It was dark out, the clouds covered most of the stars and only a few beams of moonlight touched the ground. A dark black van was parked outside of the abandoned factory on 42nd street.
A man sat inside, hunched over a table, he was drawing something, disturbing. He kept looking over to the side of the room, a mess of blood and limbs lay there. A body, all the limbs cut off and sewn back on in places unfamiliar. The man looked at the horrific pile, held up his pencil, and then went back to drawing. For hours he drew, it was after all one of his talents growing up, his sole pride until he discovered how good it felt to kill. The days in which he drew for fun with his older brother were long over.
Sometimes the man thought back to those days, they seemed so far away. His family could be dead now for all he knew or cared, he didn’t need them anymore, they served no purpose.
The man thought deeply about purpose. Every human has a purpose of sorts and once they serve their purpose they are worthless. All the people the man had killed no longer served him a purpose.
The man leaned back in his chair now and observed his work, a fine drawing. This would be interesting for this picture would be sent to someone. He wanted to expand his killing, not just physically but mentally. He only wished he could be there to watch them slowly go insane, but wistfully he couldn’t. The man grabbed an envelope from the side of his desk and wrote down a random address, 672 Hayfield Ln. He folded his drawing and slipped it inside before sealing the envelope. He would deliver this tomorrow but now he had to sleep.
The man lay down, near the dead body, and stared at it. He felt a sense of worth, pride, and contentment. Mason O’Brien went to sleep on these feelings, for the first time in a long time he was able to rest.
On the other side of town a small, gray car pulled into the driveway of 672 Hayfield Ln. A man stepped out of the car.
He was tall and tanned with a thin frame. He had a mess of curly hair and a set of large, round glasses. The man walked to his front door, under the dim moonlight. He walked inside to his small house and turned on the lights. He tossed his coat on the couch and went to get himself a drink.
After a nice strong glass of brandy, he sat down on his couch and thought. He had been fired from his third job in the past two months. Unless he could find something steady he would be forced to sell his house and find elsewhere to live. He didn’t want to move again, in fact, he still hadn’t unpacked from the last move. He always left a few boxes packed as he knew he would have to move again. He let out a long sigh for he felt lost, he had since the disappearance of his brother, Mason. He stood up and walked to his bedroom. He lay down on his bed and continued to think about what to do next. He grabbed a few bottles of pills from the table next to him, he wanted to feel better. He swallowed the pills and lay, waiting for the nubbing sensation that would take his mind off his misery. John O’Brien fell asleep, for the first time in a long time he felt whole.
John woke up the next morning with a bad headache. He stood up and stretched his sore muscles before standing. He put on his glasses and walked out to his couch. He put on a pair of sweatpants with holes up and down the legs and an old plain black t-shirt. He put on his flip-flops and walked outside to get a newspaper.
He looked around and saw a paper in his neighbor’s driveway. He walked over, grabbed it, and walked back casually. He was quite used to this routine, stealing his neighbor’s newspaper. He walked inside, grabbed a banana and a slice of bread, and sat down at the couch for breakfast and the news.
After a few minutes of flipping through the paper he put it aside, there was no new or interesting news, as always. John instead focused on his breakfast and the day’s plan. He needed a bit more money to afford his bills as they were coming soon.
John contemplated this fact until long after he had finished breakfast and decided to resort to the back-up plan. If he was ever too low on money John had a back-up plan. He would sell some of his pills and see if he could nab a purse or two. John wasn’t any fan of this method of getting money, in fact, it was one of his least favorite things to do, but he needed the money. John grabbed his pills, a gun, and a baseball cap before leaving his house and getting into his car.
John drove off to the city park, all the while his heart pounded in his chest as he was quite nervous. Police did come around the park but John knew how to slip out of their sight.
A few minutes later John had left his car and moved under a tree. He would usually sell to teenagers and the occasional adult. He pulled the cap over his face to obscure it.
“Hey, kid. You want something?” John asked a teen walking past. He gave John a questioning look. John pulled out a bag of pills, “Twenty dollars and you can have a few.”
