I'm going to start with the first section of a short story I started writing early last year. Look forward to hearing what you think (both good and bad)!
A
Serial Killer’s Guide to Happiness
By Arnulfo Moreno
Osvaldo
stared at the old iron door. The fresh coat of red paint only seemed to draw
more attention to the rust coated edges. He uncrossed his legs and reached for
his worn out laptop bag turned briefcase. After fumbling through a 10-day-old
apple, Slim Jim wrappers, and a handful of 7-11 receipts, Osvaldo pulled out a
thick brown folder. He set the folder on the round plastic table. It was only
10:15 am.
The
first page of the folder was never impressive; containing a person’s life story
in 400 hundred unimaginative words made all the more exciting with Times New
Roman font. Osvaldo quickly flipped to the pictures. The first was a polaroid
of a middle-aged woman who appeared to be a brunette though it was hard to tell
due to the pool of blood surrounding her head. The slit across her throat was
the likely source of the blood.
The
next picture had a man face down on a linoleum floor. Osvaldo’s expression remained blank. It was hard to tell the man’s
age. Probably mid-to-late 30’s. Unlike the previous picture, there was no
blood. Osvaldo noticed that the man’s left hand had been removed and only a
stump wrapped in a plastic grocery bag remained. Due to the time gap between
murders, the physical quality of the photograph was also improved, not quite up
to current standards, but much better than the polaroid.
Osvaldo
continued to flip through the pictures, each more gruesome than the last. After
he finished looking at all 33 pictures, Osvaldo looked at the small
inappropriately placed window on the 8 foot cinder block wall. Not much could
be seen through the steel mesh and iron bars. The dull yellow light shining
through the forest of steel and iron did little to overpower the florescent bulbs.
Osvaldo let out a soft sigh; he should probably throw the apple away.
The
old iron door abruptly swung open. Surprisingly, it didn’t creek. “Prisoner
number 203C1 Amano, Bruce entering the room,” said an omniscient voice. Osvaldo
knew only two kinds of people walked through that door: young punks who think
they’re God, or worn out middle-aged men who know they’re not. After a quick
glance, Osvaldo knew that Bruce fell in with the second group.
Bruce
sat directly across from Osvaldo in the only available chair, his iron chains
rattling against the table and floor. Osvaldo placed the intake sheet on top of
the brown folder. His mind wandered to a
time when people in handcuffs made him feel uneasy.
“Hi
Mr. Amano. I’m Osvaldo and am part of your public defender’s team. I work with
your lawyer, Alex, to ensure that you have a fair and just trial. Today we will
be doing an intake and evaluation.” Osvaldo never took his eyes off of the
client when he gave his 10 second introduction. Lack of eye contact is a sign
of weakness.
“So
that we’re clear, since I am part of your legal team, we have the same
confidentiality agreement that you have with your lawyer.” Osvaldo picked up
the intake form. “So Mr. Amano, do you have any questions?”
Bruce
smiled warmly and looked at Osvaldo, “no but I’m sure I will. And please call
me Bruce.”
Osvaldo
pulled out an ornate ballpoint pen from his pocket. Planes, clouds, and
countries decorated the gold plated writing utensil.
“I
have your basic information so I wanted to begin by getting a bit of your
family history.”
“Sure.
Where do you want me to start?” Bruce seemed eager to answer any questions
Osvaldo might have, treating this situation like a job interview.
“You
have two parents and one sibling, right? Tell me what a typical day was like in
the Amano household.”
The
chains rattled as Bruce leaned back, “pretty tame compared to the shenanigans
kids are getting into these days. My dad was an engineer but he’s retired now
though he still invents little trinkets in his garage. My mom stayed at home
but also ran a small real estate empire. And my brother was cool though
occasionally a bit of an asshole. Just your typical church going suburban
family.”
Osvaldo
quickly jotted down: mother and brother
past tense, “church going”.
“So
you all went to church regularly?”
“Yeah,
I mean as regular as any family, at least at the time. I doubt many families go
now.”
Osvaldo
added to his notes. Bruce noticed.
“We
weren’t a fire and brimstone type family. We went because that’s just what you
did on Sundays. I think my father still goes.”
“Do
you consider yourself a religious man, Bruce?”
Bruce
stared at the barred window, “well I believe in God…a creator; you’d have to be
an idiot not to.” Bruce looked at Osvaldo, “What’s harder to comprehend is an
all-loving God, at least in the way we understand love.”
“How
do you understand love, Bruce?”
“I
think most people confuse lust with love. Don’t get me wrong, when you bang
someone that you love, the sex is amazing but love has nothing to do with sex
or lust. The sad thing is, movies, TV, music…society in general keeps
perpetuating this lust/love myth.”
“So
what is love, Bruce?”
“Baby don’t hurt me,
don’t hurt me no more!”
Bruce
and Osvaldo laughed. Osvaldo quickly tried to regain his composure. Bruce kept
a smile plastered on his face.
“Osvaldo
you set me up, I just had to go for it. But in all seriousness, I am still
trying to answer that question myself. Some people say that love is completely
denying yourself and putting the needs of others before you. I don’t know about
that.” Bruce awkwardly picked up his chains and crossed his legs, “if love
comes from God, it can’t really be tied to human needs or emotions. Love, like
God and gravity, can’t be measured or explained in and of itself. Only its
effects can.” Osvaldo crossed his legs.
“Amano,
time’s up,” the omniscient voice at the entryway called out. Osvaldo had not
notice the door open.
After
Bruce left, Osvaldo sat in his chair and looked at the table. He had a stack of
gruesome crime scene photos and his notes, which had turned into a treatise on
metaphysical love. Osvaldo threw everything into his bag and walked to the
door. On his way out he remembered to toss the rotted apple.
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