Letter To The Killer

To the,

Killer

The first person I killed, was my Uncle. I was 17 years old, and it was a cold December morning in 1999. I remember the ecstatic energy my cold hands felt as I hit his head with a rock; over and over again. A rush of adrenaline coursed throughout my body. The first time I hit him, he became disoriented as the blood started gushing out. With another hit, he had already fallen on the ground but still breathing as I put my fingers in front of his nose to check. He struggled, but he was still alive. His hands, legs, and body were all shaking and shivering, as his eyes stared at me in disbelief. His meager, but warm breath made me even more furious; I took the big rock, lifted it over my head and hammered into his head over and over again till it looked like a broken melon, cracked open and bleeding with bits of his brain and skull falling out from the side. I kept hurling abuses at his corpse, for some reason he just wasn't dead enough for me so I bashed in his head some more. They say that your first time is special and it was! I felt a sudden orgasmic release, the likes of which I had... never felt before. A new century was coming about and I was going through somewhat of my metamorphosis. 

The fondest memory I have of my village was going to school every morning down through the step farms. The times were simpler then. There were no mobile phones, and the morning sun hit rather gently on the face. Master Ji's scolding in the classroom seemed like the worst thing in the world, but at the end of the day, all was forgotten as I laid down in my Amma's arms. She sang me lullabies in her sweet voice and I used to play with her cotton saree; holding it in my hand as the cloth tickled my palm. I try to remember her voice every night as I lie on my bed. But I fail. 

I didn't kill my uncle because he took our land or our farm. Or that he killed my father; my father was worse than he could ever be but I killed him because he took away those lullabies from me, he took away my innocence and then he came for more. He had to pay in blood, there was no other way. Nothing else was left in me, but just an urge to feel that rush again, to feel somebody's blood on my hands and my skin, to drench myself in it and feel its purity. I ran away that day before anyone could catch me, I had no money, no clothes, and nothing to my name. I don't know what happened to the village or the people left in it, they could burn to ashes for all I care.

I hopped towns, working as a mechanic, plumber, stealing money, and stealing cars. It made me enough money to get to the next town, but I still lived a low life deprived of that rush. Somehow I got to Delhi, where crooks and murderers roamed in cars with sirens. I felt accepted among them. I was 19 now with enough facial hair and rugged skin to look much older than I was. I was still in need of money so I started looking for a job. Every day I would circle the Connaught place, going shop to shop looking for work. Delhi it seemed, had a sense of arrogance to it, looking down upon those who had less but then again which big town doesn't. People now ask for your details, police verification, work history, and all that bullshit, but back then they only asked for your name, which I of course lied about, and then they looked at your face before making a decision. People either looked at me with suspicion or with pity, the ones that were suspicious probably lived longer. The ones who pitied gave me jobs and that's how I started making money in Delhi, working in a shop that sold and repaired sewing machines. I didn't know anything about sewing machines but they required cheap labor so they taught me everything. They were really easy to open, everything is held together with bolts and all you need is a screwdriver. One can probably open up a sewing machine in less than two minutes. You'd be amazed how often people need to repair their machines, I was busy and I never really thought of that urge for a long time but that didn't mean it wasn't there. I could never sleep and kept gawking out at the city lights from the small window of my little Barsati. I would get drunk, get high, and walked outside on the roads. I walked and walked and walked till the sun came up. Let me tell you, no alcohol or weed or any other drug gives you the high that killing a person does. It is unparalleled!

It's like a hunger, I'm sure you've recognized it by this point. It comes from within like an all-consuming force and bursts out through you. It had been months, torturous months that I had lived with that hunger within me, and then one day it burst out. I was alone in the shop drinking and repairing the machines when the owner caught me. An older adult about 60 years old, he grabbed me by the collar and started throwing me around and hurling abuses. I was drunk so it was hard to maintain my balance and I kept falling around. He pushed me to the table where my tools were, I hit my head on the corner hard. The machine on the table fell along with the tools as the blood from my head started dripping on the floor. I stared at my blood constantly falling on the checkered floor, every drop making me angrier. I saw the screwdriver inches away from my hand and in a swift motion, I grabbed it and plunged it into his left eye, and just like that his abuses turned into a violent scream. I grabbed his head and drove it into the table, the screwdriver went on some more as I prepared myself for the feast. He had died but my hunger hadn't. I got fixated on his hands, the hands with which he held my collars, and pushed me around. I knew what I had to do, I pulled the shutter down and took out the screwdriver from his eyes. His lifeless body laid on the floor as I used the screwdriver to fix the sewing machine. Once it was done, I took the machine and kept it beside his hands, and one by one pierced through all of his fingers. If the needle got stuck or broke, I fixed the machine again but kept piercing through his hand till his fingers fell apart. With every finger getting detached I felt a sense of fulfillment and soon there was nothing but calm.

I never left the city, it was now my playground. If the police had done their job, maybe they would've caught me in days, but then the parliament attack happened and the whole country went into a frenzy. Nobody cared about a murder, they were all focused on the terrorists, and what was a low life criminal to them anyway? People die all the time.

I killed a lot of people over the next years, I killed men, women, children, and garnered a name for myself. The Nightcrawler, they called me. I have never cared much for the name, all I ever did was for that rush. I once killed a child with an Ice pick, I poked several tiny holes in his body because he was so little. It amused me, but there was no sense of purpose in my acts, I killed anyone I wished to and however I pleased to feed myself, but in the end, it all felt so futile jumping from one body to another like a savage. I did that for years, hunting at nights, but then I saw you. It felt like a chance encounter, something that destiny had been brewing for us. I had been stalking a bearded middle-aged man the entire evening from Hauz Khas to Dwarka. I liked his shiny black shoes a lot, they reflected the lights in a certain charming way so I followed them, left-right-left and tip-tap-toe. I was engaged in their rhythm, I wanted to cut his feet and take the shoe home-like prized possessions. He sure made me walk a lot, from the metro station to I don't know where. The road was wide and empty, it was a residential area and people had gone to sleep or perhaps dropped dead, I didn't care. He walked on the left side of the road and me diagonally to the right, very silent and discreetly. The man stopped suddenly and started rummaging through his pockets as I looked from a distance. He finally took out a lighter and a cigarette and I wondered about the things addictions make people do. I thought Tobacco will kill him slowly so I should ease the pain. Just as I had made my mind and took a step forward, you came out of the shadow, a lean yet strong figure with a black crowbar and hit him in the back of his head. The lighter dropped from his hand, the cigarette fell out of his mouth and he dropped. You then kept bashing in his head and you looked ever so beautiful. It looked like you had the same hunger that I had and in front of my eyes, you had the same release. It puts a smile on my face as the dead body reminded me of my uncle.

I hope you don't mind, but I have been following you for days now, trying and hoping to talk to you, but for some reason, this seems harder than any murder I've ever committed in my life so I thought maybe I could send this letter instead. I had never been as amazed by someone as I was looking at you swinging your hands in swift motions. It felt as if I've finally found someone who would understand me and if after reading this you feel the same, I hope we can talk some more.

Yours Lovingly,
The Night Crawler.