“Ok,” said the kid. John gave him three pills and the kid pulled out two ten-dollar bills and gave it to John. John nodded and the kid walked away. The rest of the day went smoothly, John sold to a few more people before moving his spot to the front of a JC Penney.
John pulled his car into his driveway later that afternoon and counted his money. $210 in total. Not a bad sum for the day but John knew he had to make more. He got out of his car and walked up to the front door. He grabbed a few papers from his mailbox on the way in.
He sat down on his couch to see what he got. A few letters from canceled magazines, a coupon sheet, and a letter. John looked at the letter, it looked like a personal letter. John hadn’t received a personal letter since his mother passed away a few years ago. No return address, John thought, Strange. John opened the envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Upon unfolding the piece of paper John’s face curled into horror and disgust. It was a drawing, a drawing of a dead body, limbs cut off, and resewn where they aren’t supposed to be. John put down the paper and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Kids, he thought to himself, It’s just some sick prank pulled by some kids. John nodded to himself as he shoved the letter into his pocket. He needed to go to sleep. He put the money on his table, climbed into bed, and went to sleep.
Mason woke up early as he always had. The sun hadn’t come up yet and the warehouse was mostly dark, aside from the warm yellow glow of a candle that has been melted to the nub. Mason got to his feet and stretched. Nice and early, he thought to himself, Good time to hide the body. Mason put on a pair of leather gloves and hoisted up the body. He dragged the body outside and tossed it in the van. A few people were around but they were mostly druggies, passed out from the night before. Mason got into the van, inserted the key, and drove off.
This was always one of Mason’s favorite parts of his art. He needed to be creative and careful. He had to find the right spot for the body and the right spot could be anywhere, and nowhere at the same time. He had to make sure there were no cameras or people around. If he wanted the body gone he needed somewhere to soak the body in bleach. This time was different however, he wanted, rather needed, the body to be found. He had to make sure it was on the news so that the person who revived the letter would see.
Mason eventually settled on an empty lot where a house once burned down. There was plenty of debris around to hide the body under. He put the body under a large concrete slab and left a leg sticking out. Perfect, he thought.
It was another long day for John. He had gotten up with a hangover and found that his water had been turned off. John had gone into town, looking for a job, but was unsuccessful. He had tried offices, fast food restaurants, and even a few retail stores. Feeling defeated John went to one of the pubs for a drink and some food. He sat down at the bar, ordered a bit of whiskey and a plate of fries, and thought about what to do next.
He thought about a few more places he could go tomorrow and thought about what he would do if things didn’t pan out. He thought about his brother, Mason, how his disappearance had caused everything bad to happen. If Mason hadn’t disappeared then his mother wouldn’t have divorced his father. His father wouldn’t have killed himself and his mother wouldn’t have cut all ties with John. He was just fine before Mason had to go and get himself kidnapped or worse. John had always felt resentment towards Mason, the golden child.
His parents had focused all their attention on his brother while John was left to his own devices. John took a sip of whiskey, it burned its way down his throat. That resentment turned to hatred when Mason skipped a grade and his parents began comparing the two, saying Mason was bound to be successful while John would live with them. John ordered another drink. When Mason disappeared John felt a bit of happiness but he soon learned that the disappearance would only lead to more misery.
John took another sip and washed away those memories. He held up his hand to order another drink but the bartender was staring at the television. John looked around, the others in the bar had a look of disgust upon their faces. John turned his attention to the television. There was a picture of a body, most of it was blurred out, but John could tell it was dead, beyond dead. The thing was mutilated, it’s limbs where they shouldn’t be. John, however, looked at the picture with a bit of curiosity, he had seen something like it before. He reached into his pocket to pull out some money but felt the letter he had received yesterday. Someone had drawn this scene before it happened.
John’s eyes went wide with realization and he ran out of the bar without leaving any money. He sped home and dashed inside. He pulled the letter out of his pocket and reviewed the contents again. The face was no different than the one on the television. This isn’t kids, John thought, This is real. Someone killed that person, drew them, and sent it to me.
