Note: This was a work I had feelings about putting on here. It gets a bit graphic on the violence end.
If that is something you have a hard time with, then it's a-okay to skip this one. I wrote it some years
ago when I was in a weird place in my life.
Harris Johnson walked home late at night, to his small apartment in North Port. He had stayed out late, having a few drinks to numb his unease over losing his job earlier that day. He had worked at a bank, in a back financial office, dealing in corporate finance and leasing. It had been the second job he had of that nature, and couldn’t stand them—but they paid well. He wasn’t sure why he had been fired; had he taken one too many days off? He thought about it as he shuffled home. “Good riddance” he thought to himself, trying to bluff himself out of his concern.
When he arrived, he unlocked his door, but not before missing the key slot half a dozen times in his buzzed and exhausted state. He dragged himself in, placing his hat and keys in their respective homes aside his door. He was dressed in his work attire, of dress shirt, slacks, and dress shoes. He wore his long brown hair in a ponytail, to keep it in some semblance of professionalism. He kicked off his shoes, and slumped into his chair. There, he stewed in his own discontent in the quiet dim of the apartment. The silence only broken by the argument of his upstairs neighbors, which he could only discern hot dogs and tortillas were the main topic.
After what seemed a brief time, he decided there was nothing else to be awake for, and turned in for the night. His bed was an ancient, lumpy spring mattress that he had gotten second hand from a cousin when he moved in some months ago. It squeaked and clanged in protest as he put his weight upon it. Harris let out a great sigh, closed his eyes, and tried to dream of a brighter tomorrow.
There was a great pounding upon his door, sometime later. Harris sat up in a jerking fashion, half-asleep and startled as to what was going on. The door burst forth, and three large individuals barreled in. They dragged Harris, who was only clad in boxers, out of bed, and into his living room. The three were all dressed in non-descriptive black jackets and blue jeans, with faces covered in black masks.
“Where’s the fucking money?” one said as one searched the apartment, ransacking it in the process, and the other observing.
“What money? Who—“
Harris started before being back-handed by the first individual.
“No goddamn questions; where is our m-o-n-e-y, money?”
He spat, motioning as to look like he was liable to strike again.
“I don’t have your money!” Harris cried in his confusion.
“Wrong answer!” the guy bellowed as he struck Harris again, and a few more for good measure.
“Watch him” he said, continuing “I’ll help him look.”
It was Harris and the so-far silent one while the other two tore the place apart; the masked one’s eyes coldly peering down on Harris, who was now down on the floor. He saw things given to him at his father’s memorial thrown about—the box his ashes were in, thrown aside like old takeout. Harris then eyed his metal bat, a few feet away. Something in his mind came a tad undone at that moment. He looked up at the watcher, who had yet to move his gaze. “When he moves his eyes...” Harris thought, with only one thing on his mind.
A few moments later, and that time came—his eyes moved to see how his fellows were doing, Harris lunged as fast as he was able, wrapping one hand around the bat. The watcher screamed
“What the fuck are—“before Harris bludgeoned him soundly, with a resounding ping of the bat hanging in the air. The other two shot out of the other room, and Harris almost flew as he charged to meet them; beating them with manic zeal. When they stopped moving, he stood there, panting and flecks of crimson upon his skin. He thought he should feel horror, but instead... vigor? He felt as if he could do 12 Labors of Hercules, and raise him another 6. He knew the right choice was to call the police, tell them what happened. Maybe it’d make the local news. The story would get about 10 – 15 minutes, and then everyone would move on with the weather, or sports.
But, from the stillness and quiet, he heard something from the back of his mind, egging him forward. “No”, he thought “I’ve had enough dull”. He pulled a phone from the man who had beat him, and fortunately, it was a simple swipe lock—no PIN or password. The last text that had been received was from a contact labeled Boss, saying “Trash Ronnie’s place, and get my fuck damn money”. Ronnie, he presumed, had been the previous tenant, and had in fact given Harris some trouble while moving in, as he had been late in turning the unit back over to the complex. The guy had addresses attached to contacts, so Harris looked up where the Boss was. It was an address on the other side of the city. Harris stared at the phone, almost like he was asking himself if this was what he was really going to do. “It’s not like I got work tomorrow” he mumbled.
