I was six years old the first time I experienced what it was like to be murdered. Needless to say, I was terrified. I remember being tied to a bed as a strange man with a crazed look in his eyes proceeded to tell me he was going to kill me. I can still see the look of anticipation on his face as he told me how I’d “soon wish that I had never been born.” Bizarrely, he kept calling me “Rebecca.” I wanted to tell him my name was Bobby, but I couldn’t stop sobbing.
The strange man suddenly lunged at me. I wailed like a deranged banshee as I cried “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
Loud footfalls pounded the hallway. BUMPH. BUMPH. BUMPH. My mom barrelled through the doorway. A lioness protecting her cub. Her eyes fell upon my writhing body. “Bobby,” she cried. “Wake up! Wake up!” My eyes blinked open. There was no strange man, no blood or bruises from the frenzied attack. “It was just a dream, sweetie. A bad dream,” Mom said. I clung to her like a limpet to a rock. She could see the fear in my eyes and said nothing about my terror-induced soiled sheets. “Come on, you can sleep in my bed” she whispered with a gentle smile.
The next morning, I was munching through a bowl of ‘Cap’n Crunch’ when I heard the news on the TV. “A man had been arrested for beating his estranged wife to death with his bare hands.” I gazed in disbelief at the photo of the perpetrator on the television screen. It was the man from my dream. I realized that I had experienced first-hand what poor Rebecca had gone through as she met her dreadful fate. I wanted to tell my mom exactly what had happened, but I knew she would not understand as I myself did not understand it.
Over the next few years, I lost count of the number of times I was ‘murdered’ by some random stranger whom I had never met or ever wished to. Men and women of all ages and ethnicities visited my dreams and proceeded to kill me in a myriad of ways. I knew all too well the sensation of being shot, stabbed, strangled, drowned, poisoned or bludgeoned to death. The pain was often excruciating. I had experienced the horror of being gut-shot on more than one occasion. Death was slow and agonizing. Similarly, having my skull cracked open with a blunt instrument – my brains scattered all over the floor and walls, was something I was quite familiar with. Most of these murders were subsequently reported in the news. I never knew who the victims were or what they looked like at the time of the attack. Though sadly, I knew all too well the pain and fear they experienced as they met their demise. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for their killers. I saw their faces up close each time. Some of them still haunt me to this day.
My ‘dreams’ were not premonitions as I only experienced each murder as it happened, never before. Still, I realized that I had some kind of psychic ability and wanted to put it to good use. It was on my twelfth birthday when I swaggered into my local police station and proudly exclaimed that “I was going to help them solve a particularly gruesome murder that had been all over the news.” Their laughter reverberated in my ears as I scurried off with my tail between my legs.
Alas, this became an ongoing theme as I grew older. I had learned not to approach law enforcement about my ‘dreams’ as I was routinely dismissed as a “nutcase” or “attention seeker.” I was forced to send in information anonymously. Often it would be the name of the perpetrator or a license plate or some other clue. Sadly, most of these were never acted upon and the killer would remain at large. Sometimes they would reoffend and take more innocent lives.
Naturally, this infuriated me, not just out of anger for the multitude of victims, but also because of the personal toll my ‘dreams’ had taken on my mental health. I was constantly on edge and full of anxiety. I dreaded the thought of falling asleep only to wake up in the throes of a brutal attack, being forced to endure pain beyond most people’s comprehension. I began to take solace in drink and drugs. Anything to block out the pain and sheer terror even if it was just for an hour or two. Unfortunately, nothing I took or did offered anything other than a brief respite from this living hell.
My personal life was non-existent. I hadn’t been intimate with anyone in years. After all, who would want to snuggle up to someone who would invariably wake up screaming in the middle of the night, drenched head-to-toe in sweat?
One particularly agonizing death was the time I was attacked vicariously by a sexual predator. He shackled me to a filthy mattress then proceeded to rape and torture me for what seemed like a lifetime. Eventually, after having satisfied his depraved desires, he doused me in petrol. The air was pungent with the odor of the flammable liquid. I trembled like a leaf in a hurricane as he struck the match. FWOOM. To say I was scared shitless as I gazed at the naked flame would be an understatement.
