Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST (29 page)

Over time, he held true to his ideas and achieved a high degree of
success with most of them. Twenty had already been returned to the general
population without mishap. He was happy with the overall results except for
that of one troublesome patient. Matthew was a particularly frustrating case
and one of the more horrific of the murderers ensconced in the small cells that
served as their permanent homes.

The sterile odor often associated with a laboratory assailed
Matthew’s nostrils as he sluggishly opened his eyes, struggling for an eternity
against the hated drugs. By sheer force of will, he regained consciousness
ahead of schedule.

Fluorescent lighting forced him to squint as he listened to the
collective noises that swirled disjointedly around him. There was a flurry of
activity behind him. Judging from the sound that their shoes made against the
terrazzo floor, there were only two other people in the room with him—the
doctor and his faithful nurse. However, they were very busy, too busy to realize
that he was almost fully awake.

Matthew’s mind was jumbled with random thoughts. He strained to
focus their clarity.
Why do they persist
in keeping me so heavily drugged? I’m not mad; I don’t need this continual
assault on my mental faculties. Before they discovered me, I was the perfect
killing machine. I was like a spider... yes I remember now. I was tending my
territory with ruthless efficiency.

But that seems so
long ago… long before they brought me here… long before I met “IT”.

“He’s coming around, Doctor,” said the nurse anxiously as she
turned and found him awake. The administered dosage should have caused him to
sleep for at least another hour. She hastily checked her charts to confirm the
proper dosage had been placed in the drip line.

Matthew smiled inwardly. The rustle of rapidly turning pages was
but a small reward for him. These were the small victories that reinforced his
sense of superiority over his captors. Still the perfect killing machine...
the spider
.

Removing a penlight from her uniform, she pulled back his eyelids
and shined the light directly in his left eye first, then the right. It was
always the same routine.

She’s a functionary,
incapable of variation—a pathetic creature of habit.
These were
Matthew’s last thoughts as the light seemed to pierce directly to his brain.
It caused the acid to churn violently
in his stomach. Nauseousness swept over him.

As he began to regain control of his body, he thought,
Bitch! You’ll be the first to die when it’s
time for me to leave. I’ll savor every delectable moment as I escort you from
this life and guide you painfully into the waiting arms of death. You will
dance the last dance with me… I promise.

Matthew jerked spasmodically as he mentally surmounted the pain
and the rapidly growing wave of nausea. It was then that the back of his hand
brushed the cool steel of the bed rail as she plodded through her examination.
An involuntary shudder of pleasure rippled deliciously through his body as he
momentarily imagined that he’d found his knife. The pain was gone now and he
reveled in his musings. His lovely, sweet knife was the tool he used to tend
his territory.

Over the years, the lethal weapon had become an extension of his
delusional self. A cold, steel weapon of destruction in his crusade to rid the world
of those he deemed unwanted and a burden on society. The homeless, sick, and
alcoholic husks of human debris that littered the alleyways and streets of the
cities must be culled from society to improve the overall condition of
humanity. This tool, this magnificent tool, devoid of any emotions, was perfect
for the job. It was the natural order. The strong preyed on the weak and the
weak provided fodder for the continuation of a stronger species.

They had deprived him of his mission for so long now, too long by
any standards. Society would soon be top heavy with useless, unnecessary
people. His brain burned with urgency, necessity. It was nature’s way—he
provided the necessary means to ensure the survival of the fittest. His life
was being wasted in the imprisonment of the drugs and his confining cell. The
state didn’t understand or didn’t care. Prison was a punitive action taken by
puny, unenlightened bureaucrats. They could imprison his body, but his mind
roamed free to plan for the future and the freedom to continue his
mission.
     

Matthew ached with yearning for the feel of his knife once more.
The steel of the bed rail pleasurably seared the back of his hand with a wanton
desire. Pulsing quickly throughout his body, the ecstasy of his memories concentrated
in his loins and he became aroused immediately—a fact not lost to the
nurse’s ritualistic examination.

Letting his earlier rage slip away completely, Matthew surrendered
to his thoughts. Following a practiced path, he drifted back to a time before
here. He went to a time when his body, mind, and soul were free. It was a
cherished time before his confinement… before “IT.”

Flexing his fingers, he wrapped them delicately around the bed
rail in a practiced motion. In his mind, he was holding his knife once more,
recalling the first moment he conceived its design. It would take several
months before he could locate the right steel. He spent countless hours on
research about the numerous varieties of stainless steel.

Settling on 316L, a surgical quality stainless, he found a short
length of one-inch plate stock at a small supply house out west. Traveling
there over a weekend, he made the purchase while disguised, using an assumed
name, and with a fictitious address. No one even looked at him, or even cared,
but it never hurt to be overly cautious.

A spider waits until the precise moment to strike. It may rush up
once the prey is snared in its web, but it always cautiously waits to strike
the killing blow, holding back the pent-up excitement, the urgency. At
precisely the correct moment, it lunges in to extract the penalty for its
victim’s carelessness.

