murderer - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The screaming had stopped so very suddenly. One minute he was right in her face, more alive than he had ever been, and the next he was meat on the floor. She had brought the gun in under her shirt, tucked into the back of her Levi's. She knew he'd get upset, he always did when she spent a little money. The gun was just insurance really, a way to make him back off when things got heated. Her lover had given it to her only the previous week, its numbers filed off, untraceable apparently. Before his blood had congealed she had formulated her story and Tom would back her up; perhaps not for love but half his life insurance money would buy a lot of crack. She had been surprised by how little effort it had taken to dispatch him. A little squeeze of a finger and he was dead. Less trouble than peeling an orange. She was also taken aback by how little it bothered her, apparently she was just faking the love after all.
The term "murderer" was now reserved for psychopaths. If the killing was done for means of survival no-one thought less of you. There were those that took life and crumpled under the weight of guilt, even if they'd no choice. There were some who killed when necessary and never lost a wink of sleep over it, that's pretty much where I sit. There are others who have made it a whole new hobby, look at them the wrong way and they attacked with lethal force. That last group are the only ones considered murderers now. The term applies to me as much as it does to a wolf or a bear. Killing in self defence is just a given. Killing for resources is a grey area, I've never done it, never had to, but who am I to judge?
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The cold look reflected on his face gave me shudders. His hands were tightly closed around the cold surface of the metallic grey colored revolver. He seemed to have no sense of humanity.His heart seemed to be made of stone, the way he had brutally killed my sister. I would never forget the evil glint in his beady eyes. The murderer had smelt of blood. Of danger.
The knife was snapped at the tip but the rest was sharp. The handle was cheap black plastic. Somehow it gave Tirana pleasure to end the life of a billionaire with something so cheap and mass produced. It would slice through that expensive tailored shirt into his dirty flesh. For a moment she was lost, imagining not blood to come out but thick crude oil. The same stuff that had coated the south beach and changed her life. Surf girl to extremist, how did that happen so fast? She tucked it into her jacket. There was no way to conceal it in the back lingerie underneath, but that was her ticket into his suite. He was nothing if not greedy for underage girls.
The cowboy stared at the native from under his wide brimmed hat and bathed for a moment in the glory of his superiority. His eyes narrowed and his hand fell to his holstered gun. This savage had no morals, no manners, no Bible. She had no proper boots and a poor grasp of grammar. He spat on the dirt. Killing her was no worse than shootin' a dog. His head still hurt from the previous nights drinking, the alcohol obliterated the painful memories of his family - the kith and kin he abandoned for this new life, a life seeking a fortune of cold metal. She turned to go; she had been collecting herbs and berries for her family. Tonight they would gather for songs and stories of the ancestors and the spirits. The cowboy raised his gun at her back, gently squeezing on the trigger, playing with the point at which a bullet may or may not be released. The gunshot took him by surprise. She screamed and fell, berries over the parched earth and the herbs a halo of green around her black hair...
The killing part was his least favorite; it was a necessary chore rather than a pleasure. He'd watched CSI over and over to analyse the best way to not leave a trace of himself but after watching so much violence he found himself too fired up to think straight. Instead he went right out and offered another pretty little thing a ride in his truck, a Pomeranian puppy riding on the passenger side to lure them in. Once inside they were off to "the vets," his barn in on the outskirts of town. He dragged them in by their pony-tails, they always had to have one, and locked the doors. He had so very many fun games to play with them, so much better than all those lame horror movies. By the end of it they were almost relieved to go into the pit with the puppy and feel the cool earth fall on top of their skin. Mostly they didn't even raise a hand to guard themselves. Never once has they died from his "fun," after all, he had no intention of being a murderer. Mommy wouldn't like that.
She had been ready with the knife. She lay under her blanket in her nightie not wearing underwear as instructed. He hadn't said anything about not having an eight inch blade. Once the door slammed behind her mother, off to another graveyard shift at the biscuit factory he made his move. Typically he liked it rough, she was to fight back a little but never scratch or scream. So choreographed. Her only lines were to admire his penis and beg for penetration, plea for her own rape. She was to start by lying on her front, pretending to sleep through the sodomy. This time when he flicked her over the cold steel came swiftly from under the pillow and was buried in his stomach right to the hilt. She looked at his stupid surprised eyes and gave it a twist for good measure. She shoved him as he rolled to one side, she'd been trapped under his bulk too many times already. He groaned and gurgled as he bled out, his skin greying as the light left his eyes. She was a murderer. Time to run...
He so hated it when they died too soon, but he had to punish them. They were dirty, their ways were filthy and wanton. If they refused his teaching he sliced them, if they fought back he sliced deeper. He was firm and fair; they were whiny and without morals. He picked them for their painted lips and short skirts, he felt drawn to their high heels and long legs. They made him think bad thoughts, unclean thoughts. They made him lustful and unchaste. Once he had forced himself upon them in the back of his white van they went to his "church" for the preaching. Naked and bound before the alter he defiled himself with them once more before fetching his Bible and his blade. "The beast and the ten horns you saw will hate the prostitute. They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked; they will eat her flesh and burn her with fire." Infused with the zeal of his deepest desires and the reflected power of God he proceeded to light the torches...