wasn’t here to see what her son has become.”

Memories flashed through my mind of my mother, beaten down and worn out, and finally, an image of her laying in bed, dead, from an overdose. A note on the bed beside her, written in perfect cursive; I refuse to live with this man anymore. My mother had died to get away from this monster. And left me alone to live with him. Couldn’t find it within me to forgive her for that. 

“I ain’t become nothing,” I said quietly as I snapped on the gloves. “All I became is what you molded me to be.”

“Oh so I’m to blame?” He asked, a smile creeping across his face. 

“You’re to blame for everything.”

He nodded. “Well then, go on ahead and do it then. Don’t keep an old man waiting.”

I wrapped my fingers around his neck and squeezed. Initially he fought back, as instinct took hold and then he stopped, staring me in the eyes until his last, dying breath. 

I drove back to Montana, satisfied. But there was still work to be done, still men to be killed, and I would keep on doing so until whenever the law caught up to me. The work I engage in is, to me, a form of righteousness, a calling that I have embraced wholeheartedly. I stand firm in my conviction, feeling neither guilt nor shame for the path I have chosen. In my mind, I am not merely an agent of chaos; rather, I see myself as a force of justice in a world that often overlooks the darkness lurking beneath the surface.

Every action I take is infused with purpose, a belief that I am addressing the wrongs that others choose to ignore. I carry out this work with a clear conscience, knowing that I am striving to right the balance in a universe that seems intent on tipping toward injustice. I feel empowered, as if I am part of something greater than myself, wielding my actions like a sword to cut through the shadows.

This unwavering conviction fuels my resolve, reinforcing my determination to continue this path. I do not seek the approval of society; rather, I find solace in the knowledge that I am doing what I believe to be necessary. Each decision is made with careful consideration, and while others may judge me harshly, I remain steadfast, convinced that my purpose is just. In my heart, I know that I am fulfilling a vital role, one that demands strength and conviction, and for that, I feel a profound sense of pride.

Pride in killing monsters. That is my position and I stand by it. And as long as bad men exist, so will I, hunting them in the shadows and whether it be by gun or by my hands, they’ll meet their end. I no longer swallow down these urges but indulge in them whenever I can. Could I be called a savior? Probably not. I don’t waste time thinking about what I could or should be called. Instead, I relish in the thought that monsters are put to death by me and those they harmed can no longer be harmed. 

It’s a difficult path I have chosen. And I have long to go before I can rest.