Silvia Garcia is a nobody.
Nothing more than a breadcrumb on a picnic table.
It isn't exactly out of the ordinary for somebody to find mainstream attention through heinous means. In-fact, it's something that happens a lot.
Ask around, and it'll be found most people can name more serial-killers than high-ranking doctors. Countless people have left their mark in the history book through murder, and while that may say a lot about society, it has to at least say something about her as well. How is she one of them? What makes her so special she would make it on headline newspapers and on the front-page, no less? She doesn't wear her victim's skin or run around while toting a chainsaw. She not only killed somebody that was neither famous nor wealthy, but she did it without the slightest of pzazz.
I haven't seen her on the news and I have not heard of her anywhere else. What is the reasoning for her being on the front-page of a newspaper?
There are times where I feel dumbfounded for what will happen next. This isn't one of those moments, because I know I am going to find her. I don't need perspicacious judgment to see how difficult this is going to be. I came home feeling like a little boy that just went to the store and came back with a fun new toy. I waved hello to James, who still hasn't really awoke from his sleep. After that though, I sneaked into his bedroom, which wasn't really a difficult thing to do at all, I didn't really even sneak. He had a laptop. I did not.
I turn it on and wait for it to boot up.
James' desktop is a picture of him and some girl that I don't recognize. It says “Kate + James” forever in the bottom right-hand corner. That's weird. Never met her. I clicked on the Internet Explorer tab, but after waiting for five minutes without it loading up, I click on Mozilla Firefox instead. Loads up fast. The first place I go perusing for information is across a series of web-pages on a search engine. It takes me less than minutes before I exhaust every article's usefulness. There just isn't a whole lot of information on it. The pages don't feel altered or tampered with, but instead, they feel nonexistent. I scroll down on one of the websites and come across thousands of negative comments pointed in the direction of both the judge and Silvia Garcia. Blithering pig! Murderer!
One of the more colorfully written comments held signs of contemplation on whether or not to find and kill Silvia Garcia. To kill or not to kill, that is the question. Aside from several amusing suggestions given as to where the judge should shove an elephant's tusk, there isn't much in the way of information except for snippets of evidence reminding what she has done. As I continue to go from one article to the other, something becomes adamantly clear.
All of these, or at least a preponderance have been published by a journalist named Logan Norms. I find my way onto his profile-page for the newspaper's website, and skim through. There isn't anything earth-shattering. The basic stuff; a rundown of some of his accolades and a plug for the blog on his website he writes on. I find my interest aroused and click on the link.
The page stays a blank white for a couple of seconds as it loads until the website shows. I take a gander at the page and find the appearance to be very unconventional. It doesn't carry the bland and tired professionalism anticipated from a journalist's website. The colors are wide-spread and uncontrolled, blots of purple in the background distracted only by the scribbling.
The letters are written in white, contrasting the bright-colors, and allowing them to be read clearly. Assisting the matter, a transparent box surrounding the texts acts as the foreground, providing a dark tint over the background. I look around the jotted writing until taking sight of his daily posts over the last couple of months. I soon find myself realizing that all of the posts are entirely dedicated to the trials.
An oppressive amount of the writings are geared toward specifying all the meaningful evidence in-favor that Olivia Garcia is guilty. The posts didn't come out leaning in one direction more than the other and were legitimately just spewing facts that had been specified in his publications from newspapers.
I could see the reality that if there is somebody that knows where Silvia Garcia resides, the man is Logan Norms.
I come to a screeching halt after those words slithered through my mind. Why am I sure that this man knew where I could find Silvia Garcia?
Wishful thinking, but there is something more to it than that, intuitiveness?
The question of whether Logan Norms knew where Garcia resides feels already answered. It is as if a cricket in a top-hat rests on my shoulders, whispering the fact over and over again. Silvia Garcia's location is currently intangible, but Logan Norms has made himself easy to find. It is simple; I am going to force Logan Norms to tell me Silvia Garcia's location, and then I am going to kill her.
