ALTERNATE REALITY

Entry No. 4

The first kill I made was the time I was eighteen years old. I sell cigarettes and stuff at night to augment our income. My friends would stay with me until the late hours of the morning. Mostly, those who buy from our makeshift store are drunkards or men who simply couldn’t find sleep at the comfort of their homes.

I admit that some of my friends do engage in prostitution. It’s good for business. Their customers would buy from me packs of cigarettes and candies. Sort of a way to impress my friends. It’s a simple operation. A car would slow down in front of us. The driver would open the windows of his car then first ask for a cigarette. Then he’d ask us if there’s someone he could spend the night with. The price is then negotiated.

Both heterosexual and gay customers would visit our place. I would also get some sort of bonus from them. My friends said that it’s for permitting them to use my place as a negotiating area of some sort. They wouldn’t tell me straight in the face but I was becoming more like a pimp. They never urged me to try it mainly because I don’t want to.

Then one night, about two in the morning, when their patrons have picked up all my friends, I was left alone waiting for them to come back. A red car slowed down in front of our stall. He did the same routine. The man is not that old, most probably in his late thirties. You could tell that he’s a closet gay. He slid down the window and asked for a menthol cigarette. I gave it to him. He asked if he could have some candies. I gave him some. But when I asked for the payment, he replied curtly that he has no small bills. He then showed me the rolls of bills in his pocket. Frankly, it was the biggest amount of money I have seen in my whole life.

He said that he could give me some of the thousand bills in his possession if I would go with him. At first, I said no. But when he pulled a gun out of the drawer in his car, fear and rage inside me flickered.

“Either come with me or I’ll have to force you into something we both don’t want,” the man said.

“The store, “ I replied.

“Leave it,” he was grinning, “You’re store is not as much as what I would pay you later.”

Mainly out of fear, I stepped inside his car.

“We’ll go somewhere private,” he said.

I was silent. Things were happening so fast that it begun to make my head spin.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to put your mouth on my stick.”

I managed to say that I don’t know how.

“You’ll learn,” was his reply.

I asked him that shouldn’t it be the one giving oral sex.

He answered back, “The customer is always right, baby.”

We drove for about twenty minutes before we stopped inside a subdivision on the outskirts of the city. He opened his zipper.

“Come on, I want to enjoy this,” he said. He then pulled my hair and shoved my mouth to his thing. It was disgusting.

“Wait,” I said, “I want a downpayment.”

“What? Okay, wait,” the man said.

I caught him off guard. I ran out of the car. There were empty lots around where grasses as tall as I am abound. I felt the blades of the grass hitting me on the arms and the legs but it did not matter. I heard the man following me. It was obvious that he’s drunk with illegal drugs.

My legs were failing me so I sat down and waited.

It was then that I prayed, incoherent words that all meant, “Please, God. If you truly exist, then stop this man. Show me a sign.”

But even before I could finish with my prayer, the man was right behind me pointing his gun at the back of my head. I turned and saw the menacing smile on his face. Up to now, I could not erase that picture of his face from my mind. He then slammed the butt of the gun on my face. I was half-conscious.

He then pulled down my shorts and inserted his penis into my anus. The pain was more than I could imagine. It’s not the physical pain that almost made me crazy but the humiliation and utter disgust for the whole thing. I then realized my utmost hate for life and my existence. As he was thrusting in a maniac way you can imagine, he was laughing at the same time. He was moaning and grunting at the same time.

“Animal! You don’t not deserve to live,” I cried.

This seemed to please him more, painfully thrusting on what seemed like an eternity.

I wanted to live. Regaining my strength, I forced my hands to form a fist. Still shaking and still on that awkward position, I threw sand on his face. It caught his eyes. In an instant, he was off me.

He swung his gun from side to side shouting curses. With his pants down, I struggled to get mine up. I then kicked his legs. He groaned in pain. He was off balance. He dropped the gun. Struggling to get it, he caught one of my arms. With that, I pointed his .45 caliber at his forehead. I pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the grass around us.

“It’s over,” I told myself. He lay sprawling on the ground.

What made me unlike the others who kill is the fact that I clean my act after I made my revenge. I wiped my fingerprints off the gun and saw some drug paraphernalia he at his car. I wiped the seat of the car where I sat. I scattered the drug paraphernalia around him then made my escape. I also took his money. Thinking the about the hot meal I had the day after, I told myself that everything was worth the thrill of the kill. Plus all his money became mine.

I don’t know whatever happened to the investigation but owing to the fact that local police are incompetent enough not to check out details, I was never convicted, not even accused. The investigation ended as an abuse of illegal drugs which led to suicide.

I never told my friends what really happened. I just told them that I had to rush home because I need to go to the comfort room. The truth is, I burned all my clothes then came back to gather the things at the makeshift store. I acted normal enough. I still sold cigarettes at the place until I’ve decided that I could earn more by killing.