“Another day, another person,” Mason called out. A scream pierced the air from the corner. Mason walked over to where the scream had come from. He was a young man, no older than eighteen, skinny, weak, exactly what Mason needed. The man had dark brown hair and a few freckles. What had once been a kind bright face, full of life was now more of a sunken desperate face, the face of someone who had given up. “Aww, are you scared?” Mason cooed, “Well you should be.” Mason grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his face up close to his own. “I own you now, you are mine,” Mason licked the man’s face and threw him back to the ground, “It will all be over soon anyway. You’ll be the lucky one.”
Mason pulled out a tray of instruments, all rusty and sharp. “What to do first? That is the question,” Mason hummed to himself before letting out an oooh. He pulled out a sewing needle and dipped it in a bottle of liquid.
He walked over to the man and knelt, “Do you know what this is?” Mason asked. The man shook his head, “This is a sewing needle. I dipped it in anesthetic and a bit of urine. It won’t hurt for a while but when it does… anyway,” Mason jammed the needle in the man’s eye. “AAAARRRRGH” The man screamed.
“Sshh, I don’t want them to hear you,” Mason said in a kind voice while covering the man’s mouth, “You just sleep here a while and I will figure out what to do with you.” The man was already falling asleep, passed out from the pain.
Mason stood up and walked over to his desk. He began thinking as he hunched over a piece of paper.
John’s breathing was fast, he was freaking out. He put a hand on the wall and pulled out his phone. He dialed 9-1-1 but dropped his phone when his hands shook so violently he had to hold them still. He sat down on his couch and ran his shaking hands through his hair. He slowed his breathing and calmed down.
John thought about what he should do. Go to the cops? He thought, No, they won’t believe me. John thought about getting the person himself, it might work. He did have a gun after all and he could ask the mail person where they picked up the letter. At this point, finding this sicko was the only thing on John’s mind. He decided then and there, it was up to him.
Mason pulled out a spoon and gouged out the man’s eyes. The guy was dead already after Mason cut off the man’s lower half. Life fled his body quickly. Mason took the eyes and stuffed them up in the man’s remaining intestines. He took some rope he had tied into a noose and threw it over a pipe on the ceiling. He wrapped the noose around the man’s neck and hoisted him up. Mason tied the noose to a pipe coming out of the floor. He took two fish hooks, attacked to some thin string. He also cast the string around the pipe on the ceiling and tied them down. He put the fish hooks through the man’s cheeks and pulled them into a smile.
Mason took a few steps back and admired his work. He was quite proud of it. As the sun began to set, casting a nice purple glow across the floor, Mason lit his candles and began to draw.
Sleep was hard for John that night. He was only able to close his eyes for a few hours before giving up and going for a glass of brandy. He reached the cabinet and saw that he was out of the drink. John shook his head and went out to his car to go to the bar. He started down the street and got a few minutes down the road before noticing he didn’t have any money on him. John turned around and drove back. He stopped a few feet from his house and looked ahead.
A dark black van was parked in his driveway and a man was putting a paper into his mailbox. The man turned around, looked both ways, and walked back to his van. He started the van and drove off. John felt a sudden urge to follow the person that parked in his driveway and talk to him. John turned around and followed the van. They drove for nearly thirty minutes before the van parked in front of an abandoned warehouse on 42nd street. Shady, John thought. John at this point felt a gut feeling, he needed to leave.
John drove home and grabbed the letter in his mailbox. He opened it and found a drawing inside, just as gruesome as the last. He crumpled the piece of paper and threw it into the street. The clouds grew dark and rain began to fall and John walked inside. John grabbed his gun and tucked it into his waistband. John walked back out, into the rain, and got in his car. He was going to kill the person at that warehouse.
Mason tucked his papers away into the drawer and sat down. He would often sit and think like this, about his life, his miserable excuse for a brother, and various other things. He looked over to some broken glass on the ground, I should clean that up, he thought to himself. Mason chuckled and leaned back, I got away again. Thos police are worthless, they have no purpose. Mason thought about killing a police officer next, just for fun.
He got up and went over to where he tossed the man’s eyes aside. He picked up one of them and squeezed until it popped and a reddish-white liquid seeped out. Mason giggled and licked his fingers clean before meandering over to his desk. Just as he sat down he heard the door open.
