Number Five
And now he thought: this was to be his mercy killing? One he would do for mankind even though they would not thank him for it: call it economics, a drag on the economy, the tax payer if that makes sense, or a pity killing. He would kill the young drunk blond; that one that told him F*ck off! and the one, the very same one that looked at him angrily every time he walked the riverbank, walked a hundred feet by him, never directly in front of him, but by him. His days were numberedalas, yes, regrettable as it may be, figured-out ahead of time as it now was, it was for mankinds sake, really; indirectly, so he told himself: over and over and over.
And so that Sunday, Vlad took his usually walk down by the river but this time when he walked by the drunk, he paced himself, slowed down a ting, to a stop almost, caught the side of his long eye, yes, stop, stop, he told himself, you got his attention: he pulled out a big bottle of Scotch Whisky: not cheap, the best they had, feeling he should have a good drunk, high, smash, if he was going to wake up in hell.
It was 6:15 PM. There they both sat talking like they were friends for twenty years, drinking, laughing, joking friends: as passers-by came and left, a dozen or so. Most keeping their distance, a few coming close to them, but no one making any direct eye contact. They both in a matter-of-fact way, waved at a police car that drove by: Vlad saying to the blond drunk, not to make any loud noises or scenes that would cause the police or anyone for that matter, to make a complaint of them, thus, stopping them from being friends: he was most convincing, his face lookedthe largest partvery sincere.
For a few hours they sat on that bench alongside the river saying little to nothing, just passing the bottle back and forth, then for an hour or two more, they walked to the rivers edge, leaned over the railing looking into the river: as if in a daze, as if trying to count fish, when there was none to countnoticeable, seemingly caught in a sometime zone, zoning off. What were they thinking? The drunk perhaps was daydreaming in his enmeshed drunken stupor of a sorryful existence: this is what Vlad figured indirectly, he was thinking, the drunk was thinking; and directly Vlad himself, focused one the word: when, when, when!! Then back to the bench they walked, staggering a ting, leaning on one anther. It was 3:00 AM. The blond was passed out now; Vlad then got up, took a shovel he had folded up in a paper bag that looked like another bottle of whisky, and started digging behind the bench: digging, digging, little shovels full, but many of them made it all worthwhile when the hole got bigger. He dug about 3 1/2 feet down, it was going on 4:15 AM when he finished: was done with the digging, then picking up the drunk asymmetrical as he was which made it difficult to keep a good grip on him, pulling him up, him falling down, dragging hi m over the ground to the daisy spot of his mind, he tied his legs to his arms binding him like a cow to be branded, then put duck-tape over his mouth, all while he was in his silent hell of an intoxicated, placing him in the dugout grave, and buried him alive: alive I say, where no air, or sucking for it, would exist in a moments time. He thought this was no different than his ancestors of 500-year ago; it is only the modern world that will think this as a barbaric thing, obsession, craze.
And like nothing happened he walked home chanting: Six and Sevennextsix and seven, no one goes home, or to heaven
This is where I come into the story.
The Visitor
I had met Vlad at the hotel, where my wife and I were having spaghetti, and he introduced himself. I had told him I was a writer of sort stories, novels, and a poet of sorts, and he seemed quiet interested in me. I also told him we were up from London for two days, and this was our first trip to the ci ty.
Having said that, he told me he had a very interesting story to tell me, but I would have to see him at his apartment. It told him this was not possible, it would have to be in my room, my wife would most likely be present. Having no choice in the matter he said ok. That very evening he came to my room, and explained to me this story you have just read. Then he said, tomorrow we were invited over to his house for dinner to get the rest of the story. In my mind I said to myself: you mean he is going to kill two more people (my wife and I, I presume), and now I know about it; but that was too obvious I also told myself, so I was, anything, bewildered on the whole matter. Nonetheless, I said to myself: no way! I told him Id have to go to the police. He smiled at me simply saying, Do what you think is best. Adding, Ill see you at 7:00 PM. Cleaver he was, perhaps I feel into his web.
Well, Vlad left the apartment, and my wife and I just kind of sat thinki ng about what to do. I really didnt want the story. And I wasnt sure if I believed him or not. But my vacation was ruined, lost to his will.
The next day was Thursday, and at 5:00 PM, I notified the police of what Vlad had said, after checking with his employer of why he was not at work. The employer said he had called in sick at 6:46 PM.
My wife, two police officers and I arrived at his apartment soon after. The police knocked at the door, and no one answered, it was a brutal moment for my mind, my stomach my internal organs, to say the least. But the door was not locked, and so the police proceeded to enter, as I followed them in. The apartment was small, and so we did not have to go far to be in the livingroom, and there on the floor laid Vlad. He had shot himself in the head with a gun, killing himself once, and then as we had opened the door, we heard a thump sound, it was a wooden spike with a ten-pound weight behind it that fell from the chandelier, going straight through his heart; thus, killing his spirit. And so he got revenge once more, and he also found his way out of the jungle, the one he was inalone.
Originally written 4/2002; modified and reedited, 1/9/2006 [92-words added; modified, completed 'Number Five' 2/1/2006 [360- words added.
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Chapter story
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