Inspired by: http://ift.tt/2ap8HRU
Story is below, thanks.
I'm an insomniac. I can't really help it. I get ready for bed, shower, brush my teeth, etc. I'm your average Joe. Hell my name is even Joe. Except for all of the normalcy of me, I'm a freak. I don't sleep. I don't need to. Oh I've read the books, listened to the lectures, the whole nine yards of it all. Humans need sleep, blah blah blah, deprivation, increased appetite, blah blah. Yeah I know, I get it. We're supposed to recharge our batteries, have dreams, and all that jazz.
I don't. It isn't like I don't want to sleep, not that I've ever really experienced it. Didn't I mention? I've never slept. Not once in my entire life. It's a quiet night and everyone else is asleep. That's every night for me, every fucking night. Don't get me wrong, I get a great deal of things done while everyone else is off in their dream lands. I read books, I write books, and I am basically no different than you.
Well, I am a bit different, I don't need sleep.
I am sure it gave my parents quite a scare when I was born. I mean it would give anyone a scare right? I suppose that is why they gave me up, I mean it just makes sense. Whoa folks! Check it out a baby with insomnia, the damn thing never shuts up. Come to think of it, I can’t really blame them. I might have gone mad just thinking about it that is if I actually needed sleep. Being an orphan isn’t so bad, even if no one wants to adopt you. A ward of the state they called me, until I was eighteen, then it was adult. That’s a scary fucking word when you really don’t have a social-familial grounding that most people get. Sometimes I just want someone to understand how I feel. I mean don’t we all hope for that? Someone to come along side us and tell us they understand?
No one has ever told me that. They just want to fix me. What if I am not the broken one? Did any of them ever think about that? I doubt it. For years I was convinced there was something wrong with me. I believed something in my physiology that was inherently broken. I’m not broken. I am the strong one, I don’t need replenishing while making myself vulnerable and weak. How is it that because everyone is doing a thing, that they believe all must do said thing? Sleeping is for the weak.
Eventually, someone will realize that. I’ve tried to show them, time and time again. No one understands it. WAKE UP! Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t kind. I shouldn’t yell at you, you are beginning to understand aren’t you? I can see that you’re feeling tired. Why? Don’t you want to be like me? Don’t you want to rise up above the mundane? I thought I could live a normal life. I mean honestly, when one doesn’t need sleep the possibilities are endless. I got a job at the local warehouse. I worked the graveyard shift. HEY! LOOK AT ME! I thought you understood; why are you falling asleep? Do you see my eyes rolling back in my head? The warehouse was busy. It feels good to be busy. It’s nice to let your mind idle and take a back seat to your motor skills. That is the closest thing to sleep I’ve ever come to, on those nights loading trucks. Sometimes I miss those nights, the sounds and labor. It’s back-breaking work, loading trucks all night, but it reminds one that there are others out there. Insomniacs, I mean. They closed the warehouse ... after. Stuck at home I had time to think, too much time. All I’ve ever wanted was to fit in; to be understood. I came home day after day and read my books. I like the classics. They’re longer you know. They have these lengthy monologues that give insight to the character. The descriptions are nice, but it is the characters I love. You ever notice how no one seems to write about people sleeping? Not in the classics. It’s about action, adventure. Even the mundane, but very little about sleeping. I can daydream, even if I don’t sleep. Daydreaming is just sitting alone in your head, picturing things you want to do or see. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to sleep? To dream? I imagine it’s like day dreaming, only lying down instead. When the warehouse closed I didn’t go home. What was the point you know? Work let me daydream, let me be normal, like the others.
“Hey man,” Frank said that, I think his name was Frank, maybe it was Francis, or Phil.
“Hey,” I said. How did that become a greeting? I understand salutations, or even the simple greetings, but hey? Sounds like something a cow would say. Like people are all just cattle, waiting to wake up.
