My mother always told me that it is wrong to hurt people, and in a way, I suppose she’s right. It is wrong to shatter lives, break hearts into millions of little pieces that will never find themselves again. But what when somebody wants to go? Is it so wrong to kill someone, who is already dead inside? Kill someone who is already a hollow shell, just waiting for the angels to claim them? When my mother lay on her deathbed, she looked me right in the eyes, and said something that changed my life.
“You know, Nathan? I wish I’d died before now, because once I get to heaven, your father won’t recognise me now I’m so bald and ugly!”
Those final words told me that I, too, could help the world, in my own peculiar way.
***
I step out of my office, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Monday afternoon - my favourite time of week. Checking my large, silver watch, I set off down the busy road. This time each week, I help some broken souls die before they become dead souls without a chance of finding their place in heaven. It’s funny how you see people crying over these deaths on the News, still not coming to terms with the fact that their friend or relative actually had no more desire to live than a headless chicken. I obviously know my victims better than their own families. I don’t know why they say what I do is wrong, because it most certainly is far from that. How could help ever be wrong? I have been doing this for over two years now, every Monday afternoon, and never have the police bothered to catch me. Why? On the television, they say it’s because I’m impossible to catch, but I know the truth: because the police know, secretly, in their hearts, that I’m helping. Simple.
I finger the flick knife in my back pocket, searching the streets, my eyes seeking one particular person whose eyes are nothing but empty hollows. Slipping my sunglasses over my eyes, I smooth back my hair and take off my jacket, leaving me with a bare white shirt. Now, I am unrecognisable. My eyes pull me towards an old man, huffing as he carries two large bags in either hand. His eyes, a murky dark brown, are watering, and any sort of excitement, joy, or life in them is gone. They are but dirty orbs. Every so often he sets down his bags, producing a handkerchief to mop his brow. He is tall, but very frail, and when I scan his fingers for a ring of some sort, there is nothing. Either his wife died some time ago, or he is single and alone. Either way, he is a dying soul.
The perfect victim.
As with all of my victims, I approach him.
“Excuse me, Sir, would you like some help in carrying those bags?” I ask, lifting my sunglasses slightly. He looks into my eyes and nods gratefully, settling one of the bags down on the pavement. I pick it up and begin walking at his pace, feeling happy for him. Soon, he will be leaving this cruel world.
“Young men these days don’t usually offer to help. It’s very kind of you,” he pants, his voice raspy.
“It’s nothing. I always teach my sons to do the same thing – a friend in need is a friend indeed, you know?” I say. This is my first trick: distraction. Of course I don’t have any sons - I don’t like children, and have never found the idea of a wife appealing. It just helps the conversation to pretend, helps me to steer the old man into a dark alley without his noticing.
“Ah, you have sons. They’re very lucky to have a father like you,” he smiles. I nod, turning towards a small street that looks promising.
“Yes. My two sons are five and eight – they fight all the time, but they’re sweet really.” I look up into the man’s eyes. They seem distant, as though remembering something long gone. He doesn’t seem to notice the fact that I’m the one leading him now, and that I don’t even know where his house is. Maybe he just doesn’t care.
“They sound lovely. What are their names?” he asks, just as we turn into a small, empty side passage. I slide my hand around to my back pocket.
“Adam and James,” I reply. I feel the cold metal jumping into my open hand. “They’re lovely.” I slide the knife out of my pocket, my hand reaching slowly towards his back. “Just like their mother,” I continue, the knife clenched in my hand, just behind his back. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead, he screams as I dig the small knife into him. I drop the plastic bag and cover his mouth, stabbing him over and over.
“Sir, you want to die. Your soul’s almost gone, stop fighting,” I murmur, pocketing the bloodied knife and holding him as he falls to the ground, whimpering. “I’m sure you’ve got family waiting for you.” His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and even though they’re terror-filled, I can already see more light in them, more energy than ever before. I know I did the right thing. I lay him down and close his eyes, knowing that tomorrow I will wake up feeling clean, after having saved another useless soul.
Before I leave the alley I take off my sunglasses and put my jacket back on, walking out purposefully into the world.
That evening, just as I am about to go to bed, there’s a pounding on the door. I jump, as it’s not usual that I get midnight visitors. Slowly, I head towards the door, confused. Opening it, I find three policemen. I jump back, horrified. They’re here to arrest me. My heart starts pounding, until I’m sure I’ll have a heart attack.
“Nathan Wells, we’re here to arrest you for the murder of Gregory Smith, and countless others,” the policeman at the front said, his voice an angry snarl.
“I didn’t murder them!” I shout. Murderers are cruel and heartless, and I certainly am not one of them.
“We caught you on CCTV. We have reason to believe that you killed fifty people in this year alone.”
Despite myself, tears well up in my eyes. I think of my ill, dying mother, who so wanted to be done with before the angels took her away. These policemen are taking away everything I’ve done for her, everything I’ve ever done to make her proud. I helped people who wanted to go, and now I end up in prison? The only sin, my mother said, was to hurt others – and I certainly hadn’t been doing that. Slowly, I put my hands out to be cuffed, looking behind me at the photos of her, my only proper relative, who taught me so much, cried so little – even in her hardest times. Now, tears pour down my cheeks, as I wish that someone would return the favour – that someone would save me from my own dying soul.
Really, it was extremely well-written and the characterization was great. You pulled off this murderer/helper almost perfectly, so that we're not exactly sympathizing with him, but he's manipulated us to a point that we can see where he's coming from. Almost. xD
So, like I said, this was great overall. ^_^ There are a couple of points in the first paragraph where his justifications of his actions are a bit too obvious-- try being more subtle, instead of saying, "I'm the good guy! this isn't wrong!" you can 
*gold star*