I arise to my feet shortly after an understanding of the fact is reached before departing and setting my sights on Norms. The majority of my ensemble rests, snug in my backpack, but all my weaponry, minus the switch-blade, isn't going to be joining me. I have no intentions of fatally wounding Logan Norms as long as he gives the information I want. I wave farewell to James. To him, I am heading back to the factory, but I might be gone longer than before.
* * *
The hours seem to have elapsed fast, because the sky was already darkened.
Time flies when you're having fun. I haven't orchestrated much in the way of a plan, but something about the agenda seems out of the norm. I like to think through my career, I have killed some of the most gruesome and enigmatic individuals to coat this blue and green spherical realm. My first kill was taking the life of Alfonso Alvarez, and my most recent kill took the life of a brutal mugger.
All of these slaughters, for the greater good, letting the snake come out of his hole, letting the addict continue his addiction, and letting the murderer continue doing what he does. Many of these kills have left me feeling … nothing. Not providing thirst-quenching satisfaction, but instead making me feel a bunch of oxymora.
They make me feel full and yet malnourished, happy yet sad, calm but frustrated, a feeling only understandable where the silence whistles, and the quiet riot.
There isn't an articulate way of describing how what I do makes me feel. I feel a little bit of everything, but yet, all of nothing.
I stand looking out from the rooftops, I clutch my staffs tightly, Ivan Black was near. The wind blew my cape, Ivan Black was somebody I felt obligated to kill. Not merely for the benefit it provided me, but for the benefit it will provide the world. Ivan had grown to prominence and created an illusion of himself through his various methods of slaughter.
He had struck fear into the hearts of civilians by dismembering his prey and resorting to acts of cannibalism. I could view past his facade, and I didn't see a coldblooded psychopath. I saw somebody that simply wanted a challenge, somebody like me. Our indecencies similar in the sense we were both hungry for prey, but in a different manner of speaking, of course. The newest killer of the month, the most recent pandemic to sweep the nation, was Ivan Black.
He understood the importance of presentation, he killed with pzazz. The first kill of his that came to strong recognition clearly wasn't his first ever. Black had killed before, perhaps experimented multiple times prior to pulling the trigger on his most glorious. Ivan managed to drag a lifeless corpse onto a road, circling it with glass vials filled with blood. He positioned the body, making the scene resemble an emblem of peace.
Spray-painted on the ground were proclamations of being the provider of harmony and tranquility, a blackened provocation for illumination. He did all of this while everybody else was counting sheep and he did it discreetly.
It was with little surprise a panic ensued from the masses on their way to work as they witnessed the result of his ritual.
I assume their faces were hysterical.
Black's kills grew more convoluted and more elaborate on the message he desired to send.
He thought nobody could catch him. He was wrong. He had been convinced that his acts would go without action, and that people would continue twiddling their thumbs, wondering who'd be slain next. A single mistake made and it cost him dearly; a drop of blood.
One of his victims had more bite to him than assumed by Ivan and fought back. When the police arrived at the scene of the crime, they came across an individual's dismembered remains, but also came across blood left by Ivan. It was sloppy and it left him on the run with the cops on his tail. He disappointed the fuzz on one or two occasions, but I kept up with him. I sat patiently waiting for him to provide me a yellow brick-road to follow.
I was waiting for him to make a mistake, and he didn't disappoint me. A situation occurred that left him desperate, a situation occurred that he had to get out of quickly. For whatever reason, he stopped somebody as he was driving and shot him, leaving his corpse to rot on the road. Neither the police nor I connected the dots of it being Ivan Black that shot the gun, at least not immediately.
I hadn't thought of it to be anything more than a friendly neighborhood subtracting of life, but the car had been stolen. Nobody in their right mind would keep the car that belonged to the person they killed, but Ivan Black wasn't in his right mind.
I found the car and that was when I saw Ivan Black for the first time.
He had short black hair and looked like he had lost a significant amount of weight compared to the most recent pictures of him, but it was him, it was Ivan.
I didn't make any hasty decisions. I wasn't in an area isolated enough for a kill to discreetly happen.
Not like I am now.