John sped down the street towards the warehouse. He made his way to 41st street and decided to park here. He was in his car, mentally preparing himself to kill a man. He popped a few pills and washed it down with a bit of whiskey.
John got out of the car and walked down the street, passed crackheads, and used needles on the ground. As he walked John felt a sense of purpose coupled with fear. He felt the bulge of the gun in this pocket. He stepped up to the rusty metal door that led into the warehouse.
Mason sat there at his desk. His eyes flitted around the room, trying to find who had entered. He looked back down to his desk, “You found me,” he called out. No response. “I know you’re there,” Mason called, standing up, “Did you like my art.”
“Not one bit,” a man stepped out of the shadows. He was tall and skinny, a mess of curly hair and a set of round glasses. Mason hesitated, he had seen this man before. “I’ve come to stop you,” he said.
“Who are you?” Mason asked, “I feel like we know each other.”
“The name’s John O’Brien. I’m the guy that’s going to end your life.”
Mason’s face went pale. His brother was now standing in front of him. Is this some sort of sick joke? Mason thought. Was this fate or some coincidence. “John? It’s Mason,” Mason said.
“Good. Killing you will be a whole lot easier,” John said, stepping closer.
“What? We’re brothers, family,” Mason said. He didn’t want to but he knew why John wanted to kill him so badly.
John walked until he was inches from Mason’s face, “I know,” he said.
John’s hand reached for the gun but Mason grabbed it and pointed it up. Three shots rang out and Mason punched John in the face. John brought his behind Mason’s and pushed him over. Mason fell back but brought John down with him. The two wrestled over the gun until Mason got a hold of it. He pointed it to the side and fired the remaining three shots before tossing the gun aside. Mason shoved John off of him.
John had a look of hatred in his eyes, “Fuck you man,” he shouted, “I was going to kill you with that, you bastard!”
Mason got to his knees and just sat there. Tears started to roll down his cheeks.
“I hate you! I always did! You took all the attention from me, made mom and dad love you more than me! But you know what,” John’s voice was softer now, more menacing, “They hated you too. They divorced because of you!”
“No, no, no,” Mason sobbed.
“Dad killed himself because of you! Mom left because of you! All this is because you got kidnapped,” John said.
Mason looked up at John, “I left. I left because of you. You always hated me and you hurt me all the time. That’s why I left,” Mason looked back down.
“You’re pathetic. You were always a little bitch,” John stepped up so he was looking down on his brother, “You never had any purpose in this world. You are useless!”
“NO!” Mason shouted, tears streaking his face, as he leaped up and tackled his brother. Mason punched him in the face over and over until John hit him in the stomach. John hit Mason until Mason fell, next to the broken glass.
“I’ve missed this,” John said, “I’ll finally get to kill you.”
Mason let out an angry sob before leaping up and stabbing John in the stomach with a shard of glass. He stabbed John again and again. With each stab, a little bit of his anger would leave him. Mason withdrew the glass one final time as John fell to the floor. John looked scared, tears covered his face.
“Please Mason. Don’t do this,” John said.
Mason bent down and cradled his dying brother, “I-I’m so s-sorry,” Mason said, “I shouldn’t have left.”
John nodded, “Goodbye. I’ll tell dad you said hi.” John held Mason’s hand in his before his breathing slowed to a stop.
Mason let go of his brother’s body and cried for what felt like hours. Even though John was a horrible brother Mason still had a sliver of love for him. Mason realized now, he didn’t have a purpose, he had killed his own brother. Mason lifted the shard of glass to his own neck and drew it across.
He fell to the floor, blood pouring from his wound. As he lay there dying he thought about all the regrets he had. Everything he could have done. He looked over to John and then back to the ceiling. At least he was dying next to his brother. As Mason’s breathing became slow and raspy he saw a glint of light that grew larger and larger. Mason saw John, standing there with his hand outstretched. Mason raised his own hand and held his brother’s. As John pulled Mason up towards the light his body stopped breathing and lay still. Mason O’Brien had served his purpose.
“You will always have a purpose so long as you live. Find your purpose and cherish it.”
Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, Owen KellyWrite a Review