Starry Night by Edgar Allan Poe

It was 4:20 a.m. on May 11th, 1997 when I was conducting my usual routine. Focus. Aim. Shoot. Scrub. Repeat. This is my life; this is my job and I love it. I can get the same satisfaction I would without actually committing the crime. Manslaughter. I only clean the bodies and make sure police cannot get any evidence if I do happen to miss a spot. I’ve been doing this job since I was fifteen, following in my father’s footsteps –I am now thirty-five. Like my mother, my own wife doesn’t know of this. At first, this job was thrust upon me, only securing me in the same fate as the men in my family before me, and I had taken no pleasure in doing it. Until twelve years ago.

They call him La artista, because of the pictures he paints with his kills. Since the first time I was called by him, I’d gotten a thorough feeling of pleasure across my body at the sight of his work. He would position the bodies in a way that would tell a story; he’d run his hand through their blood and create swirls as if he were trying to show anyone who saw those bodies the world he entered when he killed his victims. Although I’ve never seen him, his voice weighs heavy on my mind. I want to meet this man, which is something I’ve never wanted to do before, and shake his hand and possibly thank him for giving me pleasure in doing an old family job.

By the time I arrive home, it is almost six in the morning. I silently slip into the empty space next to my wife, and turn my back toward her. I never liked to look at her after doing a job; it makes me feel dirty. It leads me to believe I’ve tainted her just by looking at her with my eyes which have seen gruesome and mutilated bodies of people I’ve never known. Thinking about the bodies again, I close my eyes and sleep. I am barely drifting off into sleep when the alarm on my wife’s side of the room goes off. She normally likes to let it ring until she can’t possibly sleep any longer-even after turning it off. Finally, she turns it off and sits up in bed. I keep my eyes closed, knowing she’s turned to look at me already. I know her morning habits well enough after being married for thirteen years. She’ll sit up, rub her eyes, look over at me, get up, stretch, and then walk into the restroom to begin her day at work. I smile, thinking about how well I know her, and let myself drift off to sleep again.

“I need your help once more. 22 Brooklyn Drive. Tavern Apartments. Apartment number 25. Three men. Your pay will be under a leg of the coffee table. I am trusting you as always. Thank you.” Then he hung up. There are many other cleaners to choose from, but I am honored he has chosen me, and has continued to do so. As a cleaner, if you don’t do your job well enough, not only will people not call you, but if you leave any trace of evidence, you will be cut off. Meaning, you were killed or taken away from whatever other life you led. It was a risky business, but, thanks to the men in my family before me, my reputation was well. I was very well respected, I was almost thrown off. I’ve met every other hitman, and they welcomed me to their homes and lives with no hesitation. We were our own community; we all knew each other and no one was hidden. We always knew the going-ons of our city. Then he came into it. No one knows his face or real name (which was oddly abnormal), and my employer and I are the only ones who’ve heard his voice. Bob, our manager, I think has only seen his body. He told me, in secret, that he wore a mask to his “interview,” and that’s when he knew, right away, that he needed to have him on board.

Bob is a great person, really. He isn’t a jackass, until you show him disrespect. In a way, we were all like the Corleone family, just subtract the betrayal within the family. That was us. Bob, of course, was pushed into the throne of “greatness” by his father, same as me. The others in our little family chose to lead this life. That was fine. But Bob and I hold a kind of bond over the fact that we just wanted to lead simple lives. He never wanted to hire people for killing or cleaning, or hand out names to kill and clean, just like I never wanted to meet the hitter or clean for them. Don’t get me wrong, I love everyone, but I’m sure I would love them more if I didn’t know what they did for fun.

By the time I got to the address, despite it being down the road from where I currently resided, I knew he would be long gone by then. Probably already in bed, sleeping with a smile on his face. I believe he was just that quick. I shut off the car and, as discreetly as possible, I take my cleaning equipment up to apartment number 25. I was thankful it was a floor apartment. I always hated doing apartments, in general, though. It was risky, but I was always called for these jobs, because I’ve never been caught. I’d like to keep in that way, but God-forbid I do get caught, I have a pretty grotesque plan. I’d pour a jar of pure acid, which I’ve kept in a bag I always carry with me on the job, on my face. They wouldn’t be able to identify my face or my prints. I could choose much easier ways to go, but this was a family plan. It’s only been needed to be used once. It was needed probably a little over a century ago. It was my grandfather’s grandfather, and he was looked down upon in the entire family, but I’ve always held respect for him. He actually had the balls to pour pure acid on his face. That calls for respect.