Harris got dressed, in a simple dark shirt and jacket, with blue jeans. He put his hair back up, and was about to head out, but he then remembered he had 3 unconscious goons in his living room. He paused, and then went back to zip-tie hand and feet, then tape mouths. “This is a problem for when I get back”. Then, he left to have words with the Boss.
Harris caught the last bus running that night. He was surprised that no one asked about the bat, but figured that no one was about to ask too many complicated questions at 2 AM. About 40 minutes later, he arrived a few blocks from the given address. It was in a rougher part of town, South Shore, houses built post-war by returning G.I.s, now used by low-income families, and people who didn’t really pay mind to property values. The Boss’ house was such a place, and looked like had hosted a party earlier that night. A few cars were parked, and one person was asleep in the lawn. Harris walked across the street, and into the open door. The den stunk of burnt dope, cheap deodorant, and cheaper drink. Passed out people laid here and there, numbering around half a dozen. Harris gingerly walked through, trying not to disturb anyone sleeping. He searched rooms, until he found what appeared to be the master bedroom. There was one man in the room, lying in bed seemingly as out of it as the other partiers.
Harris walked in, until he was next to the unconscious man.
“Boss?” he said, not loudly, but firmly and distinct.
“The fuck you want?” the Boss said, not opening his eyes.
“You sent them to Ronnie’s place?” Harris asked.
“Yeah, what about it?” the Boss groaned.
“You got the wrong address” Harris said grimly. The Boss opened his eyes in time to see the bat plummet into his face. Harris struck repeatedly, until he was certain the Boss wouldn’t be bothering him, or anyone else, any longer.
Harris went to the filthy bathroom across the hall, and tried to wash up both him and the bat, but he was sure one of two things happened; he either succeeded, or made the evidence so much more muddled as to become nigh-impossible to be discerned. After this, he left the same way he came in. He knew the buses were no longer running, so he hoofed it back, since no other reasonable options were available. He thought about taking the Boss’ car, but explaining having the car of a very-recently dead man in your possession was not on his list of things to do today, or ever, he hoped.
When he got back, the sun was cresting over the sky, and he knew people were getting ready for their morning routines. He then remembered he had three captives whose fates he had to decide when he returned. He sighed, knowing at this point, there was only one thing to be done with them, at least as far as he was concerned.
When he walked in, he heard the muffled speech from the three. They only got louder when they saw him, and they tried to be as intimidating as they could be, zip-tied and gagged. Harris heard his neighbors getting ready to get up and go, so he pulled up a seat, and waited. A cold sweat gripped him, as he felt that he had to end these three lives, as not only had he not reported them to the police, but then viciously beat them, accessed their phone, then hunted down and murdered their boss.
About an hour passed, and the three had yet to let up. “I’d say I’m sorry about this” Harris started, “but the truth is that I don’t feel sorry. Not about this, anyway”, and he stabbed the man who had been the first to start searching in the neck, clean through. The other two were screaming hysterically beneath their gags. He did the same to the watcher, leaving only him and the guy who beat him. He was crying, as if he was begging to not die. Harris locked eyes with him, and then slowly drove the blade through, starting at the Adam’s apple.
Then, once more, only quiet hung in the apartment—broken only by the bird songs occasional interruption. Harris sat there, knife in hand, above the three choices he had made. He then washed up the knife, and then set about cleaning the rest of the place. For now, he put the bodies in the bathtub, until a better option came about. He used a pet stain cleaner, which in this case was made using the same compounds used to clean crime scenes, and it seemed to do the trick. He had the cleaner from when he had cats prior to moving into his current residence, but got rid of them because he couldn't afford the deposit. By the time afternoon rolled around, there was nary a trace anything had occurred, provided one did not peer into the bathroom.
Harris sat in the chair, much as he had done the night before. He wasn’t horrified at what he had done; he was horrified that he felt nothing at all about it. It wasn’t the kind of terror that makes one scream, it was the type of fear that sat at the edge of your thoughts. Perhaps he was not as good a person as he thought he was.
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