What kind of a man leaves his wife to die? Only a despicable, weasely coward.
Ironically, he could've spared not only his own miserable life, but the lives of his female as well. If only he'd shown a little resolve. A little backbone. He, however, chose self preservation over self sacrifice for the good of a loved one, and because of that, he was destined to die. It matters not wether you know you're on trial, you should know right from wrong regardless. That he fled the moonlit carpark where his wife of three years was brutally slain that night is indicative that his own sorry existence was not worth living.
That night was a test. I knew this man. He was always a coward, always fearful and selfish. I'd known him since school, that day when we were walking home together, having to work on an assignment, and was accosted by that gang. He turned tail and ran that day, too. Left me to fend for myself against one of the sterner beatings I've sustained over the years. This, however, was no act of vengeance on my part. It was a chance for redemption on his. He and his female had finished drinking for the night and were on their way home, cutting through the carpark, when out of the shadows, he known as The Ripper made an appearance. I'd grabbed the wife, with my arm round her throat, a knife pressed against her face. In my free hand I held another knife, which was pointed at... him. Then I gave him his chance.
Had he picked up that knife I threw before his feet. Had he followed my taunting, beckoning hand and tried to save his woman, then yes, he would've been hurt. Nobody comes at The Ripper with a knife and hits his target. Both he and his wife, however, would have lived. He stared at the blade for a short moment, then at myself. And then he ran. He ran, while whimpering like a beaten dog. The knife danced across her throat, she feel to her knees, desperately trying to stem the ever increasing flow of blood. It poured from her in torrents, gushing down her chest, her thighs, the concrete. With a swift boot, I kicked her face down on the grown, watching the pool of crimson growing around her gurgling head. Aaaaw, she was trying to scream, bless her. She was still trying to formulate coherent calls for help when I got in their car, started the ignition, and then reversed over her skull.
BUMP.... BUMP.....
And forwards.
BUMP.... BUMP....
And then one nice swerving turn, just to grind that broken little face into the ground, to smear the contents of her crumpled head all over the carpark.
Now, according to the police, the husband had decided they were both too intoxicated to drive, and so he had suggested to his wife that they walk home, rather than take the car, and that they would collect it in the morning. The wife, thoroughly inebriated, berated him and sent him home, deciding to risk getting into the car. That was the last time he saw her. This, according to the police, is what the husband told them. I jest not, this... "man", decided to hide his own sorry fears with deceit, defaming his own dead wife in the proccess. All this, just to hide the fact that when it came down to it, he couldn't pick up a weapon and at least attempt to defend his wife from a vicious, agonising death. Now you tell me, a man that can do that to a woman he "loves", does he deserve to live? Knowing that his life is preserved through such disgusting virtues. Not by my standards. I may be a monster... yes... a monster... but I am not such a waste of skin as this ridiculous charade of a human. When I sleep at night... and yes, I can sleep, I sleep knowing what manner of beast I am, and knowing that I am honest in what I do. How this creature could sleep is beyond me. Chances are he couldn't. Chances are, the guilt tormented him the second he reached his home that dreadful night. But guilt alone does not wash away a man's sin, it merely provides the tools with which to cleanse. He did not take those tools.
This was supposed to be your chance to make amends, and you failed because deep down, nobody matters to you but you, yourself. You could have made things right that evening, a man is not defined by his mistake, but by the lessons he learns from them. And you learned nothing, worm. Thus the final lesson came five days later.
So... his telephone rings that night. I could hear the fear and the trauma in his voice as he answered. "Hello?"... he enquires... "Speaking?"....
He heard only a muffled voice, speaking as it did through the mask's filter. "Hello, Scott."
His wavering voice was now filled with utter dread. Stuttering as he did, frightened like a lost child, he asked me "who is this?"
"This is the end, Scott."