He savored the moment, then gave me a little wink before tossing the match in my direction. It was like a shooting star falling gently from the sky until it landed on my bare legs. Words cannot describe the unimaginable pain my body endured as it was turned into a human fireball. The flames crept up my legs. My flesh sizzled like hot bacon. Droplets of melted fat dripped down my thighs like hot wax down a candle. The smell of raging flames as they seared through my flesh was nauseating. I screeched “I’m coming for you” before I suddenly snapped awake. My heart was pounding, and my entire body was shaking uncontrollably, but I only had one thing on my mind: “Vengeance!”
I was done with being a victim. No one had ever endured what I had. Each victim had died once and however painful and terrifying it was for them, at least when it was over, it was over for good. Not me. I had died over a thousand times. Often in ways so brutal and barbaric, that they were burned in my memory forever. Eventually, it dawned on me that if I had to suffer this nightmare existence then so too would the perpetrators of these heinous deeds. My decision was cemented after one particularly harrowing and gruesome death finally sent me over the edge.
It was pitch black. The road was deserted when suddenly out of nowhere a speeding Audi mounted the sidewalk and smashed into me. The incredible force knocked me thirty feet into the air. I landed with a sickening thud. My mangled body lay twisted and broken in a position no contortionist could ever hope to achieve. My smashed left femur jutted through my flesh at a 45-degree angle. My right eyeball dangled from its socket. My smashed teeth lay scattered on the asphalt. The pain was off the charts. But my would-be killer was not finished with me. The tall, casually dressed man with pale blue eyes and short dark hair climbed out of the Audi. He gazed at the pile of broken bones and bloody flesh before him, then calmly lit a cigarette and smoked it in complete silence.
He took one last drag then flicked the butt at my broken body. “At least they’ll have your DNA,” I thought. But no, after a sudden look of realization, he retrieved the potential clue. His icy demeanor remained steadfast as he climbed into his vehicle. He suddenly lowered the car window and managed a satisfied smile as he slowly reversed over me. My head exploded like a ripe melon as a ton of metal rolled over it. Blood, bone and brains splattered all over the road.
I snapped awake like I had done hundreds of times before. I knew I could not save the real victim as I had no idea who she was, but at least I now had her killer’s license plate.
Research revealed the man’s name was Trexler. Turned out he was a cop, but not just any cop, a homicide detective of all things. I couldn’t believe it. I later discovered that the woman he had so cruelly run over and left to die like a piece of roadkill was his mistress. Her name was Vicky Flynn and she had made the mistake of threatening to tell his wife about their illicit affair. I quickly surmised that the callous bastard was unlikely to kill again. Trexler was evidently not a serial killer. But I had experienced first-hand exactly what poor Vicky had endured. No way was I going to allow him to get away with it.
It wasn’t a decision I had taken lightly; I knew the risk. Cop killers were despised by law enforcement and the public alike. If I failed, my life would be over. Still, after what he had done, I was prepared to take the risk. Besides, my quality of life was at an all-time low. “It couldn’t get any worse,” I told myself. I was adamant that I was going to crush every bone in his body just like he had done to Vicky.
My plan was to put false plates on my car, wait until Trexler finished work then run him over. “He’s going to find out what real pain is,” I whispered. I went to bed full of trepidation knowing this time tomorrow I would either be behind bars or a wanted killer. I tossed and turned before I eventually drifted off. I expected to dream of yet another murder and sure enough this time was no different.
A figure in dark clothing and a ski mask squeezed through a bathroom window. Suddenly the bathroom door opened, and a man entered. It was Trexler! He threw a punch at the masked figure. CRUNCH. His would-be attacker tumbled backwards into the toilet. The sight would no doubt have been comical if it wasn’t so serious. Trexler ripped off the ski mask. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Though the attacker may have been a stranger to Trexler I recognised him straight away… It was me!
Trexler followed up with a kick to my jaw. Crunch! The pain was excruciating. His eyes filled with rage as he set about beating the living daylights out of me. I somehow pulled myself up and lunged at him. We grappled. Despite his superior size I quickly gained the upper hand. The ten years I had been working out in secret in my basement paid off as I picked him up and body-slammed him onto the hard floor. He groaned then crawled on his hands and knees in a desperate attempt to get away.