I finally made it inside, picking the lock open, and stepping inside. To any other cleaner, they’d be puking their insides out, but I smiled. I will always smile when I first look at La artista’s work, because not only is it a magnificent sight, but my eyes and his will be the only ones to see it. It’s the only connection we hold. Other than the flip phone that cannot be traced, this is our only connection. I look over at all of the bodies and quickly notice all their faces have been cut off, only leaving a bloody skull with bits of skin left on to stare back at me. Another thing I’ve noticed was their eyes sockets, empty. They seemed to be pulled out while they were still alive, judging by the marks left on them. Their blood was sprayed along the walls and smeared by two hands to create a twisted, bloody version of Starry Night. All three bodies were lined vertically right next to one another, their hands crossed over their chests, and the life gone. They might have had a wife and children like I did. They would never grow old with their significant others, and their children would be left wondering why daddy never came home. I tried not to think about that side of their lives, because if I was called to clean them, I knew they were bad men. We only killed men who needed to be killed. Killers, rapists, thieves (who stole from the poor), and people who someone needed taken care of. Yes, we received requests. It was unusual, but it also wasn’t rare. Questions weren’t asked, names weren’t given, but a thank you was always ready for us. We weren’t a cheap organization; after all, some people did this for fun, others did it because they needed the money or both. My money always stays in a safe place. An old family cabin in a remote location in the woods. I only dipped into when I needed to. I never spent enough to make my wife question where I got the money, because accounting doesn’t pay that well.

It was jobs like these that I wished I would allow myself a crew, but I knew I worked better alone. I had no distractions. There was only the sound of my cleaning. After I was done, I looked under the coffee table and noticed a small bump in the carpet under the front left leg. I moved the table slightly and pushed down on the bump. The pressure from the center of it, caused one of the corners to pop up. He was smart. He cut a small square in the carpet and put my pay under there. I almost didn’t see it, and I wouldn’t have unless he told me the location it was near. I pulled the pay into my pocket and headed my way outside to my car.

A shrill scream torn through my dream, causing me to jolt up into a sitting position. My daughter. I threw the blankets off of myself and ran into her and her sister’s room.

“Cherry?!” I yelled. Silence. Then a fit of giggles coming from the other side of her bed.

“Did you fall out of bed again?” I asked, trying to hold in my laughter. Her little head popped up and her eyes brightened at the sight of me.

“Daddy!” She ran into my arms. I picked her up and balanced her on my hip. “I didn’t fall. Lily pushed me off!” Then she leaned in close to my ear.

“She’s hiding under her bed.” I smiled and shut off the lights. The light from the morning sun was peeking through the curtain I recently put up in their room.

“Well, then, I guess your sister is somewhere else,” I said, walking away. “Let’s go make pancakes! Too bad your sister isn’t here to eat them with us,” I said loudly, “Oh, well.” Without another moment’s hesitation, I heard the tiny thumps of small footsteps approaching my from behind. By the time Cherry and I had made it into the kitchen, Lily was already climbing in her seat at the kitchen table.

“Glad to see you’re joining us. No more pushing your sister off the bed, understood?” I scolded as I put Cherry down.

“She wouldn’t wake up, so I did the first thing I thought of, and pushed her,” she explained. I chuckled at her response.

“Next time wake me up first, and I’ll do the Waking Cherry Up Routine, okay?” She nodded. “Okay, now go and get ready for school. Your breakfast will be ready when you come down. Now, go on,” I said. I smiled as they ran off. They were my life. I loved them to death and they were the reason I loved my wife, honestly. She’s a great person and gives me plenty of space, but I’m not in love with her. She’s just a great front. Who would suspect a detective’s husband to be a cleaner for the biggest killing ring in all of New York to Maine? It was a big risk, but I’m careful enough.

As soon as I placed their plates of pancakes and bacon on the table, they were running down fully dressed in the outfits they picked for their day.

“Daddy, are you coming to watch us for field day today?” Lily asked as she quickly grabbed her bacon and munched on it.

“And tomorrow?” Cherry also asked. I sat down in the chair in between them and smiled.

“Of course, girls. I promised, didn’t I?” They smiled bigger.

“You’re a nice daddy. One of our classmates says that whenever her daddy makes a promise, he never shows up.” Well, that was fucking dark.

“Thanks, girls. Some people aren’t meant to be parents, but they will always find another adult who is like a father or mother figure to them,” I explained. I watched as they nodded and continued on their breakfast. They were so cute in whatever they did.

“Maybe you can be her daddy, too!” Lily said after a while. I gave her a small smile.

“Sweetie, we can’t just jump to the conclusion that she wants another father, okay? If she’s ever looking lonely, just make sure to include her in whatever game you’re playing.” They were good girls. Very innocent, and I wanted them to stay that way. I was happy they were girls, because I wouldn’t want to ruin their lives at the age of fifteen. They can go on living a normal life, and I hope they never find out the terrible things I do.

Notes

So, even though I shouldn't, I decided to post this up. I've been working on this plot for months, but if no one is interested in it, then I won't continue it. After I've completed all my stories such as Live In Nanny, maybe this one, and I'll Be Seeing Your Face, I'll probably be stepping away from fanfiction, only posting one shots every now and then, I'm not sure. But that's the plan so far. Hope you've enjoyed this new chapter! Comment and rate and so on and let me know! :))

Much love,
-OAIF <3