True to type, he dropped the phone and ran. Headed out of the main room to the front door, but guess who stood in the hallway, mobile phone in hand? He ran right into me and landed on his back, staring up with mortal dread at the masked man, bearing down on his shivering, quaking little form. He scrabbled backwards, then turned to get up and run once more. I kicked him behind the knee and he fell face first, bashing his face on the hallway stairs. Good idea. I grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed and slammed and slammed again. Blood spilled from his mouth as pieces of broken tooth dribbled down his chin. He was crying, actually sobbing like a baby already. Such simpering, snivelling garbage. Lifting him up by his throat now, he was pinned against the wall, slowly rising off the ground, choking, trying to beg me to stop, attempting to reason with his sin personified. His feeble attempts at bargaining were answered by repeated punches to the stomach, hard and fast. I hit him so hard he actually threw up a little, threw up on my arm. Flinching in disgust, I let go and he fell to the ground.
He lay there, clutching his abdomen, coughing, spluttering and crying in pain and fear. I let the contents of his stomach drip down the arm of my leather coat and land on the floor with a spatter, before, utterly sickened by this pathetic child, I kicked him as hard as I possible could in his face. Dragging him by his head from the hallway into the kitchen, I hoisted the miserable maggot up onto the work surface before forcing him to headbutt the taps of the sink. He yelped like a dog, haha. I then crammed my gloved fingers into his mouth, forcing it open and pulling it over the cold tap, before bringing my forearm into the back of his skull, forcing the metal faucet into his throat. This caused him to vomite again, and while he we pulling his head up, screaming with the shock and agony of it all, I was opening the cutlery drawer, finding quite a selection of knives. He chose to ignore that one knife that could've stopped all this, let's see if he would ignore these.
Laughing to myself, I took each sharp kitchen knife, one by one, and threw them at him. No precision, no care, just the idle tossing of blades. Some scored glancing blows, slicing through his flesh, while the occasional one truly hit home, burying itself into him, his arms and his legs. The constant, feminine cries of the sorry animal were so amusing, yet ultimately irritating in its pitiful nature. All this... thing... could do was cry. Cry, cry, cry. It isn't like I'm not used to hearing my victims weep, but this was different. This was an utter farce. It was time to end the charade permanantly.
Dragging him back into the main room, I threw him to the ground. As he cowered and bled, I asked him why I was doing this. I asked him why he thought he was going to die.
The sad little insect didn't have an answer. He could only ask me the same question. So, while tightening my gloves, I explained how he was to be punished for what he did. How he could've saved his wife if he'd only taken the way out I'd offered. Any real man would've taken the risk... at least tried something instead of abandoning his woman to someone he knew would destroy her. And do you know what he said when I told him I wouldn't have killed him if he tried to do the right thing?
"I didn't know. Please, I didn't know."
I stood there in silence for a moment. I was astounded. Is that all the weasel had to say for himself? He justified cowardice by saying he had was unaware of having reason to fear for his own life. Then, in an instant, I was upon him. I placed my boot on his upper jaw, before grabbing his lower set of teeth with my hands and pulled. It took what seemed like an age, while he struggled, slapping feebly at my leg and trying to prize my hands away, but it was to no avail, of course. There was a popping sound, then a sickening tear, as I pulled his jaw off of his face. The final pull was so hard, I actually fell back into the sofa, my grisly trophy dripping in my hand, the beautiful crimson water running down my hand, down my sleeves. I could feel the warmth of his blood, the warmth of life, against the flesh of my arm. It tickled as it dribbled down to my elbow.
Haha, and as an amusing punchline, he wasn't dead yet. His wagging tongue thrashed madly like a snake, exposed at is was while he choked on his own blood that filled the hole in his face, bubbling like a Hell installed jacuzzi. I wondered how long a man could live in that state, but surmised he was losing blood at too rapid a rate to survive. Just in case, I pulled a knife out of his thigh and jammed it into his chest, puncturing his lung for sure. That way he could slowly lie there, his respitory system filling up on his own juice. He could lie there, as he faded into oblivion, and ponder what he'd learned this day. Well, the option was there, it's safe to assume he didn't take it. Feeling sorry for himself, that's all he knew how to do. He lived preserving nobody but himself, and that's who had for company at the end... Nobody but himself.
Jesus... you twisted fuck.
Maybe next time, he'll do the right thi...oh, wait. There won't be a next time.
Just desserts, well served.