Son of Satan

I awoke to a bright light streaming through a crack in one of the wooden boards I had put up, in a paranoid, booze- infused haze. It was June and the heat was stifling. My mouth was the kind of dry where your cheeks and lips stick to your teeth, the leftover taste of alcohol offensive.

I sat up slowly, the usual nausea kicking in, my head pounding, room spinning. I looked down at my shaky hands, trying to steady myself as I half rolled off the couch, a sweaty silhouette of me left behind, my t- shirt stuck to me. 

I stumbled to the kitchen, only allowing one eye open to keep things in focus, my head down as I waited for the kettle to boil, impatient as the usual hangxiety kicked in. I knew my drinking was a problem, it always has been, but as I'm nearing forty now, the mornings are becoming more unpleasant and unmanageable. But I know I'll never stop.

I put two big scoops of coffee and boiling water into a mug, topping it off with shot of vodka. I downed it and made another, willing the shakes to stop, my eyes blurry and stomach churning.

I took the second mug back to the couch and turned on the TV, slowly coming back to life.

My mind was quieter today, a numbness over the usual paranoia or anger that resides in me. Sometimes I think it's a darkness, straight from the pits of hell, the angel on one shoulder missing. As long as I could remember I had been plagued with dark thoughts, a curse passed down from my abusive father. A life of isolation and self-sabotage sending me spiralling further into this abyss over the years. 

Some days I think I can snap out of it or have a small voice telling me I need help and that maybe there’s still hope for me. But this had just become a way of life for me now, my norm. I had come to accept it. Alcohol and Netflix were my only friends, I sustained an easy work from home job that only stole a few hours each day. My manager didn't bother me and I didn't bother him. He didn't care as long as I hit the numbers, which I always did. It didn’t pay much, but kept a roof over my head and supplied my vices.

I flicked straight to the news channel like I did every day; there had been a string of murders in the city and now they were saying there is a pattern suggesting that it's the work of serial killer. I shivered, watching as they wheeled a sixth victim in a body bag, a one way trip to the morgue. My head pounded again. I swallowed some paracetamol with a swig of vodka, not taking my eyes off the TV.

The killings had been brutal, I watched along each time with a morbid curiosity, like I was watching a fictional Netflix series about serial killers, almost forgetting that these were people living in the same city I am. All victims were female, early twenties, normally good Samaritan types, people with a squeaky clean record who wouldn't have even stolen a pack of gum in their short life. Most were religious and attended church on a Sunday.

I'd be safe, standing at 6ft, fashioning a Jesus length beard and enough petty crimes on my record to piss off anyone in law enforcement. 

The media were raving about the symbolism the killer left behind and had even given him a nickname; Son of Satan. It doesn't quite have the same ring as Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac killer, but they were just scratching the surface of what he does and what he is capable of. This guy was different, according to reporters he stalks his victims over the course of six days, leaving satanic symbolism in his mist. Never leaves a trace of evidence, other than gifts of animal bones or a pentagram, sometimes an upside- down cross, all with no fingerprints or so much as a whisp of hair. The symbols were the only thing that changed from kill to kill.

The six day stalk, bondage of the hands and feet and six stab wounds to the heart were always consistent. I shivered again.

On the dark web, some crime scene photos were leaked and spread vastly around social media, the bloody sights something out of a horror movie. I chugged another glass of vodka. The police had nothing, they made an educated guess that it could be a male in their thirties or forties. Probably some crazy religious guy that they had depicted as some skinny sad sod who lives in their mother's basement. I rolled my eyes and half chuckled, a wheezy sound that made me cough.

One thing they all agreed on, was that the killer was clever and meticulous. He taunted his victims and he taunted police, never leaving a trace. All they could do was warn people to be safe and on guard. If anyone experienced any stalking or hints that they were next, were to report to police straight away. Boy are they not ready for the amount of calls they’re about to receive. The fear the media have installed does half the job for the killer. I rolled my eyes again, pouring another glass, slightly amused by the stupidity of law enforcement and media.

I turned it off, and opened my laptop to get on with some work before heading out to the shop. The bills aren’t going to pay themselves.

Completing work in record time, I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, then finally brushed the rancid taste away, swallowing some toothpaste for good measure. I looked up at the dishevelled guy staring back. Hair awry, bags hung heavy around my dark pin-point like eyes, the spit of my father. I inwardly groaned, my heart palpating slightly.

I changed into some dark tracksuits, tamed my hair with cap and donned some sunglasses.

I whistled as I walked outside, sweat pouring from my skin, the back of my neck clammy. I gritted my teeth with discomfort, while the sun beat down harder; the whistling a distraction. The streets were mostly empty, a few dog walkers and cars dotted around. I found myself at the shop and enjoyed the cool feel of air conditioning, taking a long breath in.

I picked up the essentials, vodka, fags and instant noodles, the economy making every transaction feel painful. I felt that rage again as I tapped my card and stormed out, trying to calm my thoughts and drank the first bottle on my way back.

Needing a pit stop, I paused on a bench, starting on my second bottle and chain smoking until I felt sick and black spots started to cloud my sight. My head hurt as evil thoughts and feelings flooded me.

I eventually stumbled home, unsure how I got there and why it was so dark out already. I tripped over my own feet and crashed onto the couch face first, full blackness taking over.

I was in and out of consciousness for several days, time missing as I looked at my watch and realised nearly a week had gone by. I really need to stop drinking.

I went to the kitchen; coffee, vodka, couch. The routine continued, I turned the TV on and yet another murder had occurred, less than a mile from my home. Same pattern for the most part. I smirked and flicked to the next channel.

Headline; ‘Son of Satan breaks pattern.’ My eyebrows creased and my heart rate picked up. ‘Killer stabs victim six times to the abdomen, left the house in disarray. Forensics have bagged new evidence’ That couldn’t be right.

My father’s voice boomed in my head. I switched to another channel; ‘Son of Satan copycat killer. New information has come to light as detectives connect current killings with a string of murders with similar symbolism and pattern that happened thirty years ago in the country-side. killer was never found.’ The voice boomed louder.

I ran to the bathroom to throw up and realised my clothes were soaked with blood. I fucked up. My father would be writhing in his grave, his idiot son carrying on his legacy gets caught because he can’t handle his booze. I threw up again. Panic rose and I gripped my chest as I struggled to breathe, spots of lights in my vision. The room was closing in.

I turned on the shower, holding onto the sink with one hand, ripping off my clothes with the other, before allowing the scalding hot water to wash away my sins. "I’m sorry!" I screamed, the disappointment of my dead dad all too much. I sobbed on the floor of the shower, shame and guilt ripping me apart.

Red and blue lights flashed passed my window snapping me awake and I stood up, getting ready run, fight or flight kicking in.

Bang, bang bang! My front door rattled.

Panic stricken, I scrambled for my clothes and slipped, the alcohol haze wearing off. My head hurt as it hit the sink on my way down. I couldn’t move, the room was spinning.

A louder bang, footsteps, I faded out.