A prose poem of horror
I was semi-retired, more time on my hands…thought about woodcarving, social action, writing more poetry, volunteering…nothing really fit the bill.
Always wanted to make the world a better place…spent decades as a counselor, helping emotionally wounded people…band-aids on a festering culture…so what about wound prevention?
To stop malaria, eradicate mosquitoes, get the vectors…so many human equivalents…so many monsters the world would be better off without.
Such a range of choices! Most easily available to me: identities of child defilers (don’t call them pedophiles; too loving a word). Yeah, start with them.
Child molestation generally taught down generations, the vector adult perpetrators…knew of one prime example, violated his four daughters…they are mothers now, won’t pass down the curse…him, however…
I almost threw up, but mostly it was easy-peasey. Me not noticeable in low crime unlocked neighborhood; I look like such a harmless old guy. Didn’t need an AK-47 (what is it with that fetish?) so many less obtrusive tools available.
Box cutter as good as straight razor, more obtainable…fool slept on his back…right through carotid artery, jugular, trachea (can’t scream with sliced windpipe)…blood jetted, sprayed all over bed, walls, me…warm study in scarlet…I bagged the gloves, hazmat suit, mask, oversize shoes, to burn later.
So messy, and the bastard never knew why he was dying…next one, garrote and silence with ratchet lock tie, explain to him as light leaves his eyes…more satisfying. Neater.
So many targets…get a job with Child Protective Services, compile a kill list…need to be crafty, farm some of the work out to well-vetted recruits, like-minded citizens…operate in cells…build up to international traffickers, use undercover agents…hobby becomes a career.
When I was younger, had misgivings about becoming a monster…now I think “So what? Isn’t it worth it? Making the world a better place, safer world for kids?”
I am such a harmless looking old gentleman.
This is just the beginning.
~ Wry Welwood
6th of December 2021
Written in response to Scrittura prompt: Let yourself be bad.
attention: J.D. Harms.
Thanks to Melissa Coffey.
The original draft stated the father had violated three daughters. When I reviewed the piece with my wife, she reminded me in reality it had been four. Sometimes art undershoots reality. Sick.
~ ww