“Can’t wait to get some rest man,” Frank, or Francis, or Phil said. “I’m glad this fucking job is quits. Never was much of an insomniac, I like to sleep. Am I right? No. That’s what I wanted to say. I wanted to punch him in the face to wipe that ignorant grin off his face. It’s not what I said though. “Yeah.” That was all I could manage. A simple fucking single syllable response that didn’t sound much better than hey. Yeah. I’m better than that. I think that was the moment I realized that I was ... better.
Frank, or Francis, or Phil didn’t notice. He said something like right on, or damn straight, I’d stopped listening. His prattle was more than I cared to endure. I needed a break, I needed work. I wouldn’t be able to work at anything at ten o’clock on a Sunday night though. So I took a walk. Frank, or whoever, was saying something else, but I ignored him. He was the cattle waiting to wake up, I was already awake; I always have been.
The street was dark. Some of the lights had gone out, it suited my mood. Oh I know, I am being melodramatic, get over it. I walked down the street to the Circle K on the corner. Some of the neighborhood thugs were hanging around by the propane tanks. I walked past them, they said something, but I was daydreaming. Is it still daydreaming if it is night? Is that dreaming then? Even if you are awake, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.
“Hey,” one of the thugs said.
There was that word again. Another single syllable using ignoramus trying to garner my attention by spewing the first syllabic response to spring to mind. Hey. I stopped and turned around. I looked at him. His hair was cut down to the skin. He wore a tattoo of some sort at the side of his neck. It was still fairly dark, the light from the Circle K giving just enough illumination for me to see something was there, but not what it was. I looked at the thug. He looked back at me.
“Greetings,” I said. It felt good to use more than one syllable. I reminded myself that I was better. I had to be better; to act better.
“Listen to this esse,” the thug said. He made his voice lower and attempted to sound dumb. “Greetings.” He mocked me.
I was better than him. I knew it. I am sure he knew it too. I hadn’t intended to get into a figurative pissing match with the thugs, but they initiated it.
“What you doing at my spot homie?” the thug said.
I wasn’t going to pull any punches. I wanted the fight. I wanted to feel his face bleed under my fist.
“Walking,” I said. Like a god-damned idiot. I silently berated myself; working myself into a frenzy that I didn’t know I needed. It felt good. It felt right.
He laughed at me, and his friends laughed with him. Then he turned to me and said, “Boo!”
I didn’t flinch, but he turned to his friends anyway, commenting on my fear of him. This one was not cattle, he was a dog showing the other members of the pack how strong he was. He wanted them to know he could direct his ire towards any random stranger and belittle them into submission. His head was turned away from me. I grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the cage holding the propane tanks. I felt the spray of his blood hit my face, but I slammed his head again and again.
He laughed at me, and his friends laughed with him. I was daydreaming again. His back was still to me and I almost grabbed his head like I wanted to, instead, I walked inside.
“Hello, welcome to Circle K,” a droning voice said.
The clerk was obviously not thrilled with their job prospect. I wondered if they were an insomniac like me. Despite their relative distaste for their servile position, they did not sound tired. Not like the other cattle. I saw the clerk yawn.
Never mind, I thought just another cow.
You can see the problem can’t you? How everyone is walking in sleep, sleepwalking. No one is awake, everyone is just cows and dogs sleeping, eating, shitting, and fucking their way through life. I just want someone to understand, to see what I see. HEY WAKE UP! Please, try to keep up with me, I know you’re starting to understand to see what I am talking about. I can see it in your eyes.
The clerk was just another one of the cattle, like I was saying. She wasn’t the worst of them, or like one of the dogs outside, but she was still waiting to wake up. I opened the refrigerator. The air was cool. It felt good on my skin, like an ice pack on a hot summer day. I didn’t know how hot I was, but the refrigerator was good. I took out a carton of milk. Whole Milk, because what’s the point in getting reduced fat or non-fat, might as well get some water and put some food coloring in it. Do they even make white food coloring? Is white actually a color? I don’t know. I don’t really care. The sisters at the orphanage, it was a Catholic orphanage, they always got the two percent milk. Whole milk was too rich, indulgent, they used to say. I’m not a ward of the state anymore though. I am an adult. If I fucking want whole milk, I’ll get fucking whole milk.