I watched as Ivan Black parked the vehicle, trying to come off as inconspicuous as possible. A long pause before he departed the car. He looked around at his surroundings, paranoid. If only he knew he was really being watched.
Moments later, he walked forward to a nearby building. Before opening the door and entering, he turned and looked to make sure nobody was watching. I took a leap from one roof to another, less than mere feet away, getting closer and closer to the mass of composed metal with every gallop. Something about the edifice felt underwhelming. It wasn't small or hideous, but not really as glamorous as I had expected.
The framework certainly paled in comparison to the others, maybe that was by design? It was exceptionally regular, and had nothing distinctive about it. I found my way to the structure, after bringing myself back down to ground-level by skidding down the walls of one of the nearby buildings and scavenged for anything that would give me an idea about what was within.
I couldn't tell from far away, but the walls were actually made out of granite, something about the building felt helplessly unclean.
I wanted to take a moment and rejoice in the fact I was covered from head to toe, but I didn't. Instead, I took sight of a window not even halfway up the wall, peeking into the confines, which I took advantage of. There was a ledge in-front of the window for me to climb upon as I pulled myself up and looked onward.
What I saw was an assortment of bodies hanging by their necks. Big ones. Small ones. All shapes and sizes. All of them corpses. Dead. They weren't hung by nooses, but instead hung by a chain, wrapped around their necks were what appeared to be collars.
I continued scouting the region.
It wasn't a lively sight.
I finally locked onto my prey, Ivan Black.
He wasn't alone.
I gazed, mesmerized, as he dragged a bloodied man forward. There was so much blood. So much blood. It was everywhere!
It literally drenched the man. The man who showed absolutely no desires of complying with Ivan's wishes. Ivan wanted to stand him up for whatever reason. Black wasn't finished with the man and the ritual was only beginning.
The man still had fight in him, he wasn't merely going to accept this. Oh no, this man was going to go down kicking and screaming. Ivan continued his persistence until finally bringing his prey to his feet for only a moment, driving a boot to his already battered body. The man rolled down to his back and began to cough dryly, sending piles of blood out his mouth and down his cheek to the floor.
Ivan wasn't satisfied by the heaps of blood, or if he was, he didn't show it.
The stern look on his face, and his piercing brown eyes stared toward the helpless man. Nothing I could do. Either way the man was going to suffer, either bleed out or be killed sooner, I could only hope Ivan would make it quick. Ivan walked away from the man. He didn't show it, but I could tell he was enjoying himself. He liked that the man was going to put up a fight. He liked the man wasn't just going to accept his fate.
I know I would like it.
Ivan returned and pushed a large crate toward the man. Dirty and covered with grime. Ivan pulled the man to his feet, this time more aggressively than before, but the man showed no desires of obliging.
Sooner or later, the man had done it. The man pissed Ivan off, and just like that, Black drove a knee to his rib-cage. A ruthless aggression showing in Ivan. The man staggered but remained on his feet, he was shaking, and desperately trying to keep the tears from pouring down with the blood, but he was unsuccessful.
“You're going to do as you're told,” Ivan Black said coldly.
It was unclear whether or not comprehension was even able to be done by the man at this point, but he stared at Ivan. Suddenly, he did something that surprised me almost as much as it did Black.
He spit on him.
The man actually spit on him.
Ivan didn't getting angry, but instead carried a stoic stare upon himself.
“I've never been one for making exceptions,” Ivan Black informed as he dusted himself off with his hands and eased his disposition. “But now I've decided that it is unfair to leave you a family without a father. They'll be joining you soon enough.”
“No, God, no, please!” That woke the man up from his trance.
“From now on, you're going to do whatever it is that I say, and maybe, just maybe, I'll only break your daughter's legs.”
The remaining fight the man had within him had depleted itself from his system completely. Ivan Black had broken him. Ivan walked him over to the tall crate, and had the man climb on-top of it. Ivan pointed at a collar that was hanging from the ceiling by a chain, and smirked. The man didn't even look at him to see. He knew what to do. Knew what Ivan wanted.
