Warehouse Tales

He was inside the warehouse, the bastard. I could see him clearly through the open window, he was smoking. A TV was on, it was dark and he was laughing, he was actually laughing. He obviously felt no remorse and neither would I, not now.

I took another swing of gin, I needed it. I needed something to dull my senses, to kill all inhibitions, my rage wasn’t enough. Normally I’m a rational man who thrives on inhibition, that’s what separates us from the animals that roam the streets parading themselves as something human. He was one of them and tonight I would settle the score. My name is Alex and that bastard in the warehouse killed my wife.

He had changed my life in one night, just one night, turning my home to a crime scene. My bedroom, which housed such precious memories with the woman I married, was now the embodiment of an image from the mind of Steven King. She was beautiful, even in her mangled state; he turned her from grace to a coroner’s work piece.

It had taken me a while to get here, hours in a bar trying to muster the courage to get to this state, nights of insomnia in hotel rooms and of course the money for the gun. It had to be something special, I wanted him to fill the pain, so I had to be sure he wouldn’t, couldn’t die on the first shot. No he had to bleed, scream, cry, and hurt like I did.

She wasn’t a saint, my wife; she had actually had an affair. It hadn’t lasted too long and I admit that it was my fault and it hurt. Yet even then, she always make sure I knew how much she loved me, needed me and here her lover was, the same bastard that killed her. Now I realize I love her more than I could ever care to admit.

I was inside now, oddly he hadn’t noticed me, I hadn’t been so quiet. Weren’t these animals meant to be extra alert, especially after such atrocities? He couldn’t be that confident, could he? It was then I noticed the bottle in his hand, he had been drinking, just like me. But obviously I was somewhat more sober than he was.

No use wasting an opportunity, my boss taught me that, so I pull out my gun walk towards him and plug him one through the back of the chair. That caused a reaction from him, no use wasting opportunity, good advice, I plug him a few more. The gun feels lighter in my hand as it surges in me a sense of power, dominance. His still alive, crying, begging, calling my name, talking but I don’t want to hear him talk, I want to hear him scream.

By the time I leave there he’s lying dead in a pool of his own blood and I’m trying hard no to hold the vomit in my throat till I get to the car. I feel cold and disgusted with myself but then as I get in the car, a sense of calm hits me, I remember why I did this. It wasn’t that the bastard slept with my wife and then killed her; it was that the punk had the audacity to overcharge me for it all.