Cleaning House

I am a murderer. I have killed twenty three people over the last thirty three years. I have no pattern. No design. No type.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.

What if doing the wrong thing feels right? How does it work when doing wrong is the right thing to do? When my work helps others, comforts them, saves them? How is it wrong then?

It all started when I killed my father. I pushed him over the bannister in the house and he died when he hit the stairs. His neck, left hip and the thumb on his left hand were shattered when he came in to contact with the old solid wood. He had just stabbed my mother twice in the stomach and I knew he'd come after me next. So I pushed him. He didn't know how to fall.

I was nine.

At twenty two, I was on the freeway when I heard the DJ on the radio station talking about a car full of bank robbers being chased on my road. They were behind me and coming up fast. They'd shot dead three people in the bank that they'd just raided. So when I saw their car in my rear view, I reacted. I swerved into them, made hard contact and their car spun uncontrollably until it flipped. Two of the four died at the scene, one more in hospital three hours later, and the last in the electric chair 16 years later.

Then there was the known paedophile who I caught attacking a child in the bushes in my local park. I heard the kid's scream and just reacted. I punched him hard, and when he hit the ground, his head hit a rock. It was lights out for him.

After the sixth, I realised that I'd caused the death of all of these criminals, and had gotten away with each murder. Even the local paper heralded me as some sort of freaky hero. 'The guy to be around when you're getting mugged' they said.

Maybe that's when I believed I was invincible. The law hadn't touched me. Well, they had, but only to shake my hand and give me a pat on the back. They loved me.

Now I hunt for them. The murderers, rapists, child molesters, bank robbers, thieves... I've clocked up thirty three in total. Nine that the authorities know about. I've learnt that they don't spend the time investigating the death of a drug pusher, they have bigger fish to fry. Maybe I should make myself a super hero costume. Purple always suited me. My mother always said that it made my blue eyes sparkle.

I have a taste for it now. And the low life of the world don't attract interest. If I had murdered the Governor's daughter, I'd be on the FBI's most wanted list. Instead, I'm cleaning house. Clearing out the cockroaches. Making good of what is bad.

To do the right thing is hard. Really hard.