I: Need a Reason

It was 11 pm and finally time for Peter to clock out. He exited the company building to find that the weather matched his mood perfectly: heavy rain accompanied by dark gloomy skies. Despite managing to deter a few souls away from death’s alluring call, Peter was disappointed to not have come across anyone that fulfilled his conditions; he worried about not being able to keep his personal streak going. Remembering his first call of the day, he rattled his brain trying to remember his new friend’s name. However, his focus was broken by a shriek deep within an alleyway. Peter always passes this alley to and from work but only now has he ever really looked at it. It was narrow and too dark to see into. Black mist seemed to emanate from the very walls, the more intently he stared the darker it grew. With a shrug and his curiosity peeked, he decided to walk down the alley.

As Peter walked deeper and deeper into the cement corridor he grew blind from the darkness and deaf by the pouring rain. Stranger still, he began to taste iron in the air. He continued to walk down the narrow path only to trip over what felt like a log. As he felt around blindly, he realized it was a person. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you . . . lying there. Umm, you wouldn’t have happened to have seen anyone pass by here? Besides me of course.” No response. As Peter reached out to tap the person on what he hoped was their shoulder, a bolt of lightning ignited the black ash that had consumed the alley. In that brief instant Peter’s hand froze and everything went silent. His focus was solely at what he saw in front of him. For in that brief flash he saw a beautiful pale women with tattered clothes, and impenetrably black eyes. Once more Peter’s vision sunk into darkness and the sound of rain hitting the concrete floor reverberated in his ears. He calmly stood back up, stepped over the corpse and backtracked out the alleyway. However, further down the alley, Peter didn’t see the looming pair of eyes watching him when the lightning hit.

Feeling his appetite tickle his stomach, Peter decided to stop by a nearby restaurant before arriving home. He sat down at a secluded booth and looked over the menu even though he already knew what he wanted to order. Another patron entered the restaurant and stood over Peter. Believing it to be his waiter and attempting to avoid eye contact, he read off his item from the menu, “I’ll have the Louisiana style Cajun chicken breast with garlic mash potatoes and green beans, thank you.”

The large man responded, “That’s one hell of a midnight snack don’t you think?” as he sat down across from Peter.

“My apologies, I thought you were the waiter,” Peter replied with a puzzled look at his new dinner guest. “And you are?” He inquired.

The mystery man responded, “That’s not important, what is important is who might you be?”

Peter looked at the man with tired eyes and an annoyed expression. “Excuse me Sir, but I have had my fill with conversation for today, but I am ravenous for some silence and a hot meal so if you wouldn’t mind,” Peter gestured for the man to leave with a wave of his hand.

The man slammed his hand down on the counter to reveal his credit card, inscribed with the name Jack H. The man then proclaimed, “I’m buying if you’re in the mood for talking.”

Peter was stunned by the stranger’s insistence and exuberant actions that he was left with no choice but to accept his company; after all, his new order wasn’t going to be cheap.

After their food arrived and there was no longer anyone within ear shot, their conversation abruptly shifted from the mundane to the sinister. Jack took a quick look around before speaking. “Are you a murderer Peter?” he asked with a stern look. Peter’s eyes abandoned his plate for the first time since their conversation started, they rose slowly but deliberately; their cold blue hue sent a delighted shiver down Jack’s spine. In that instant, Jack already knew the answer the his question.

“What makes you ask that, Jack?” Peter said without giving the slightest hint of surprise.

Jack whispered firmly, “I saw you standing over that dead woman in the alleyway.” Before Peter could claim his innocence Jack added, “I saw you smile.” Peter said nothing. Rather, with an inquisitive look he began darting his eyes around as though assembling an invisible puzzle on the table. Jack asked again, “Well? Are you a murderer Peter?” Peter’s eyes once again rose to meet Jack’s stare, only this time Peter was smiling a crooked smile. It was the same smile Jack saw Peter give the dead woman in the alley.

Peter’s half smile grew full as he spoke, “I never thought that we would meet. How rude of me, I had no idea I was in the presence of such an infamous celebrity. Allow me to start again. Hello, my name is Peter Rip, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mizaru.”

Jack scanned the restaurant again, reassured that no one was paying them any attention. He turned his gaze back at Peter whom was still smiling. “What makes you think that I’m that psychopath?”

Peter responded reassuringly, “There’s no need for the façade anymore Jack. How else would you have gotten such a good look at my face while in that dreary alley unless you were already there before me? Moreover, if you truly believed I was the murderer then why did you choose to follow me into this restaurant? Any normal person would have immediately called the police.”

Jack’s raised his right eyebrow in suspicion, “then why didn’t you?”

Peter let out a sighed laugh, “Because I’m not normal. Much like you Jack. To answer your earlier question, Yes, I too am a murderer; in a sense.”