I paid for the milk. I bought a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter. I don’t smoke. I stepped outside the door and lit the cigarette, I took a puff and did my best not to choke on it.
“Hey,” the thug was back. “Lemme get a light homie.”
I looked at the thug. He was the same as before, except now he wore a black bandanna around his head.
“Yeah, sure.”
I know I said I was done with the single syllable responses, but I didn’t want to tip my hand. I had a plan for this homie and I didn’t want him to suspect. When he stepped closer, I took my lit cigarette and put it out in his eye. I didn’t do it slow, I moved quickly and grabbed the back of his head when I did it. He screamed and clawed at my hand. He wasn’t very strong, but he put up a good fight. His friends stared in astonishment, cursing me under their breath, but not brave enough to step closer to me.
I let him go and he fell to his knees crying. I took out another cigarette and lit it. I gave the other thugs a challenging look and I walked away. I have to admit, it was satisfying to do what I had done. I imagine he stayed awake for quite a while. I imagined that closing his eye would hurt too much for him to fall asleep. He’d know just a bit; he would understand. A little ways down the street I flung the lit cigarette into the gutter. Like I said, I don’t smoke. I tossed the pack with it. Some teenager would count their self lucky. I walked the rest of the way home, putting the thugs and the cigarettes behind me.
HEY WAKE UP! GOD-DAMNIT! KEEP YOUR FUCKING HEAD UP WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU! I shouldn’t have to remind you to stay awake.
Everything I’ve said up to this point and you still don’t get it do you? I’m not doing all of this for me. This is for you. I want you to see what I see. There are cattle everywhere. Cattle and dogs, but there aren’t enough butchers. The butchers thin the herd, to keep it healthy. They train or kill the dogs to keep them from the herd. You see, I am just doing what I am supposed to do. I am better. I’m not broken, I don’t have to be weak, I am better. You can be better too.
I kept walking, in fact I walked all night. The sun rose up in front of me and I actually squinted. Not because I was tired, I’m never tired. But it was bright and my eyes had adjusted to the dark. I saw them in their cars and on their motorcycles. Like cows and pigs in the pen, moving in straight lines from point A to point B. I understand. I did that too. The warehouse was my point B, sometimes it was point A. People like the thugs, and Frank, or Francis, or Phil, they were a part of this system. You were a part of that system. I happened upon you by chance. Quiet and somber like me. Going to your job in the office building, like I did with the warehouse. I felt drawn to you. Your spirit called to me. I know it sounds crazy, maybe it is, but there was a connection. Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you know? I think you did, I think you understand.
You went there every day, like clockwork. Start at six am, work until ten or eleven pm. Then you went home. It took me a while to find out where you lived. I had to get another job, two in fact. I worked for the McDonalds across the street. Slapping down patties on a griddle and serving them to the masses of cattle. Cow for cows. I didn’t mind it, I found it ironic, interesting. So many people, so many hamburgers. At night, since I don’t sleep. I wrote. It was different to be at home sitting down in front of the computer and writing from the late hours to the early morning. I always made it a point to finish before you began work. I’d watch and wait until you left. Don’t judge me, there was a connection, I know there was. You know it too, you understand.
We’re not like them. You home was outside of the city. I had to catch a cab and follow you. It wasn’t that far, but cabs these days are expensive. I didn’t have much choice. It was too far for me to afford it after so many trips. I saw that even after your family went to sleep, you stayed up. Two, three, four o’clock in the morning sometimes. You are like me. You don’t sleep. All this time I thought I was the only one, all alone. But I’m not anymore. WAKE UP! Why do you make me yell at you? I don’t want to yell at you. I love you. No, don’t shake your head like that. I don’t mean like that. I’m not like that. I don’t want to do things with you. I just want you to understand. I just want to be understood. Why doesn’t anyone get that? FUCK! WAKE UP!
