The Suicidalist: Vigilante, Hero. . .Monster

Bob slays the most despicable of wrongdoers. Silently, people in the city give praise for his actions. However, he is seen as a monster in the public’s eye.

Hey, everyone.

So, I messed up the other day when I did Episode 9: Part Three. . .with Part Three of Episode 10. After fixing the confusion, my scheduled post was deleted; lost in the abyss of the internet. It sucks but it is what it is.

Anyway, we are wrapping up Episode 10 with Part Three. For real. Bob has really gotten used to being the hammer of justice, smiting the foes of Society; the most prominent of wrongdoers—rapists, murderers, pedophiles, you know. They, in his eyes, are the scum of the earth and need to be purged. If he’s going to serve a purpose (since he has nothing left in this world) he is going to go hard at cleaning up the streets; doing something that the Justice System takes awhile to do.

However, even though some sing the praise of the vigilante that’s going around cleaning up the streets, the public eventually sees the man he really is. Scarred. Broken. A man unhinged and unkempt, uncontrollable.

Everyone sees the scars Bob has now. All the times he’s committed suicide. All the disfigurement. It scares the public. It scares people knowing that a hypocrite walks the streets to hide his mistakes, wrongdoing, and sins. So Bob turns to the one place he hasn’t been to in a long, long time. Church.

Stay tuned for the beginning of the end. . .with Episode 11.

Until then,

RJM


The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal

Episode 10 — Temazcal

[Part Three]

 

Bob continued wandering the city, slaying any that he found caught doing some of the more heinous acts humanity could do. The bodies were piling up, and he was now a wanted man. The thing was, that even though he would get caught in the act of dispensing justice, he would slip away unscathed. Leaving the law enforcement officers scratching their heads. The general populous reveled him as a hero. Bob wasn’t the man they deserved or needed, nor was he correct in the assumption that he was the bringer of justice, he took that upon himself.

It had been a few days since Bob last saw the wraiths and was told they had “reached an understanding.” He didn’t eat; he didn’t sleep. He only wandered, alone. He was always cold. The only warmth he could experience was when he’d bring justice to those who did wrong. He felt split; fractured, torn. He was lost. He assumed this was his purpose. However, deep down, Bob knew that this was perhaps the blade telling him to do these things. That instead of making him a vicious murder, he was a vigilante for justice cleaning up the streets, sort of a modern superhero, some kind of miracle man.

Bob sat perched up top on a church roof, overlooking the streets below. No cape or cowl, no gadgets, no flight capabilities. Just a man with a bloodthirst and grand illusion…or was it perhaps a delusion? Whatever it was, he knew that eventually, time would catch up with him, along with death…and the wraiths. That day, however, would not be today.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city. “sniffing” the air, sensing for those that would be “evil doers.” A great urge sent him reeling over the roof and falling. He flailed about and watched on as the pavement of the sidewalk grew closer every millisecond.

Why? He thought. What could have given him such an urge to jump? Then it hit him…hard. The sidewalk broke his fall, surely, along with the fire hydrant. Water gushed into the air and overflowed onto the street. People all over stopped and looked at the man. He stood up, still looking like he had been through Hell and back. His scars were no longer superficial and only visible to him. Everyone saw him. He had lived—he had survived the fall, like an angel that was misunderstood and cast out of Heaven. Bob felt sick. His stomach turned as he looked at the people of the city. All the stares of disgust and judgment, those he wanted to protect. To help bring justice to…they all turned their back on him.

One by one, they threw stones and debris at Bob. He covered his face and pleaded with them to stop.

“Monster!” they cried.

“Fiend!” they shouted.

Bob felt warm tears stream down his cheeks. He never asked for this, any of it. Bob had tried to make light of a bad situation, and now it had begun to backfire on him. He felt the anger swell up, all the hatred. Everything he had once felt before returned.

“I could kill you all where you stand. After all, I have done, you thank me with this? To Hell with you!” he shouted as he turned and walked away, into the church.

Bob was no longer the protector of the people. He was no longer the harbinger of justice. He was simply a man. A broken man.

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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