Still suspicious, Jack asserts, “You can’t ‘kind of’ be a murderer Peter, either you are or you’re not, so which is it?”

Peter mulled over the question for a moment before responding, “Well that depends, would you consider someone that kills those that wish to die, a murderer?” Jack looked at Peter with disappoint, “Mercy killings? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; a scrawny thing like yourself couldn’t be a real killer. A real killer stalks his prey, the thrill of the hunt is almost as fun as actually making the kill. I bet you use poison to kill your victims. Easiest way to do it without having to get your hands dirty. You’re no real murderer Peter; in fact, your way of doing things is an insult to my own.”

Peter had hoped to have finally met someone like himself, a kindred spirit; a friend. However, what he began to realize is that the person standing before him is in fact an enemy. Much like any two solitary predators, any competition for prey must be eliminated.

With a calm and firm voice, Peter said, “I don’t use poison Jack. I work at a suicide hotline and that’s how I choose my victims. Then I—”

Jack interrupts, “No kidding? So you pick your kill like choosing a fast food item?”

To which Peter continued, “Sure, if you would like to think of it like that, except I’m very picky: my entrée—as you would put it—must follow very specific conditions before I commit to the kill. What about you Jack? Do you follow any kind of code, or means by which you choose your victims? I only ask because you have the unique quirk of taking their eyes after you kill them.”

Jack rolled his own eyes in return, “I don’t follow anything as fancy as a code. I just kill when I get the urge to. It’s as natural as getting thirsty or needing a good fuck, only not as often. It becomes the only thing I can think about; I just can’t help it.” Noticing Peter’s confused look, Jack continued, “I guess I decide who by the look in their eyes. It’s usually those people that have happy eyes. I like to see how those sweet and kind eyes become filled with fear as I kill them. It’s strange, but seeing those happy and naive eyes meet such a painful end by my own hands makes them all the more beautiful. I just can’t help myself but take them, I guess I’m just sentimental that way.”

Peter was bewildered, appalled, and ever so slightly amused towards the psychopath sitting before him. In an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence, and from feelings of embarrassment for revealing so much, Jack began, “What about you? Why do you kill people? Where is your satisfaction from doing it?”

Peter went into a monologue as though awaiting to answer the question for years, “Because I’m in love with the idea of death. As long as I can remember I was fascinated with the idea of dying, I even day dream about it. The idea that one day all my hopes, dreams, desires, regrets, pains, fears and pleasures will vanish with my final breath. This miserably beautiful thing we call life is simply an endurance game. There’s no rhyme or reason to it; we all randomly happened to be cursed with this supposed blessing of mortality, but here we are—each one of us—waiting to receive its eternal cure: death. How will it end? Maybe I’ll be hit by a bus tomorrow, perhaps you’ll kill me in a few minutes, or maybe I’ll die slowly from a disease years from now. It’s exciting isn’t it? We live our whole lives building up to the day we are finally no more; like a book solely you have read or a beautiful song that is your own and can only be played once. That is why I kill those that are—without a doubt—going to kill themselves. Their book repeats the same chapter, their song distorted with static. I become the final chapter in their story, the final note in their song. I help bring them peace. You see Jack, I kill these people because they aren’t just suicidal, they are already dead. That is why I hate what you did to that women. It looked like she put up a hell of a fight. Even though I believe her tragic death still possessed some fragments of beauty, poor thing must have been filled with fear and despair and pain in her final moments. At least she finally found some sense of peace after drifting into the numbing void.”

Jack reciprocated the same cocktail of muddled emotions that Peter felt earlier. He signaled over the waitress and handed her a large tip, after she left, his focus returned to Peter who was picking at his plate. “Fortunately for you, your eyes don’t intrigue me what’s-so-ever.” Jack, while examining Peter’s gaze, said discerningly, “In fact, they look barren and cold, less alive than my victim’s eyes after I’ve already killed them. So don’t worry Peter, I’m not going to kill you. In my eyes, you’re already dead and there’s no fun hunting a corpse.”

Peter wasn’t sure whether Jack was trying to provoke him or assuage his nonexistent fears. In any case, it served only to amuse Peter further. “That’s very thoughtful of you Jack, but it’s you that should be trying to convince me to not kill you.”

Jack stared at Peter in silence, amazement by his audacity. After thinking for a moment Jack responded, “How’s about this, the next time I see you, I’ll kill you. Now you can live in fear every day of your life or you can move far away.”

Peter remained unshaken, “I’m not moving anywhere Jack.”

At this point Jack was running out of patience, “You’re either the craziest motherfucker I’ve ever met or the dumbest. Fine then, let’s pay. Let’s see who kills who first.” Jack got up in a huff and walked out of the restaurant.

Peter turns around to watch Jack leave and muttered to himself, “it’s ‘who kills whom first’ dum-dum.”