Sam grimaced. His job was demanding. He kneeled down next to the body lying on the floor. It had been dead for about three hours. Sam gripped his knife, about six inches long, and let the point lightly touch the man's stomach. He steadied himself, made sure he had plenty of leverage and started digging the knife slowly into the flabby flesh. When he had impaled the body at about a quarter of an inch, he struck. Sam rammed the knife deep into the mediastinum of his target with a quick upward thrust. He twisted the knife back and forth, using pure force to shove the weapon deeper and deeper into the cavity of the corpse. There was blood, but not as much as he had hoped. People hired Sam to kill other people that they didn't like, and he was paid well for his efforts. What his clients didn't know was that Sam took certain liberties with the bodies when he was done with the primary task. He liked ripping up the corpses. He took great pleasure in playing with skin, entrails and blood. He killed this particular man with a gunshot to the head. It was simple enough and took only a second. But he stayed with the body for hours, first staring at it and then ritualistically carving it up. Sam did not know why he did this. To begin with, he felt no remorse in the killing itself. He knew this was unusual and society frowned upon it, but society could not designate what Sam felt. And Sam didn't see the trouble in it. He had to make a living, the targets would have to die eventually and his clients needed satisfaction.
Sam was not your typical sadist, however. He functioned normally enough most of the time. He wasn't particularly anti-social or awkward. He had many friends, girlfriends and was raised in a loving home. He preferred to listen to adult contemporary music and drove a Honda Accord. Murder was just something he did as well as fishing or going to a hockey game. He did not tell his friends, but that was only to spare them from inner turmoil created by their opposing values. Sam did not fear the police or any consequences at all, because, although he knew the law, it slipped his mind most of the time that the murders were illegal. They seemed so natural to him that the instinctive moral objections most criminals feel and ignore weren't present in his mind. It was as if he belonged to an alien country, in which he was accustomed to a certain way and had to keep relearning the new way over and over. Sam turned back to the task at hand.
Days later, Sam got a call on his answering machine that went as follows: "Hi, Sam Potter? I got your number from a guy... I need to meet you at the Cottage Inn at noon tomorrow. It's about a job." The next day at noon, Sam was sitting at a table by the windows, adequately shaded by a palm tree. A woman walked into the small restaurant, looked around until she spotted Sam and joined him at his table. "Sam?" Sam nodded. Leaning forward slowly, the woman whispered, "I want you to kill someone." Sam was a bit surprised. None of his clients were so blunt. They all were so amusingly secretive, but this woman was not so careful. It made Sam suspicious, but he liked it as well. "Sam, I want you to kill someone," she repeated.
"Alright. Who?" She handed him a slip of paper. He opened up to see the words Sam Potter printed in black ink. Sam was confused.
"I don't understand. What is this?"
"It's the name of the man I want you to kill."
"But this is my name," Sam said slowly.
"Yes, I know. I want you dead."
"I don't understand. We've never met."
"That's right. But you've met my husband. You killed him two months ago." Sam racked his brain. Two months ago... yes, he had killed a man about that time. He remembered because he was able to take a trip to Atlantic City as part of the job. It was a nice place, he remembered. He had a good time. Sam turned his attention back to the woman. She was staring at him, eyes flaming with fear, doubt, and strength. He admired her. And now she had come to him with this request. She wanted him dead. A job was a job. Money would be useless, but he had never turned down a job before. The truth was, Sam felt no regret in killing others, and therefore he also saw no true value to his own life. He was not depressed by any means. He simply saw things much more clearly than most people, uncomplicated by slight inconveniences. Yes, he decided. Emotions had never gotten in the way of Sam completing a job before. It would not now. It truly did not matter that the man he was now hired to kill was himself. He just happened to be his next target, by sheer coincidence. He never refused. He would do it.
"Yes. I will do it. But I must require some sort of payment. Bury me in the ground. That is all I want. Will you do this?" The woman nodded. Both rose from the table. Sam lifted his hand to shake the woman's, but she did not meet his. Sam understand. She was attatched to her husband, and Sam had killed him. This was reasonable sentiment.
Hours later, Sam was in a motel room by himself. He sat on the bed, revolver in hand. He brought the weapon to his head and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
areudirty
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
2087
theartofmadeline