Your eyes are pinned open for god’s sake. By Lucifer’s balls you’d think you’d understand by now. Do you want to end up like them over there? Like those ‘tards that couldn’t stay awake? As soon as they fell asleep I cut their god-damned throats. They couldn’t understand. They just wanted to sleep. Some of them cried, asked me to let them close their eyes. Are you like them or are you like me?
Do you understand?
Detective Gaines knelt next to the open door, there didn’t appear to be any sign of forced entry. The frame was intact and the deadbolt was drawn back. “I am going to need prints from the handle and the jamb,” he said to the investigative team behind him.
“You thinks it’s the Nightcap, sir?” a deputy asked.
“Same MO,” Gaines said. “No forced entry, door is open, vehicle is missing. No one reported any signs of a struggle. Get the forensics team to see if they can find out how long the door’s been open. Neighbor reported it out of concern.”
“On it sir,” the deputy replied.
“Doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Gaines said to no one in particular. For the past six months, since some gang-banger got his eye burned out, the department had been finding discarded bodies. Eyes burned out, with pins in the eyelids, and their throats cut. “Some people are fucking savages.”
“What’s that?” one of the forensics team members said.
“Just thinking out loud Jenkins,” Gaines said. He looked up at the woman, she was fair skinned with long dark locks pulled into a tight pony tail. “You guys find anything yet?”
“Not yet sir,” Jenkins said. “No prints at any of the scenes yet. The best we got is one of the former employees of the warehouse, but the place went under. Someone set the building on fire a couple of months ago. Records are a no go.”
“Damn,” Gaines said. “You let me know as soon as you get something. Do we know what kind of vehicle the victim drives?”
“I’ll find out detective,” Jenkins replied. She turned and hollered at one of the other investigators. “Jim, what kind of car are we looking for?”
“Lincoln Navigator, luxury SUV,” Jim said while checking his notes.
“Lin--”
“I heard Jenkins,” Gaines interrupted. “Thanks.”
He stood up and took off one of his gloves, placing it in his pocket. Then unclipped a cell phone from his hip. He punched in the speed-dial to the office. He waited for a couple of rings before a man picked up the other line.
“Hey Bruce,” Gaines said. “It’s John, can you look up an owner for me? 43 Henderson Place ... yeah, mmhmm. Alright, name should be Julia Stevens ... yes, S T E V E N S.” He spelled the name out. “Right, Bruce. She should have a Lincoln Navigator under her name, I need to know if it has GPS ... sure I can hold.”
The detective only had to wait a couple of moments before Bruce came back.
“Really?” Gaines said after hearing what Bruce said. “Can you ping it? Excellent, 9980 East Fullerton? Thanks Bruce, I owe you a beer.” Detective Gaines hung up the phone, turned to the deputy, and said, “Bruce got us a hit on the Lincoln, and I’m going to check it out now.”
I am not sure I expected anything. Seriously, a hit on a GPS could have just meant a stolen vehicle. Any lead was a lead though. We’ve been chasing this Nightcap Killer for six months with nothing to show for it, but more dead bodies. I’m not sure the gang-banger is related to the case, but the punk had given me a description. Then he spat on my badge. No honor amongst the wicked I suppose. The killer, or who I assumed that the one-eyed hooligan had identified as the killer, was supposedly an average Joe sort of guy. It fit with our profiler’s descriptions. The killer was a labor worker of some sort, someone who had flown under the radar for years. Likes to stalk his prey at night. The profiler thinks he has some sort of need to inflict pain on others.
