The Plan Is Kill

CW: Graphic sexual content, sexual violence, physical violence and gore

It was the kind of house that is always inhabited by an elderly lady living alone. It was old and square with a pointy roof that had a single attic's window. Around the door were wild rose bushes, heavily fertilized by rotted tea leaves. Rows of vegetables grew in the little front garden between a pair of trimmed hedges, and adolescent strawberries dangled from runners in an old wicker basket. There were soft blue curtains at the bay window and the approaching gate creaked. The curtains went nicely with the door color, sun-yellow, and the house beamed as the neighbor kid finished a thick coat of navy house-paint. The street was wide and airy, lined with tall honey-gold trees that glistened stunningly in the daylight. It had always been a safe stretch of suburbia, where doors were left open and the fresh morning's light was greeted by a neighborly hello. That was, until a killer came to town.

It was an early Tuesday, the morning glow turning shadow to light, painting the houses in a canvas of gold. A family of deer stepped happily from the wood's edge, crossing a road, before nibbling on a schoolyard full of dandelion. Pink buds of bluebells and star-shaped spring beauties perked, turning their faces to the sun's warm embrace.

The man walked easy, he had never seen such a beautiful place. The sweet bloom of spring held his nose to the air, while pedestrians greeted him with their light 'good mornings'. He rounded the corner and began down a wide road lined with tall linden trees, coming to a stop in front of a navy house with a yellow door. An elderly woman was hobbling down her three-step porch, making her way to the front gate, when she saw the man lingering. He was a wiry man, thin, with profound musculature. His profile was a mix of sharp angles, the stitching of his sleeves creased due to his exceptionally wide shoulders, while a side angle exposed his acute slenderness. In fact, had the man been standing sideways, the woman may not have noticed him at all - no different in dimension than an average street lamp. He held a coiled newspaper in his hands, his attention directed at the house across the way.

She said, "You plan on stealin' that one, too?"

The man turned. She was small, rather beastly, with a large coif of bleach-white hair and horrid posture. He noticed the cane, slender and bowed, struggling to keep her upright as her back hunched feebly over the stressed wood. She glared at him with a shark's eyes, her wrinkles gathering in preponderance while studying the man inquisitively.

"Lucky I came out when I did," she added, "It's good to put a face to a thief." Her scowl bore teeth.

Gathered along the gate was a stretch of bushes. Peering down, the man plucked two more rolls of old newsprint, brushing them clean of debris.

"Seems your bushes are the real culprits." he said, reaching to collect more print.

The gesture failed to register, the woman carried on, "'Bout time you returned those rutty papers. I ought to have you tossed in county lockup, you little twit. My grandson's a sheriff, you know..."

Had she not been so heavily reliant on the cane, the man figured she would have swung it at his head, and with malice. He thought up a cunning explanation, speaking loudly.

He said, "Actually, ma'am, we found the thief just a short while ago. I'm only returning them on behalf of the mail service."

She gave him a thorough look. He flashed an innocent grin.

"Can I take these inside? Set them on a table, perhaps?" he asked.

The glaze of confusion began to subside, a burning realization flooding her expression like a dim bulb turning brighter. For a moment, the world made sense again.

"Oh...well alright then. Just inside the door will do, I don't need you snoopin' around my drawers like some...damned pervert." She put emphasis on the P in pervert, almost losing her teeth as she spit out the word.

He followed her down the path to the house and up the porch, which was in dire need of work.

Inside, he detected a faint aroma of freshly washed linen, a very comforting smell, then his attention was drawn to a large collection of porcelain angel figurines, lined along the fireplace mantel in rows.

She told him to drop the bundle on the armchair.

"Alright now, git." she said. "And tell the paper thief I'll be watchin'. My grandson's a sheriff, you know..." She stood there in a fuss, motioning for him to leave. A deadly thought crept in, but he rejected it - not now, he thought - although it was rather amusing.

He turned and left, keeping his grin hidden, but not before taking note of the floorplan toward the backdoor.

Daytime came and went, now a dwindling, low-arching glimmer beyond the vast grove of pine in the west. He would keep to himself in the park, which held a picturesque view of the dawning sunset. When it became dark enough, he would make his move. From his wallet he slid out a faded, heavily-creased photo of a young woman with chestnut hair. She looked happy, it was evident in her expression. The photo was sent to him by mail when he turned eighteen, the year he left the orphanage. He felt for the wad of rejected letters in his inner breast pocket, feeling a twinge of anger. The answers he longed for were no longer relevant to him now, that bridge had burned many years ago. Tonight was the night to end the pain. He flicked a lighter and set the photo ablaze, setting it on the bench to watch it burn, the edges shrinking to a crisp black. He suddenly and unexpectedly felt the urge to cry - resisting by cocking his head, not allowing the welling tears to flow. Doubt had reared its ugly head, if only for a brief moment. It never had to be this way, he thought, this is your fault. His watery stare remained on the burning photograph until it withered away completely, then he stood and left.

The man changed into all black behind a dumpster and began cutting through yards with a one-strap pack, avoiding illuminated areas. His strides made no sound as he skillfully leapt fences, landing softly, and carrying on without pause. The target house was directly ahead. When he got to the back wooden fence, he poked his eyes over top and studied the whereabouts of the occupant. He sensed no movement outside, the air stale without life, though through the window was the flicker of a candle or television. He tried the gate, locked, so he hoisted himself over and slumped into the eerie-darkness of the yard. The grass was knee-high, already wet with dew. The man had trouble combing through the thickness, carefully stepping over obstacles as to not arouse commotion, a difficult task in the moonless sea of overgrowth. He nestled his foot through a clearing to a patch of cut lawn, but when his foot made contact a sharp grinding SNAP! echoed thunderously off the house, triggering the motion-sensing patio light. The man went down instantly, grabbing furiously at his ankle, trying with his might not to muster a scream. His fingers dug around the clamp of the bear-trap and he pulled. Just as he had freed himself, the backdoor kicked open and the elderly woman stepped to the edge of the deck with a rifle.