“Put it on.”
The man wrapped the collar around his neck and looked down at the ground.
“Now, I want you to jump, but before you do that, I want for you to pray.”
The sobbing from the man had gotten even more blatant. I could hear him trying to muffle the screams but it was to no avail. The man tried to find the words but couldn't, his mouth was beginning to dry with blood.
He had been here awhile before this.
“God,” the man said desperately.
“I prefer Ivan,” Black interrupted calmly.
It was sickening to watch a man stripped of all his dignity, and to be consumed by fear. I felt compelled to leap down and kill Black at that moment, but I knew one way or another the man was going to die. He had clearly been tortured, but this was the end. An end to all of the suffering, and all the pain. I couldn't take it from him. I couldn't stop Ivan Black from killing this man off, and leave him to lay in a heap, continuing to suffer. Only to die later.
“Ivan,” the man continued.
Ivan Black kicked the crate out from under the man, sending it sliding forward and leaving the man hanging helplessly from the chain. The remaining life confined within him washed away in seconds.
“The lord has spoken,” Ivan whispered before following with a deadening laugh.
Ivan began circling his hanging victim.
He starts off by kidnapping an individual, then he tortures them, relieves them of all hope, and kills them. Afterward, he is left pondering where to dispatch of the body. What message he wants to send.
I looked on, bewildered, until finally deciding it was time. I crashed through the window and land on my feet, staring toward Ivan Black.
Ivan halted his pacing and looked up at me without showing any fear or intimidation. He didn't jump nor did he give any sign he was surprised.
“I've been waiting for you,” Ivan whispered.
* * *
I sit waiting. Calm. Patient. Collected while I wait for Logan Norms to share his presence. My cape flew freely in the breeze. It didn't alter my concentration. I devoted much of my time to finding the house that Logan chooses to reside, and now, I am just waiting for him to return to it. I sit. Fading in the darkness. Resting upon one of the ledges jutting from his house.
The dwelling is quite large, constructed in an Italianate style, with a low-pitched roof, and projected eaves supported by decorative cornice brackets. The house is made mostly out of brick and is decorated with a trio of arched windows. It is a nice house. Logan must make an exceptionally good amount of money as a journalist. What I find to be most intriguing regarding the house is its surroundings, there are trees happily poking through the ground around the house. A lot of them, in-fact. I can only barely see the neighboring houses beyond the trees.
The time finally comes when I take sight of the writer pulling into his driveway in a lime-green Lexus. Logan steps out of the vehicle. He is wearing a black suit and gray gloves. He wears a dark fedora with a hardly noticeable gray ribbon wrapped around it. There is something about him that strikes me as off the set path but I can't decipher what.
I watch as he closes his car-door by pressing a button on his key. Locking the doors. He continues walking before making it to the welcome-mat of his home and beginning to rifle through his pockets, more than likely searching for his house-key.
I emerge from the darkness and stand behind him. I turn him around and grab him by the throat until pushing him harshly against the front-door of his humble abode.
“I want for you to tell me about Silvia Garcia,” I ask, straight to the point.
* * *
Ivan Black and I locked eyes. It felt for a moment as if time had slowed, because the merest of seconds spent felt the equivalent of minutes. I clutched my staffs tightly before moving toward Ivan.
Ivan Black looked on with a peculiar stare in his eyes, one that I hadn't seen before, it wasn't fear, it wasn't intimidation, what was it?
I dashed onward and prepared for a presumptive strike, but it was not to be, and Ivan moved out of the way.
One of my staffs hit violently against a wall of the abode and I could feel my hands shaking for a moment. I turned and regained focus when I saw Ivan heading my way with a steel pipe in his hands. I thwarted his intentions of knocking my head off by fending off his pipe with my staff. My defensive maneuver kept me from being killed but Ivan propelled onward with a punch to my gut, knocking the wind out of me.
