The Suicidalist Turned Vigilante: Murder of a Rapist

A suicidalist, named Bob, practices chronic suicide.

This entry explores what happens when the suicidalist becomes a murderer. Where a vigilante is born.

Welcome back to another edition of writing evolution, this time with the story The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal.

Here, Bob recalls his prior events and coming into contact with the knife. Things have started to change for the man. He’s beginning to develop an itch. . .one for killing. He thought that his self-inflictions and suicide could sate the lust for blood, but now he is wondering if he even can at all.

When you become red eyed or blinded with rage, you start to lose control over yourself. You seemingly black out. The events that transpire become a gap in time. I’ve had it happen a few times. It’s troubling and it also throws your sense of time out of whack. A lot of the gaps in time for Bob are similar. The brain will try to block out intense moments or periods of time of pain or trauma. This helps serve what Bob remembers before blacking out and dying again (if he’s lucky).

What I went with this episode was how you could perhaps give a maniacal suicidal person (who has issues with themselves versus people in a whole [i.e. the good vs the bad]) a weapon or a tool. Giving them. . .power. Giving them a purpose. Making them a vigilante and suffering the consequences, and exploring the reaction. The reactions of the people around, and also Bob himself.

Lastly, where a morally good person confronts a morally bad person, who is committing a heinous act. Where others nowadays record absurd acts, laugh at it, mock it, victimize the victim, etc. Here, we watch Bob go against the grain and speak out.

This is a four part episode that has been broken up into two parts. The episode will conclude tomorrow.

Until then, take care.

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 7 – From Hell’s Heart I Stab at Thee

After I woke up after the last incident, I got to wonderin’. Was whatever that was goin’ on here, with me, my death. . .was it all now startin’ to spiral out of control? Was I losin’ what was left of my humanity. . .of my sanity? The feelins’ I got when I was surrounded by all those people. It was unhealthy. It wasn’t me. I knew it, but I so badly wanted to act on it. Kill. I can’t forget that feelin’. I can’t shake it off. It’s hauntin’ me and I know. . .I know somethin’ is goin’ on here, but I just don’t know what.

I got out of bed and wandered around the house. The wife and kids weren’t anywhere to be found, save for the note my wife left me about goin’ to the store. I figured I’d go for a drive somewhere. Maybe go into town and take a walk down by the pond. I use to go there when I’d get batshit crazy. I figured it’d do me some good, ya know?

Well, it didn’t quite go as planned.

***

Bob wandered around the pond. He’d change benches here and there ever so often. Nothing was giving him the supposed “right spot” to chill out. He sighed and got up, beginning to wander to the next bench in hopes of being able to calm his troubled mind.

As he walked along the sidewalk, he noticed a glimmer caught his eye on the grass. He walked over and inspected the knife that laid out prominently. It was a basic hunting knife. No different than any other he saw at the stores he would frequent. This one, however, was so. Warm. Inviting. A tool for hunting. Cooking. And murder.

The last thoughts of the prior event came back, full on surging; flowing throughout his entire being. He needed to quench his bloodthirst. Somehow, some way. Maybe, just maybe if I can’t die, there are no repercussions for me? Bob thought on this for a moment. He looked at the knife and held it, wielding it as if he were to drive it deep into someone’s neck; the intent of taking a life. He could see his reflection, a slight grin, turn into a full on sadistic, gleeful smile.

Without hesitation, he acted fast. He plunged the blade deep into the side of his neck. Blood spurted across the sidewalk and onto the grass. People screamed and fled. Others rushed to try and save the hapless bastard. Bob laid there dying, frightened, scared, for the first time in a long, long time. Slowly the warm orange day’s glow faded to black. All the sounds of car engines roaring, and the stamping of feet on concrete went to nothing.

He went back to what he knew best, nothing.

As the moment passed, Bob awoke in the park on a bench. A scar on his neck retold the story of what had just transpired. No one noticed him, at first anyways, until he sat up and stared down at his hands. The knife had remained.

“What the hell is goin’ on?” said Bob.

[Part Two]

As Bob sat holding the knife, he felt the itch again return. It gnawed at him; first, it was his mind, then it was his arm. . .and then his hand. It felt as if he was being piloted, being driven by someone other than him.

He was in town now. He was walking with an energy, a dark kind; fueled by some unknown source. He was then lured to an alleyway. He heard gasps, muffled screams, a struggle! He didn’t bother to creep down the alleyway, he knew what he had to do.

He came around the corner and saw a man holding down a woman at knifepoint, trying to take her pants off. The woman’s pleas were muffled, but her tears and crying were not. Passerby’s ignored the spectacle, some hurried past, others lazily watched.

Bob was disgusted and enraged. He came up behind the man and picked him up. “You think it’s OK to rape, you sick fuck?”

“Woah, woah, what’s your deal, man?” said the rapist.

“You make me sick,” said Bob angrily. “You all make me fuckin’ sick. Especially, you who’re gettin’ their rocks off. The fuck is the matter with you?!”

The others in the area all ran and scurried out of the alleyway. Sirens could be heard approaching fast.

“Listen, pal—” the rapist attempted to say before Bob drove his knife deep into the man’s gut.

“I ain’t your pal, guy.” Bob stared deep into the eyes of the filth of a man.

The woman scrambled to her feet and tried to run, fearing for her life. Once she reached the alleyway entrance, the cops had arrived.

“You know, this isn’t so bad. I kind of like it,” said Bob with a big grin on his face.

“The fuck is wrong with you, man?” said the man, clutching his gut.

“You, all of you sick fucks. Takin’ advantage of the system, of people, preyin’ on the weak and innocent. Ya know what? Prey on my knife.” Bob snarled at the man, almost demonic-like, and began to plunge the knife repetitively in the man’s gut, and dragging the knife in all sorts of directions.

The man collapsed the ground, his blood, and insides all over the concrete of the alleyway.

“Put your hands up where we can see them!” an officer shouted as they approached Bob.

Bob ignored the commands and stood over the fast-dying man.

“You can try, but you won’t take me alive, copper,” said Bob to himself.

“Put the knife down!”

“Never.”

“Put it down!”

“Never.”

“Put the fucking knife down, now!”

“I said never!” Bob yelled as he charged at an officer.

The cops in the alleyway unloaded their guns on the poor sap that was known as Bob. He fell to the ground. As he stared up at the cops he smiled and laughed before he felt the familiar sensation leave him. . .only to return a few moments later.

***

It was somethin’ new, let me tell ya. That fucker had it comin’, though, I ain’t gonna lie. I can’t say that I am exactly proud to of killed someone, but no one else would’ve done anythin’ to help that gal. Hell, I could have probably gotten the two guys that were watchin’ and wankin’ to it. To Hell with them all.

This itch, though, I am hopin’ that it goes away. I mean, somethin’ has got to give. Right?

THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS A WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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