by Gord Rollo
Simon chewed nervously on his thumbnail as an inner turmoil raged within him. He could acknowledge to himself that deep down he had the desire to kill someone but the real question was whether or not he had the guts for it. Wanting to kill was a whole different ball game than actually going out and really doing it.
One thing was for sure; Simon was sick and tired of being a coward. He’d been pushed and shoved and backed into more corners in his life than he cared to remember. It was time to stop being scared all the time. After all, wasn’t that exactly what this last day of fulfilling regrets was supposed to be about? One last day to live on the edge and do whatever it was that he wanted to.
…And Simon really wanted to murder the filthy slut!
He had the straight razor out of his supply bag and into his hand before he could recall making the conscious decision to do so. Staring at the shiny thin blade, Simon was shocked that it had even been in with the rest of his supplies. He couldn’t remember packing it this morning but was nonetheless glad that he had. It felt good in his hand. Better than good – great! This was the same razor he was going to end his own life with later on tonight; it only seemed fitting to give it a little warm up session – a taste of things to come, so to speak.
Murdering Darla, or whatever her real name was, turned out to be far easier than Simon had believed possible. He simply pushed his doubting conscious aside, confidently stepped into the bathroom, and slit her throat ear to ear from behind as she was toweling off. Several thick arcs of crimson splattered the cheap plastic shower curtain and a virtual river of gore rained down onto the cracked tile floor, but with Darla facing away from him hardly a single drop spilled onto Simon. The woman dropped to the floor at his feet, her body reflexively convulsing, looking quite a bit like she was still trying to dry off, her body not yet aware she was already dead. A few gurgling squeaks and frothy red bubbles continued to burst out of her throat wound but in less than thirty seconds she lay perfectly still.
Even in death, Simon thought her eyes were still very beautiful.
My god, I’ve actually done it, Simon thought. I’ve killed her!
After updating his list and getting dressed, Simon watched a little television while wrestling with the torrent of conflicting emotions that were racing through his mind. He felt nauseous and ashamed that he’d robbed a human being of their life but on the other hand he also felt powerful and elated that he’d finally found the guts to follow through with something. He finally decided the positive feelings outweighed the negative. Besides, he didn’t have to worry about a guilty conscience haunting him – he wasn’t going to live long enough for that.
Thinking about how much time he had left made him curious what time it was. When Simon checked his watch he was stunned to learn it was 11:09 p.m. already. “My god!” he cried in panic, having had no idea it was getting so late. “I have to be home by midnight. I have to!”
This had been by far the best day of Simon Taylor’s life and he wanted it to be perfect right to the end, exactly as he’d planned. The list was very important to him. It wasn’t just a scrap of paper anymore; it had taken on more and more of a spiritual quality as the day had progressed. The thought of not completing the last item in time was something Simon didn’t even want to consider. It was completely unacceptable.
“Please let me make it home in time,” Simon shouted to the heavens as he raced across the hotel parking lot to jump in his rented car. “Don’t let me screw this up. Not this time… not tonight!”
He gunned the Mustang’s engine for all it was worth, laying twin tracks of black rubber all the way to the first corner. His apartment was clear across the city and even though traffic was lighter than usual at this time of night and he was driving a powerful sports car, he wasn’t sure if he could make it in time. It was going to be close; that was for sure.
Simon drove like a man possessed for the next thirty-five minutes, running red lights and swerving around slower cars and trucks whenever he came across them. He ditched the care about a block and a half from his apartment, spotting a parking spot and grabbing it just in case there was nowhere to park on his own block. It was quicker to run than to try and double back. And run he did, literally sprinting for his front steps, moving as fast as his fat, out of shape body could go. When he finally burst into his apartment he was gasping for breath and sweating like a pig. He nearly tripped over the pile of unread mail and newspapers on the floor but somehow managed to stay on his feet. The hands on the large pendulum clock on the living room wall pointed to 11:56.
There might still be enough time.
Renewed hope surged through him, giving his exhausted body the energy to carry on. Simon ran for the bathroom, tossing articles of clothing all over the place in his haste to get undressed. He turned on both water taps full blast and finished removing the rest of his clothes. He had to return to the living room to dig his straight razor out of his supply pack that he’d dropped by the door. He paused an extra few seconds to look once more at his beloved list, which had brought him such unexpected happiness today. The only item not crossed off yet glared at him from the bottom of the page.
** COMMIT SUICIDE **
“I’m going to make it!” Simon grinned, then sprinted for the filling tub.
The bathtub was a bit cooler than he’d hoped and wasn’t completely full yet but it was going to have to do. With his razor gripped tightly in his left hand, he used his right to shut off the taps, then started to climb into the tub. Behind him, back out in the living room, the pendulum clock began to rhythmically chime twelve times, signaling the arrival of midnight. Simon’s body went as rigid as a stone. Every chime made him cringe, the sound battering into his brain like a merciless physical blow. Even after the clock went silent, Simon couldn’t move a muscle; could barely even breathe. He couldn’t believe it. He’d failed! Midnight had come, ending the day, and he still hadn’t completed the items on his list. He’d simply ran out of time.
