HOW TO RUIN YOUR LIFE (LGBTQ+)

3

By the time Jonah arrived, Locke and Sterling had left.

They were both involved in the underground world of money like I was, but in different ways. Locke was a gambler, and he made a lot of money...sometimes. He went from gambling house to gambling house, keeping himself spread out, and never won too much. He stayed out of the spotlight as much as possible, for his own safety, really.

Sterling was different from us. Locke and I preferred to stay out of violent crime, but Sterling loved to fight. He joined street fighting competitions, where gambling was done on the side and the winner was given the prize money that both competitors had put in. He loved it, even if he lost a match. Locke would attend his fights to gamble here and there, but I usually stayed out of it. When Sterling wasn't making much money or was too injured to fight regularly, he had a lineup of older, rich men who loved to entertain him and take him out, showering him with gifts and fine dining.

    Jonah walked in, carrying a large suitcase with him. I lived in the middle of nowhere in the countryside, and I had a few acres of land covered in trees, so I wasn't worried about getting spotted by neighbors or cars driving by. Jonah had pulled his vehicle into the garage anyway, so it wasn't risky whatsoever.

    "This is the fastest I've ever seen a family cave in," Jonah admitted, following me into the living room.

    I opened the basement door, clunking down the steps.

    Carl was shaking violently as we approached, and I rolled my eyes as I unchained him. Jonah put the suitcase down in the ground, unzipping it and pulling out a roll of duct tape.

    "Already have some," I chuckled.

    He shrugged, stuffing the roll into one of the suitcase pouches, zipping it up.

    I put Carl on his side, working in silence as I pulled his hands behind his back, thoroughly duct taping them together. Then I duct taped his mouth shut too. Jonah stood, lighting a cigarette, resting his cigarette elbow on his other arm wrapped across his torso, the picture of relaxation.

    "Done," I said, after I'd duct taped Carl's ankles and knees together.

    "Alright," Jonah said, stomping his cigarette out on the basement concrete. He grabbed Carl by the back of his neck, roughly dragging him across the floor and dropping him into the suitcase. Carl was thrashing around now, the best he could, his muffled crying fading as Jonah zipped the suitcase closed. Carl barely fit in it, as big as he was, but it worked.

    Jonah pulled the suitcase handle out of the top of the suitcase, pulling Carl across the floor. He nodded in satisfaction, then carried it up the stairs without a problem.

    Strong man.

    I followed him, closing the basement door behind me.

    Before Jonah left, he turned to me, pulling a thick stack of cash from his sweatpants pocket. "From Max," he said.

    "Thanks," I said, taking the cash from him.

    Jonah tossed the suitcase into the back of his car, slamming the trunk, and got into the driver's seat, quickly pulling out and speeding away.

    Hopefully he didn't get a speeding ticket. That could really complicate things for him. Not for me though. Once the victim was out of my house, it wasn't my problem anymore. And vice versa. When the victim was IN my house, it wasn't the organization's problem, and nothing could be led back to them. That's why I was paid.

    It was a good gig.

    But it didn't satisfy me.

    Not like killing.

-

Ever since that night, when I'd killed my father, I couldn't shake the memory. It followed me, day and night, in dreams and reality, like a shadow.

    But I didn't hate it. I just couldn't shake it.

    The overwhelming desire to kill again. To kill...something. Someone. Anything.

    It started when I was a kid, with bugs. Crushing them, shaking them, drowning them, freezing them, suffocating them. But the bugs weren't enough. I'd gone for bigger things. Fish. I would fish every day, stabbing worms and pulling up fish.

    My mom thought it was a nice hobby, and my siblings would come with me sometimes. But they'd get upset and run back to the house when they saw what I was doing. I'd just fish, and fish, and fish, and when I'd catch them, I'd take them off the hook and put them on dry ground and watch them flop around. They'd flop and flop and flop for several minutes, desperate to live, desperate for water. When they'd stop flopping, I'd dump some water on them to revive their struggle, and sit back to watch, totally fascinated. Sometimes they'd weakly wriggle around some more, some would start flopping more violently, until they just died.

    Then I'd put their carcasses back in the water, watching them float, lifelessly. Or, I'd chop them up into tiny pieces and use their flesh as bait for more fish. 'Fish are like the cockroaches of the water,' my mom always said. 'They're stupid.' And they were, because they'd eat the dead flesh of their species and would keep coming up to bite on the hook that was killing them.

    Fishing was fun for a while, but...I got bored again.

    I needed something fresh. I wasn't willing to kill certain animals, like birds, or four legged creatures, like deer or cows or lizards. I wouldn't eat animals either. No matter how much my mom begged me to. I would never eat the meat she cooked.

    And the only animals I ever liked to kill were bugs and fish. I tried killing a mole when it popped its head out from its burrowing. I'd held a machete over its head, with the perfect chance to slice it in two, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. So I buried the machete into the ground next to it, needing to release the tension in my body, and the mole popped right back into his hole, disappearing from sight.

    What a coincidence it was then, after growing tired of killing bugs and fish, that my father killed my brother in front of us all. It had been the perfect opportunity for me. Like the stars had aligned, and the goddess of death was answering my call. 'Here's your next victim', she must've said, shining a light on the man.

    And I took the opportunity without hesitation.

    Now, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Almost 20 years had passed, and I still couldn't get it out of my head. I hadn't killed anything since that day. Not a soul, not a bug, nothing.

    Because the only thing I wanted to kill was another human being.

    Nothing else would satisfy me like the feeling I'd had.

    Nothing at all.