Letting a smile cross his lips, Matthew remembered carefully
fashioning his knife to resemble the long, curved fangs of a tarantula. He
copied the elegantly graceful curve to perfection. It took almost three full
months of filing and polishing the steel to complete his weapon. The work was
long and difficult, but the upcoming task was worth the effort.

When he was finished, it was nearly twelve inches long. Instead of
round, he made the handle oval. He continued the oval shape of the handle along
the length of the blade to accommodate a groove, which ran up the inner curve
of his knife—his fang—his scepter of death. It was a magnificent
tool suited to the task of cleansing the world.

Matthew’s plan was to daub a poison, a neurotoxin, along the
groove to paralyze his victims. There was no hilt, only indentations in the
handle for his fingers. His thumb fit comfortably in the hollow he fashioned on
the end of the handle. It afforded maximum pressure with each thrust, combined
with minimal effort. This was a weapon for piercing deeply,
repeatedly—not the amateurish slashing used by common thieves and
muggers.

Matthew even made a form-fitting sheath he hand stitched from
leather and lined with deep purple velvet. There was enough leather left over
to fashion a bag for the vial of poison.

His breathing became rapid as he recalled the touch of the cold
steel. It never ceased to amaze him how the cold, ruthless blade warmed as he
held it, becoming part of his hand, his will, heating with anticipation while
waiting for the precise moment to strike. As the precise moment approached it
was completely heated with his passion, his desire to accomplish its purpose.

It warmed more quickly once it entered a body. He reveled in the
unbridled pleasure it brought him each time the transferred heat almost seared
his palm. It was as if the life force of his victim was transferred to him
instantaneously. This was an affirmation of the righteousness of his mission.
His victims gave unto him their most precious gift—their life—so he
could be made stronger and continue his work.

There could be no real pleasure in brutally assaulting the prey.
You needed to wrap yourself around the body—holding it captive, feeling
its warmth, and feeling the pulse through its flesh. You needed to be patient
and watch the eyes and listen to the labored breathing as the body succumbed to
the neurotoxin and lost all function. The toxin must be administered over and
over again; repeatedly inserting the knife and feeling the curve of it slide
deeply into the flesh, releasing its lethal toxin each time.

There was always the question “
Why?”
on his victim’s lips, but they couldn’t speak. He always put his face close to
theirs, feeling the heat of their breath, smelling the stench of death as it
coursed rapidly through their veins—it was ecstasy.

The front of his pants became wet and the nurse dropped her tray
when she noticed the moisture spreading from the diminishing bulge.

 
“Matthew? Can you
hear me, Matthew?” It was the doctor. He was called from his distraction at the
commotion caused by the nurse.

Opening his eyes, Matthew stared defiantly at the doctor. “I can
hear you just fine.”

“What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on in that head of
yours? You’ve ejaculated into your pants.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Doc.” Matthew’s voice took on a malevolent, yet
tranquil, quality as he continued. “I was just thinking about how good it would
feel to have my hands wrapped around your stinking neck.” More innocently he
added, “And as you can see, I just couldn’t help myself. You’re the
Doctor—you do understand, don’t you?”

“We’ve discussed your antagonistic attitude before, Matthew.
You’ll never make any progress if you persist in fighting me this way.”

“Fighting you, Doc? You’ve got me all wrong.” Matthew smiled and
then added, “You insist that I’m mad, yet you treat me as if I’m sane. You’re
the one working at opposing realities. You better set your priorities straight
before you dare conclude that the truth I speak is fighting you at the very
least and madness at the very most.”

Frustrated at Matthew’s ability to twist a conversation away from
the real point, Dr. Collins buzzed for the orderlies. “I’m sending you back to
your cell, Matthew. Until you cease this antagonistic attitude of yours, I’ll
be forced to continue the drug therapy indefinitely.” He knew it was a lie, but
he needed to force Matthew’s hand.

The ploy worked as he watched panic sweep over Matthew’s body. He saw
him strain violently against the straps binding him to the bed, his face
contorting in obvious terror. “Please don’t send me back there, Doc! I’m
begging you. IT is there...waiting patiently for my return. This is the only
place I can escape IT.”

“Matthew, we’ve had this discussion too many times before. In
fact, we’ve had this discussion every time we’ve met over the last six months.”

“I know Doc, but IT waits. I’m not mad,” he pleaded. “IT waits for
me. IT waits for us all. IT tells me all the time. I’ve told you, Doc... Why
won’t you listen?”

Dr. Collins ignored him. He was tired of the same old story. He
raised a hand and signaled the orderlies to enter the room.

“IT will make you suffer for your arrogance,” threatened Matthew.
“You just don’t know how big a mistake this is. You’ll suffer. Mark my words.”
Saliva frothed from the corner of his mouth and ran down his neck while he
screamed threats at both of them.