Imminently after, Ivan pushed me forward against the wall of the confines. He pushed the pipe against my throat with great pressure, using both his hands in the effort. I could feel the life begin to squirm out of me like air depleting from a balloon. I moved by staffs up and drove them softly to the back of Ivan. It was all that I could do, and it accomplished nothing. I dropped the staffs to the ground and began to grab aimlessly at the air.
I was fading.
I looked around in a disequilibrium, woozily gawking at the bodies hanging by their necks. They were tortured, drained of all hope, and broken.
I wouldn't be one of them. I couldn't be one of them!
I shoved Ivan away with all of my might. Ivan twirled before missing his steps and faltering to the floor, but it was only temporarily. It was within seconds Ivan found himself back on his feet and looking at me with even more frustration in his eyes.
He rotated forward before bringing the pipe in my direction, out of sheer desperation, I ducked beneath the assault. The pipe clung against the wall before ricocheting forward and being hurled a distance from Ivan's fingers. A loud ringing sound existed, coming from the pipe. Ivan spiraled back around, facing me only long enough for me to seize one of my staffs and drive it maddeningly to the side of his skull.
There was a clamorous and insistent sound as part of the staff shattered to pieces after connecting with his head. The completing sound for this transaction was a grunt of pain from Ivan. Black dropped to the floor, landing on his back as I returned to my feet. I was shaking, and trembling. I employed my sight once again at the bloody bodies hanging by chains from the ceiling.
I dropped to my knees.
* * *
“Look, I don't know anything about Silvia Garcia, o...okay?” Logan Norms utters, staggering with his words.
He is afraid.
“Pretending will simply make this last longer.”
“Okay, look, I've just wrote a couple articles about her, that's all, I swear.”
“A couple blogs, a couple articles, it seems I can't find one or the other from you without her mentioned.”
“What can I say!? I write what the people want to hear about and the people want to hear about Silvia's case.”
“Which would explain why every little snippet of information about her was published by you. Why no other reporter even glances twice at her.”
“What do you want to know,” Logan Norms finally asks, sounding almost as if he is tiring of the charade.
“I want to know where I can find her.”
“How the hell am I supposed to know something like that? You should be asking her lawyer or something. Someone that actually knows these things!”
“I think that you know these things, Logan. I think that you are lying to me. If you don't and you are not lying then you're going to die.”
“Jesus Christ, are you a damn lunatic? You know this is murder that you're talking about?”
“It was murder the last few times as well.”
“Look, last I heard is she is at a hotel near her old house, the Sidian Inn, I think it's called. I heard that she was going to leave the state soon, but that's all that I know!”
“Thank you,” I retort sounding neither thankful nor annoyed.
I shove Logan Norms forward before walking away. I couldn't shake the feeling that he is smirking behind me while I leave.
* * *
“I want for you to jump, Ivan,” I said dispassionately, detached from everything else but this.
There were bodies hanging everywhere, and blood dripping from each of them. It only served right that the perpetrator of all this pain, of all this suffering, hung as well. A hollow attempt at expiation, nothing can be done to one man to atone for something so heinous and unforgiving, but it felt right. After I had regathered myself, I dragged Ivan back to his feet and stood him up on the crate he had forced the man to stand on before.
After positioning the crate, I wrapped his neck around one of the collars hanging from the ceiling.
“What do you think this will accomplish? You think that what you're doing is any less frowned upon than what I do. Tell me, what is the difference between you and I?” Ivan retorted.
“I'm not about to die.”
“Not yet, but you will, it's all just a matter of time. You lie to yourself in believing that what you're doing is any better than what I do, when it's not. You're exactly what you pretend to hate, you're exactly like me.”
“I'll never be hanging from a collar by my neck like a bitch. You lived on hatred and deceit but soon, you won't live at all. Before you go, I want for you to pray for me, Ivan.”
“Actually, I prefer Orion.”
Before Ivan could utter a response, I kicked the crate out from under him and watched as he hung, he gagged uncontrollably, putting up a fight at first before he came to a halt. If he wasn't dead now, he would be soon. I stood, smirking for a moment, but only a moment.
I wasn't satisfied. But I didn't necessarily feel angry.
I felt … nothing.