“Noooooo…!” he screamed, finally collapsing in a heap to the bathroom floor.
Simon lay face down on the tile floor for at least twenty minutes, having neither the strength nor the inclination to get back up. Eventually, he struggled to a sitting position and rested his forehead on the cool rim of the porcelain toilet bowl, feeling utterly dejected.
“I can’t believe it. I’ve ruined everything. All my carefully laid out plans… my wonderful list… all ruined.”
Tears of shame began to stream down his flushed face and dribble down onto his bloated belly. He tried twice to lift the straight razor to his wrist and end his suffering but he just couldn’t do it. Not like this anyway. His suicide was supposed to be the highlight of his day, his crowning achievement to reward himself for completing his list of regrets. His death tonight was going to be a celebration, but now there was nothing to celebrate. Once again Simon had royally screwed up. What else was new? It was just another typical night in his rotten miserable life.
Disgusted with himself and his endless weaknesses, Simon stood up and put his still open straight razor onto the little glass shelf screwed to the wall above his toilet. He was too ashamed to even look at it. Simon let the water out of the tub and stumbled out of the bathroom back to his bed. He was still crying as he crawled into the sack and pulled the dirty covers up to his chin.
“Man, I’m such a loser,” he scolded himself. “I can’t even manage to commit suicide properly. Oh well… maybe tomorrow things will be better. You never know. I can always hope, I guess.”
In less than two minutes Simon was fast asleep.
***
The alarm clock went off like a neutron bomb, ruthlessly assaulting the sleeping man’s nerves, jump starting him instantly awake. It wasn’t exactly good for the old ticker and definitely a bad way to start the day.
Simon Taylor rose out of bed only to fall into a deep black pit of depression upon opening his eyes. His first thought wasn’t a happy one.
I need to kill myself today. I can’t take thi
s anymore. Everything’s the same… nothing has changed. Same old crappy bedroom in the same old crappy apartment.
He scanned the room for a few minutes, then jumped out of bed to gaze at himself in the antique standup dressing mirror. From there Simon headed for the bathroom and ran himself a nice hot bubble bath and got out his straight razor. He lay in the tub thinking about regrets for a while, and then instead of slitting his wrists he jumped back out of the tub and ran back out to his desk to get a pad of paper and a red pen.
“I’ll make a list,” he muttered to himself. “A list of all the things I want to do today. Doesn’t have to be earth-shattering things…just a bunch of stuff that I’ve always wanted to try.”
By 9:25 a.m., time-scheduled list and bag of supplies in hand, Simon was out the front door and on his way. Once again he hadn’t bothered to glance at the pile of mail and newspapers lying in a heap by the apartment door. The newest edition to the ever-growing pile had been slid underneath his front door while he’d been lying in the bathtub earlier. In large bold lettering at the top of the front page, the headline on this morning’s early edition of the Times read:
RAZOR KILLER STRIKES AGAIN – SIXTH NIGHT IN A ROW
STORY NOTES
Ah yes. Deadlines! You gotta love them. Whether it’s someone else trying to impose their will upon us or as in Simon’s case in this story, self-imposed, Deadlines are a pretty stressful part of all our lives. Sometimes working to a deadline can be a good thing. I know as a writer, I tend to not get my butt in gear and really get down to work until the clock is ticking. It’s human nature to procrastinate, I think, and you can sometimes use that ticking clock to motivate you in a positive way. That said, the stress of a deadline hanging over your head isn’t always a fun thing to deal with. The anxiety is very real and it can sometimes push people past their limits and things don’t turn out pretty.
The Suicide Man is an old, old story of mine. So old, in fact, that I didn’t even have an electronic copy of it so I had to retype it all in from an anthology I found down in the basement called BUMP IN THE NIGHT. It was a hand-stapled, 40 page booklet published by a company called Black Petals but there isn’t a publication date printed for the anthology inside or out. To be honest, I can’t tell you exactly when I wrote it either but it must have been in the early 1990s. Maybe even a touch before that because it was back before there was photo identification on everything. In the story, Simon rents a sports car using a credit card from the wallet he steals on the bus. In my original tale, I had him using the driver’s license and credit card from the wallet but had to drop the license off in this version because nowadays he’d never be able to use someone else’s ID that easily. I left it just with the credit card and hoped you wouldn’t notice – ha!
Anyway, the story still holds up fairly decently after all these years and I wanted it included in this collection because it was my very first published story that appeared in a print magazine. It was my first paying gig too, and if my memory isn’t too damaged I believe I was paid the grand sum of $10.00 for it. Trouble was, I think I ordered four or five copies of the anthology at ten bucks a pop too, so I’m sure I lost money on the deal but what the hell. Writers are used to that sort of thing, and at least it meant me still having a couple of copies lying around today so that I could share an early story of mine with you. That’s worth more than the thirty or forty bucks that I lost.
To me anyway…
BENEATH A TEMPLAR CROSS
There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant,
are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take,
they’re necessary to reach the places we’ve chosen to go.
– Richard Bach, The Bridge Across Forever
June 17, 1870,
Wittem Castle,
Maastricht, Netherlands.