If the dead were any indication of that, I’d say the profiler was right. Who burns out people’s eyes after pinning them open like that? Then cutting their throats like they were some kind of animal being put to slaughter? I don’t usually put much stock in profiling. Who the hell wants to think like that? Let alone write that stuff down? It takes a sick fuck if you ask me. Forensics and autopsy were able to tell that the victims were essentially tortured to death. They were bound, in some kind of stockade that kept their head and hands immobilized. Clothing pins were used to pin open their eyelids, attaching them to their forehead and cheeks. Sick fuck. The worst of it all, was that the ME was pretty certain they’d suffered from extreme insomnia, as if the killer were keeping them awake for days at a time. That kind of sleep deprivation is rough. I’ve had my bouts with insomnia, but that is a whole ‘nother kind of shit. I pulled up to the address. I checked my GPS. I didn’t see the Lincoln. I checked the clock, ten fifteen. God, tonight was going to be one of those nights. I love my job, oh who the fuck am I kidding? Being a cop these days, even a homicide detective, is no cake walk. Some idiot down on the beat showing too much force or being too aggressive gives the rest of us a bad name. I’m sure in some cases it might be justified, but the media is never going to tell that story. Sensationalism for the win. Just like this fucking case. The media gets wind of something like this and gives the guy a fucking name. Nightcap, damn that used to mean something else entirely. I hate god-damned reporters.
I stepped out of the car and closed the door. It was loud, like fucking sounding a gong. I liked the crown vic, but it was a beast.
“This is the place,” I said.
I didn’t think I needed to call for back up just yet, but something felt off. I don’t know if it was some sort of spiritual warning or just a tug on my instincts. I had a feeling this was the place, this was the guy’s house. It wasn’t that far from the former warehouse. I could have used that information a few months ago. I am sure that was something somewhere online, paystubs, or government contracts, something I could’ve used.
I knocked on the door just as the stench hit me. There was death in this place. No one answered, not that I suspected anyone would. I walked around the back. There it was, in all of its beauty. Julia Stevens’ Lincoln Navigator. Rich vehicle for a dump like this. I drew my service pistol and switched off the safety. I continued around the back of the house. Crouching behind the SUV I looked in the windows. I couldn’t see in. Fucking tinted windows. I tried the door, it was locked. The smell of death wasn’t coming from the SUV though, so I moved closer to the house. It occurred to me that I should call for back up, but I realized I left my phone in the car. If I went back now I risked losing this guy. I was done knocking on doors too. I am sure I had enough probable cause with Julia’s SUV alone. I made my way up to the back door. The screen was open, but the door behind it was closed.
I pulled the screen back and it squealed loudly. I swear it sounded like a damn cat yowling at three am. I positioned myself against the screen so it couldn’t close and make more noise. There was a small window inlaid on the door. I peered inside. The smell was bad, real bad, and I was starting to think I was too late. Then I heard a man’s voice.
“Do you understand?” he said. “Answer me god-damnit!”
That voice was full of anger and anguish. I almost felt bad for the poor bastard. I tried to get a look in the window again, but I could see any movement. Which meant they were probably in the other room. I reached out and grabbed hold of the handle. With a slow deliberate movement I turned the knob. It wasn’t locked. I knew I only had once chance at this and if I wasn’t fast enough someone might die. I wasn’t intending to let that bastard live, but if he was still talking to someone there was still hope that Julia was alive. I put my full weight into the door and shoved it open. I had the pistol up in front of me.
I don’t know how they found me. The pigs just opened my back door and shot me. For thirty seven years I only ever closed my eyes to blink or to think. When the bullet entered my chest, I thought something had punched me. I didn’t know it was a bullet. The razor dropped from my hand, it clattered to the floor. I stared in surprise at the man in a suit pointing a gun at me. I growled and bent down to retrieve my razor. I was going to teach him a lesson about breaking into people’s houses. He deserved to be taught a lesson. He was a pig, I was the butcher. I never liked that name they gave me. A nightcap is something someone wears to bed or a final drink of alcohol before they go to sleep. I don’t sleep. His gun barked ... again. I didn’t really hear it the first time. I heard it this time though. There was a flash as the bullet left the barrel. My life flashed before my eyes. I think I saw the face of my father. Angry, red eyes, tired. He was trying to stay awake, he was trying to understand. No one understands me, no one ever tried. Maybe he did, maybe my mother did too. Maybe I was wrong. I can’t be wrong, I am better.
Submitted July 26, 2016 at 05:47AM by DJMorand http://ift.tt/2acdnqQ WritingPrompts
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