Child Murder (2) Carmen was a little boy of no more than ten years old when I abducted him from his parents’ car on June thirteenth. I suckered him into my car with a few sticks of chewing gum. Once he was within my grasp in the back seat of my car, I injected some chloroform into his veins using an injection needle I stole while visiting with my doctor. Carmen was soon fast asleep. As to add to my enjoyment, I even stayed a while and waited for the parents of little Carmen to return and look for their frantic child. It was beautiful. The tears as they flowed from Mrs. Willis’ eyes were magical to say the least. I wanted more. I needed more. Not totally receiving the thrill I so longed for, I offered my services to the distraught couple. I aided for several moments until my thirst for the boy became too wild. I had to leave. He would have awakened soon anyway and I hadn’t had time to lose. I know you are wondering why I am telling you this story. I tell it to you only because I envisioned that little boy is you. You were, in my dementia, that little helpless boy. Would you like to know what I did next? I hope you can stomach it. Carmen was an unusual boy. He had perfect toes. The most perfect toes I believe I had ever seen on another person before. I know that I just had to have those toes. I went into the kitchen and sharpened my knives. I didn’t have a butcher’s knife so I sharpened a steak knife. It was old but reliable. I got it so that it cut a thin piece of hair as it glided through the air. I went over to my tortured carcass and as he pleaded for his life, I began to cut away at his tiny toes. His screams only aroused me more and I cut with ease the remaining nine toes from his milky white feet. I’ll spare you the rest of the sordid details of my maniacal mind but there are others that I must address right now. You are just one in a list of many that I will not miss whilst I am gone. You are just one in that very long line of many that I wish was in my place. Surely I will add to this world a lot more than you Henry. You are weak, I am strong. Don’t be surprised if I make it through the electricity. And just in case I don’t, expect to see me haunting you for the rest of your life from the grave. My hatred for you will outlast the test of time. Susie I never understood why a smart and sexy Irish woman even bothered to marry that Italian loser. What could he have to offer you aside from daily “hits” and illegal blackjack games. He isn’t worthy of you. Your last name sounds like it is affiliated with a number here at sing sing rather than a respectable human being who has helped society in any way. How could you not fear for your life being married to that mobster mad-dog? How will your children turn out? They’d be misguided in their beliefs. Italians are Catholic, we are Protestant. There is no middle ground here Susie. You have to choose your family or that oil slicked mechanic. I am very ashamed that you are involved with him. I forbid it and order you to end your courtship at once. If not, than consider yourself disowned. I will come back in the after life and punish you if I have to in order to get you to see my point. This is all I have to say to you. Before I end this letter to you, I must admit. When I heard that you were marrying an Italian, I wanted to have a hot poker injected into your vagina with extreme force for you to feel the pain I felt when I heard that you and that over grown pasta shell were married. End it now or I shall “later.” James James Albert Marshal, you are ashamed of me as I am of you. You are a weak link and will never be nothing more. I wish on you the worse of tragedies. I hope that you suffer the worse pain that any living being can imagine. It will truly be a pleasure for me to hear that you are in the hospital suffering from first degree burns all over your body due to an unfortunate acid accident. I’d be sure that you are first in line when I return from where ever it is I’ll be to haunt you for all eternity. I have very little words for you dear James. Indeed you will perish in the dead light after I am done with you. May you never know rest. Frankie There are days where I miss you and there are days that I wish you weren’t the prudish snob that you so often appear to be. You were the worst cook I had ever had the misfortune of teaching the fine art of wine making to. I am truly sorry that you have amounted to nothing in your life but I cannot say that I am shocked that are you just a lonely shoe repair man instead of the great American chef that you so desired. You were never strong willed enough to set out a goal and actually achieve them. That was your weak spot, Frankie. You are a loser with the moral being of a fruit cake. At least a fruit cake does the job it’s supposed to which is the very least that anyone can say about you. I have heard some good things about you though. I hear that you were involved in a robbery that went horribly wrong and you were shot in the leg. How unfortunate. Am I correct in now assuming that you have a peg leg? That will give me a great thrill. Knowing that you are—along side all your other ailments are now a gimp. How sweet that will be. Frankie, do you recall a trip I took back when I was living at 425 Livingston St. in Brooklyn? The trip that had me explore many aborigines’ countries around the world? Well there was no such trip dear brother. Yes I was out of town, but I was in Boston with your late wife Barbara. She and I had planned this trip for several weeks. It was fined toothed down to the defined details as what we’ll be wearing. We continued our love affair well after that weekend out of town. Our next affair was on October 19th, just three days after your wedding anniversary. We met inside a near packing place on Mullins Avenue and Dessey Street. Inside the warehouse was a little office that occupied an old friend of mine named Herbert Linden. Herbert was an assistant in charge of production at the meat packing plant. Earlier that morning, I asked Herbert if a “friend” and I could occupy his office in on that night to discuss some very important business. He eagerly agreed. He left me a key under a mat in front of his door and only asked that we not stay very late because there was a night watchman who might be curious enough to disturb us while in our intense moment of passion. What took place that night was hours of the most passionate sex I had ever had as an adult. Surely she has never felt love like mine from you Frankie. Shortly after our rendezvous, we went for a sandwich at the all night deli across from the plant and etched out a story to tell you should you be so bold as to ask about her whereabouts. We settled on telling you that the cars’ muffler was shot and had to be towed. To further make the story believable, we had a friend of mine tow the car to Nelson’s Tow Away near Mulligan Avenue after dropping us off. You fell for everything hook, line and sinker. It was as easy as taking candy from a shackled baby. You were great comic relief Frankie and it is for that reason that I will be totally in debited to you for all eternity, no matter where I’ll be, with love, Thurman. Martha Crane To the former Mrs. Marshal, this will be by far the harshest letter I have ever written in my life. My