Underwater, the blood looks black. Dark stains polluting the already murky tank, dispersing slowly down through the gloom. Coagulating tendrils sink in ribbons, dead fingers reaching for the unmoving body chained to the bottom six feet below.
“How long has he been down there, sir?”
The voice startles Arthur De Muur, focusing on the cupful of elk’s blood he’s just poured into the tank. He hasn’t heard Hendrik, his tall, rake thin young assistant, enter the laboratory. Unfazed, De Muur runs fingers through his wide shock of hair, his thick black mane already sprinkled with a smattering of white despite having only recently turned thirty-two years of age.
“Good. You’re back just in time. Coming up on two hours, now. A few minutes shy.”
“Two hours! Are you serious? Well, of course he’s dead by now. Surely!”
A smile touches the corner of De Muur’s mouth, but there is no humor in it. Obsession, yes, a touch of madness, perhaps, but absolutely no mirth.
“Is he now? The blood, Hendrik. Watch and learn.”
The first twitch of the submerged body makes the young man jump and he struggles to regain his composure. He backs away from the tank as the body starts to thrash violently in its would-be watery grave, stretching and straining against the silver chains that securely bind it. De Muur leans in for a closer look. Having expected this reaction, he is calm, far more awed by this inhuman display than fearful. It’s the scientist in him.
Hendrik is clearly terrified.
“This is Devil’s work. It’s impossible!”
“Yes… quite, but I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Sir?”
“They can’t be drowned. He was just lying on the bottom, biding his time trying to fool us. Fascinating!”
The blood in the water stirs the body into a convulsive frenzy for several minutes, its hunger so great it is willing to shred the skin of its wrists and ankles in its desperate struggle to escape, to feed. The chains hold, though, something about the purity of silver robbing the body of its incredible strength more so than the lack of oxygen has. The submerged body eventually bows to reason and settles back into stillness on the stone bottom of the tank.
“What now, Sir?”
Hendrik has found the courage to stand close to his employer again, but still won’t approach the tank.
“What else? Drain the tank and try again. Go gather some firewood, lad. Lots of it.”
January 03, 1869,
Letter, Arthur De Muur to Sir Duncan Fenton,
High Commander of the Order of Knights Templar.
Greetings, Duncan.
I trust and pray this letter finds you in good health. Another month has gone by and a new year has begun. I’m happy to report I’m feeling much better. Like a whole knew man, in fact. I’m studying hard during my stay here at the abbey – science, anatomy, mathematics, politics, philosophy, and yes, the good book, as you so rightly recommended. It has been three full years now since my unfortunate breakdown, and with your friendship, guidance and kindness, I’ve seen the folly of my earlier convictions. The preservation and secrecy of the Brotherhood is all that matters to me now and I look forward to the day, with your authority and great wisdom, that I can retake up arms and wear my Templar’s cloak with honor once again.
Your servant, and friend,
Arthur
May 12, 1869,
Office of Sir Duncan Fenton,
Rosslyn Chapel, Scotland.
Commander Fenton sets De Muur’s letter down on his desk when he hears a quiet knock on his office door. Fenton is a Scotsman by birth, but has spent most of his adult life in France and Belgium, earning his knighthood for a lifetime of foreign diplomacy, representing the crown throughout Europe. Duncan peers at the door for a moment, as if he might be able to see through the sturdy mahogany and discern who stands outside. He takes an educated guess.
“Ferguson?”
“Yes, sir. You asked to see me?”
“Come in William… come in.”
William Ferguson is a tall, stocky Englishman with fiery red hair and matching beard. He proudly wears the
white mantle of the Templars emblazoned with the red cross over his heart, a uniform still recognizable to all who see it. But unfortunately, due to the greed and stupidity of King Philip IV of France who disbanded and arrested the Order of Knights Templar back in 1307, forcing them into hiding throughout Europe, must now only be worn in secrecy and shadow. William, Sir Duncan’s second in command here at Rosslyn, is confident that will not always be the case.
Fenton waits until the burly redhead is seated, then pushes De Muur’s letter across the desk.
“I take it you’ve had a chance to read this, yes?”
“Yes sir, at your request.”
“Well… what do you think?”
Ferguson unconsciously rubs his fingers through his thick beard, carefully considering his reply.
“I’m very happy Arthur is doing so well. You know I held him in the highest regard until…”
“As we all did, William,” Fenton cuts him off. “But the past is the past, and as you know, I’ve been considering De Muur’s request for reinstatement in the Order. I’d like your thoughts on that possibility.”
For such a large man, Ferguson is looking smaller by the minute, shrinking down into his chair, deflating, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation.
“May I speak frankly, Sir?”
“Of course. Speak your mind, William.”
“Very well… I’m against it. Arthur De Muur was a great Templar, perhaps the best I’ve ever known. Many people, yourself included I think, always assumed he would one day take your position as commander here. But then he… he changed, Duncan. I thought it was just a result of his wife’s illness that haunted him, but it was more than that. Much more. He scared the hell out of me when he started telling everyone about those… what did he call them again? Vaspires?”
“Vampires, William.”