She said, "Come on out paper thief, I know it's you."

The woman cocked the rifle and pointed, scanning the backyard with the tip. The man jumped behind a shrub in the nick of time, wincing heavily from the clamp. He felt the blood beginning to pool in his sock, realizing the trap had gotten him good. In all his years he had never experienced something quite like this. Had he seen it coming he would have avoided it, but the damn grass, he thought, and the pitch dark of the sky handicapped him in more ways than one. He needed to get out of the yard. The ankle was throbbing now, he decided to put pressure on it, but immediately stopped when the pain felt like a million lightning bolts of fuck-all. Now he was forced to do something drastic. He slowly lowered the pack from his shoulder and unzipped it quietly, the woman still scanning the yard like a dog. The man secured the scope to the barrel of the SR22, then twisted the suppressor to the rail, and pointed the muzzle at the elderly woman's head while simultaneously loading the magazine. One more word and I fire, he thought.

"It's you from earlier, innit?" she said, "I can always tell the type. My grandson's a sheriff, you--"

Then she hit the deck like a sack of crumpled paper.

He was unsure why he pulled the trigger. The decision may have come from their earlier interaction, his subconscious acting for him. More importantly, he wondered if the neighbors had heard. The woman lay slumped, still, and the patio light stayed lit for only a minute more before casting a blanket of darkness over her body. The man limped toward the deck, the light clicking on once more, but he managed to flip it off a second later. He decided it were best to leave her there, for now anyhow, only until he found a reasonable way of discarding the body would he make the effort. The task must continue, he convinced himself. He left everything in the house the way it was in order to persuade a neighbor, or two, that everything was fine - if anyone had heard they could be watching. The woman had been watching a late night show, hosted by a former comedian who no one thought funny. The man made his way to the staircase and took them one at a time. His ankle was now swollen and bruising, but a little weight was fine as long as he shifted quickly to the other side. The attic window was monstrously big, with a spectacular view of the home across the street. He eased himself down, sitting Indian style, extended a tripod mount, placed his gun on top and looked through the scope. Then he opened the window.

“Well, well…” he said to himself.

He felt the pinch of destiny, it rushed through him like a chill, and he took it in as a good omen. This had, as a matter of fact, been a long time coming. Through the lens, sitting on the edge of her bed, was the woman with chestnut hair, although, from what he could see, had early signs of greying. She had looked the same as in the photograph, yet slightly older, and with less shine. Time will do that to a person, he thought. He had hoped she would be less attractive, and in the worst of ways. Though older, yes, she maintained her shapely figure and still bore a lovely smile. She began to remove her shirt. The man looked away, but found himself not totally creeped out by the sentiment of watching her undress. Still, he kept his face the other way. Now that he had the time, he tore a ribbon of cotton from his shirt and strung it tight around his ankle. The bleeding had subsided, but he worried about infection. The trap had been rusted over, he could tell by the way it sounded. When he returned his eye to the lens, things had taken a dramatic turn. The woman was now bound by the wrists with what appeared to be long tube socks. She was in the kneeling position at the foot of the bed, her breasts exposed, her hair tied back. There was now a man. A stocky man with rounded hairy shoulders and horn-rim glasses. He was also shirtless, soon to be pant-less as well. The woman looked frightened by the sight of him, as if he were a complete stranger sneaking in and surprising her. Maybe it was indeed happening, he wondered, maybe she was about to be beaten or even raped. He continued to watch stealthily, his eye glued to the scene. The stocky man began pleasuring himself in front of her, inches from her face, like some sex-crazed lunatic. The woman closed her eyes and threw her head away in disgust, playing it on like a damsel. Through the scope he had no way of knowing if it were an act or if it were real. There was no indication of either. The entire day, seemingly from start to finish, had been such an odd series of events. But there was no time to dwell. There was already the dead woman downstairs, whom had it coming. That hurdle was dealt with accordingly, but this hurdle complicated things. Had the man not shown up, he would have been done and gone. He grinded his teeth in annoyance. The scope was put back on the woman, who was now being slapped repeatedly across the face and spat on, the stocky man pleasuring himself and laughing. He aimed the scope to his head in disgust, if anyone was going to cause this woman pain, he thought, it would be me. It didn't take him long to pull the trigger, the stocky man's head split like a melon and splattered against the white painted wall. He could hear the woman faintly, screaming uncontrollably. The decision to take the stocky man out was one of easy observation - because she was tied and couldn't escape. He then decided to head over, limping down the attic stairwell and out the front door, leaving behind the gun. He wanted to end it with his own hands, to feel the life slowly drain from her body. He entered the front and stumbled up the staircase to the lit bedroom where the woman could be heard crying. He bustled in clumsily, it was all happening so fast, and looked around in a daze. The room, hot with bright light, was thick with sensual lust. All around the floor were various sizes of sex toys and other forms of sexually-gratifying objects like lubes and whips. The man had gotten it wrong - very, very, wrong. It was all a fantasy; a deeply concerning, semi-violent mirage. The stocky man lay motionless against the wall, spewing blood like a geyser. The man could hardly register the reality of the situation. He looked at the woman, who was now quiet and shaking, and she looked back at him as well. She asked if he was the one responsible for her husband's death - he nodded yes. Then she asked why and he did not react. In complete shock, he reached for the wad of letters in his chest pocket and tossed them in front of her knees. She, looking down at them.

He said, "I would've made a good son."

Then he stabbed her in the heart.