hatred for you transcends the hate anyone has ever had for anyone else ever in history of detestation. You walked out on the family when we needed you the most. You are more than fifty percent of the blame for me being in the cell right now. You left your family to elope in France with your sissy boy French lover. I tried Martha. I tried my best to forgive your sinful ways. I wanted to take you back into out home again. I wanted to love you again but I couldn’t. God couldn’t let me love the person who left me all alone. I could not feel for you the way I used to and that is why I have condemned you to a life that you deserve. You are nothing more than a cunt. I have influenced my children so much so that they do not recognize you at all. You see dearest Martha, many decades ago I sent the children to a doctor. He’s a head doctor that was an acquaintance of mine through a friend from work. He lost his license the year prior for prescribing medication that was not authorized by the government. That had no influence on my decision to hire him. All I had in mind was the children and getting them to hate you almost as much as I do. He sat down with each of the children and had thirty to forty-five minute sessions with them and brainwashed them into coming to the reality that you never loved them and left us because of them. The sessions all together cost me a small fortune but the outcome was well worth it. For a little under fifty thousand dollars, I was able to get my children to think that you were even dead after a few years. That still makes me smile. Well Martha, I have very little to say to you only because my hatred for you prevents me from saying anything worth while to you. The more I write the angrier I become because I know that our roles should be reversed or you should be dead. Just remember that your misery is my happiness. Even in the cell to hell I have joy knowing that you are as miserable with the Frenchman as I am in here and that, my dear, makes the remaining moments of my life just a little bit sweeter. Grandchildren My dearest grandchildren, I know that you are all very young and that it is hard to understand why grandpa cannot come and visit you anymore. Nothing would thrill me more than to bring you children some sweets and bounce you off my lap. I truly miss those moments I had with you kids. You mean the world to me and always will. I want you to know that when you grow up, you will read and hear some awful things about grandpa. I hope that you will be wise enough to draw your own conclusion and know that the monster that they speak of is the same loveable man that you love. That the monster they speak of is the same man who read you bedtime stories and tucked you in at night. I hope you know that the man they are portraying is the direct result of a horrible childhood and a bitch for a wife. Dearest grandchildren I want you to know that we are a family unit and as a result we have to stick together. You are bright children with a future that will lead you to greater things. I know you will get out of this small town with small minds and make your lives worth while. I don’t want you to ever learn of the final years of my life or the horrible things that I have done to people because of my ex wife but since I know that that may never happen, I must make one request. I must ask that you children, know matter what you hear about me always love me and remember me the way you do. Because no matter what torment I have inflicted onto others, I was always sweet to you. You children are my legacy and I love you all. Live on, be free and always remember that grandpa loves you. Open Letter This letter would be short and sweet. I know that I have done you a grace injustice and that I should be punished for my deeds, however I must stress that I am deeply disturbed and that what I have done is not at all my fault. As a child I was plagued with beatings from my parents and bullies. I was born and bred to be a psychopath and I took out my frustrations as a child on children as an adult. I was wrong for what I’ve done but I should not be placed in jail for the rest of my life and I certainly believe that I should not be put to death. I think the world would benefit me more if I was to be taken to a mental hospital and studied to prevent more mistakes like me. As the entire world knows I have been institutionalized three different occasions. In total, I have been studied by twenty psychologists and many mental experts and they all certified me as sane. It is painfully obvious that I am not sane. They went wrong someplace. They obviously overlooked something. The researching of my brain can lead to many medical breakthroughs. There were signs that the doctors were overlooking. If I was able to fool them into thinking that I am a sane person, who’s to say that there wouldn’t be another man just like me in the future. Although I know that I will never have your mercy, I plead for your forgiveness. If I truly must be punished for what I have done, I would suffer more if I were to spend the rest of my natural life in sing sing rather than dead. Just for consideration. I also want you to know that no harm have come to any of my victims. I did nothing to their bodies after they were dead. Only a few I chose to eat only because they were meaty. Cannibalism isn’t very bad after all. Final Interlude Five weeks after his letters, Thurman was executed. As the electricity surged through his frail body, Thurman was said by bystanders to have stuck his middle finger up at the onlookers. Though none of the ten people that were witnesses have confirmed the last slap in the face, they have shown a great sigh of relief when the doctor in hand confirmed that Thurman Marshal was dead. He was buried in a plot that his children paid for near one of the victims that were murdered and eaten by Thurman. The family was so disturbed by their daughter being buried in the same cemetery that their murderer was in that they hired an attorney, Donald Fishbine. Donald immediately went to the courts to try and have Thurman’s body exhumed and placed in another grave preferably out of the town. The wish was denied and Thurman was allowed to have his final resting place near one of his victims. The victim was nine year old Shirley Angelou. She was lured away by Thurman from a neighborhood playground and killed in the woods. He then chopped off her fingers and toes and baked them into a stew he was preparing. Shirley was in plot 17b in row four, Thurman, on the other hand, was in plot 12a in row three. So it would be a real struggle for the family to visit their daughter without seeing the tombstone of Thurman that read “Beloved father and darling grandpa.” Thurman would not rest in peace for long though. Months after the novelty of having a known serial pedophile killer in the cemetery wore down; a group of unhappy men dug up and burned the corpse of Thurman Marshal in the middle of the town square. By morning the already decomposing body of Thurman Marshal was nothing more than ash. And his tombstone was defaced then demolished by the angry mob. Eventually the plot was filled with another corpse and the town rested peacefully.
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Copyright © 2003 Skyler Drevan |