Creepypasta Presents:
I Was Hired To Murder Myself
March 28, 2019
by Thamires Luppi
I have always enjoyed killing; and I blame it on my farm childhood.
Calling it a farm is a big stretch. I grew up in a shack on a rural area, having only my father and sister around. He never mistreated us, but he was stiff, and relentless on his beliefs. For him, there was no such thing as male or female; everyone under his roof was, by default, a hunter.
Back when we were really young, he would leave us home alone for hours and hours. He first took me hunting when I was 3. I never thought rabbits and squirrels were cute – they were always prey.
I first hunted a deer when I was 10. I was limber and had developed a strong body. Danna was never a huntress, but she was great at hiding. So she hid; at first, Dad was angry, but I hunted so well that I did more than enough for both of us. Besides, Danna was good enough to manage herself, catching smaller animals. She was outstanding at fishing with her own hands due to her quietness.
But she never enjoyed any of it.
Dad died when I was 13. He was caught by a bear, and kept screaming “shoot it! Shoot it, you fucking bitch!” I only had 2 bullets left, and I was too worried, so the first missed and the second wasn’t enough to take down the bear. Danna grabbed my hand and we ran like the wind.
I’m honestly not sad for my father’s last words to me. He was desperate and being eaten alive, after all. I forgave him in a heartbeat; who I never was able to forgive was myself, for failing Dad.
We were taken to a foster family after that. Danna soon adapted to having a normal life, and she clearly was held dear by the couple. I am grateful to them for having a comfy bed and finally learning how to write and read, but I kept to myself at home. I missed killing things.
I went hunting alone every day. The first time, my family was impressed by my ability. The second time, my foster mother muffle-cried a “the poor ducky”. The third, my foster father begged me to give what I hunted to someone else.
I started selling it. I made some nice cash, and gave everything to my sister’s college fund. She was smart and needed the money after all. I just needed to smell the delicious bitterness of fresh blood.
By the time I was 18, I married the sweetest man. It was crazy how we balanced each other’s personality, him being always so calm and gleeful. Thom was 15 years older than me and a merchant, selling a myriad of things in our small town. He sometimes sold parts of my hunting; the meat, the fur, the heads as prizes.
We were happy. We lived 5 great years until he was shot in a robbery.
From that moment on, a burning rage lived inside of me. The eagerness to kill took over. I didn’t know how to manage a shop, so I asked my husband’s brother Stu to take his place in management; but Stu was a drunken and a buffoon, and soon the shop bankrupted. I was left with nothing.
When I learned about… certain shady parts of the internet, I finally realized I could sell my services and satiate my ever-growing bloodlust.
I’m famous now – I mean, my work name is. Nobody knows my face, nobody knows I’m even a woman. My body is small and strong, perfect for sneaking in. I look trustworthy enough for my prey to take me to dinner. Sometimes it’s too easy.
I have built a name between politicians, and rich cheated wives love me. Of course, my clients are not always from the highest social standings, and they try to bargain a lot. It’s not unusual that some broken-ass guy asks me to murder his rich father/uncle and get paid after I do the job, when he gets his inheritance. I just laugh at their faces and tell them to fuck off before I murder them instead.
Until the day my intuition – no, my instincts – told me to keep talking to the guy after he told me his conditions of payment.
“I will inherit some money” he wrote “but the thing is, I used to have a brother. He’s dead now. No kids. But I talked to my attorney and he told me his widow will get half of my money. So I want to eliminate her”.
“Sure, just send me her info” I replied, for the first time. Because I knew this story. I didn’t want to be paranoid and think it was me; I just felt sorry for the poor woman and maybe would fuck up with the guy.
But it was me. My brother-in-law, who was constantly helped by me and my husband after losing everything in gambling over and over, who ruined our store and I never said a thing, wanted to kill me. No, worse than that, he wanted to hire someone else to kill me, because his coward ass couldn’t even do it.
I took the job. The next day, I went to see my sister Danna, and asked her something no twin sister should ask the other – can you die in my place?
* * * * * *
When I take a job, I will finish it, no matter what it takes. So I sent my client a picture of my dead victim, my sister. I was famous for this modus operandi.
As I said, Danna ain’t a huntress. She’s a great hider. So, after I forged her death and gave Stu a false sense of safeness, he found my sister, characterized as me, at his dirty apartment.
“D-D-Dora, what are you doing here?” he was stuttering and sweating.
“Just came by to talk a little about the inheritance we’re about to get”, my sister calmly said, perfectly mimicking my voice and intonation.
Stu never knew I had a sister because she lived far away during her graduation. Both me and my husband always kept to ourselves and never had a wedding party, so our families didn’t know each other very well.
“Inheritance? I don’t know what you’re talking about” he made a poor attempt at lying.
“Why don’t you ask the hitman you hired, Stu?” she asked, as I came from behind him, wearing the exact same clothes as her. I gotta admit it was so much fun to stage this.
When he turned to look at me, Stu was pale, and I’m pretty sure he pissed himself.
“W-w-what is going on? What kind of joke is this?”
That’s all he could say before I gagged him.
“It’s your fault that my husband was shot, isn’t it?” I stabbed him once. I knew very well how to lethally stab someone only once, making a cleaner death, but it wouldn’t happen this time. “You fucking deadbeat. Your damn loan sharks broke in the store and killed him. You let the store go bankrupt because you were fucking terrified of staying there”.
He shook his head desperately, trying to deny it, but his eyes told the truth. I never fully realized it until that instant. It was a moment of clarity and I hated his guts even more.
Both me and my sister did what we were best at. She hid, not wanting to see the bloodbath I was about to cause, and I stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.
When the body was found, the police immediately arrested Stu’s loan shark. They were investigating him for a long time and just needed one more move to make theirs. They confirmed my suspicious about the loan shark killing my husband.
I noticed that, with the closure, my bloodlust diminished. I still go hunting most weekends, but I’m done with killing people. Nothing can bring Thom back, but I can move forward, learn new things, work with something else. I still have a lot to live.
So let me give you an advice: if you’re thinking about hiring a hitman, don’t. The best one went out of business.