As he made his way to the kitchen. I grabbed his right leg. He kicked me hard in the face. I knew then what the expression “a kick like a mule” meant. My eyes welled with tears. Blood gushed from my nose. My vision was somewhat blurred as Trexler scrambled to his feet and made a desperate lunge for a kitchen knife resting on a chopping board on the counter.
I leapt to my feet, and just as he spun round, the glint of the steel blade caught my eye as he sliced open my left arm. The knife cut through my bicep all the way down to the bone. I wanted to cry out in pain but somehow, I kept it together. I managed to swat the bloody blade from his grasp. It skittered across the wooden floor.
A stream of blood gushed from my arm onto the floor like a heavy downpour of rain. I knew instantly that I was screwed. Even if I somehow managed to kill Trexler I had left enough of my DNA to put me away for a dozen lifetimes. Suddenly, Trexler barged past me, I assumed he was heading for the front door, but he veered towards the bathroom. “Big mistake.” he was trapped. No way out. I was going to kill him just like he had killed Vicky. I picked up the knife. It was still dripping with my blood. I moved towards him.
Trexler suddenly yanked the porcelain lid off the top of the cistern revealing a .38 Detective Special taped underneath. I doubt I will ever forget the smug look on his face as he unloaded six shots into me. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. I clutched at my chest as I stumbled backwards into the bath striking my head on the wall tiles as I fell. I gazed at Trexler as I took my last breath…
My eyes suddenly flashed open as I bolted upright in my bed. My torso was drenched in sweat. My mind was racing. This time I was the victim! I had only ever experienced cold-blooded murder vicariously, now for the first time, I was seeing my own death play out. I leapt from my bed and made a b-line for the bathroom. My stomach erupted like lava from a volcano, my partially digested dinner quickly found its way to the bottom of the toilet.
I stood up, washed my mouth, and then took a deep breath. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. A look of concern was quickly replaced by a smug smirk… Thanks to my first-ever premonition I had suddenly realized how to kill Trexler and get away with it!
The next night I stood in Trexler’s bathroom wearing the same clothing and ski mask. The bathroom door swung open. Trexler reacted just like in my dream. He threw a powerful punch but this time I was ready. I blocked it. Gripping his fist in the palm of my hand. Squeezing it like a mouse caught in a trap. He lunged at me. We grappled. I body-slammed him to the floor. CRUNCH. He crawled on his hands and knees towards the kitchen in a desperate attempt to escape. I grabbed his right leg. He kicked out, only this time I was expecting it, I moved my head at the last possible moment. No kick like a mule this time!
Trexler lunged for the kitchen knife on the counter. He spun to face me. I saw the glint of the blade as it cut into the thick padding protecting my bicep beneath my clothing. The look of disbelief on his face was incredibly satisfying.
He charged past me into the bathroom, made a frantic grab for the cistern lid, and removed the .38 Detective Special from its hiding place. The smug look on his face as he proceeded to unload his weapon at me was the stuff dreams are made of. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
A wave of horror suddenly washed over him as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. The smug look on my face easily matched his earlier one as I took the bullets from my pocket and dropped them in front of his disbelieving eyes. He made a frantic bid for one of the bullets, but I was on him in a flash. My hands were around his throat as I started to squeeze the life out of him. “This is for Vicky” I whispered. There was a sudden look of resignation on his face as his life slowly ebbed away. His end had been far more merciful than poor Vicky’s. Still, I was satisfied that never again would he be able to inflict such suffering on a defenseless woman whose only crime had been to fall in love with the cold-hearted monster. My ‘gift’ had finally been put to good use after being nothing but a curse since I was six years old. If I had to suffer so too would the perpetrators of these evil deeds.
Since then, I have avenged several more victims. Each of them has endured untold agony in the lead-up to their deaths. I only target the most vicious and cruel killers. All of them have discovered to their horror exactly what it feels like to take a life as they in turn have done. Each time I seek vengeance I have a premonition just like I did when I ended Trexler. This enables me to remain one step ahead of each and every one of them. I’m able to anticipate their every move and take the necessary action to finish them. Child killers in particular have gotten exactly what they deserved thanks to my ‘gift’ and will continue to do so. I show them as much mercy as they showed their innocent little victims… none whatsoever.
To evade capture I have taken several steps. I now wear glasses in public despite having 20/20 vision. My clothes are loose and baggy to hide my muscular physique. I even wear padding over my rippling six-pack so as not to arouse suspicion. I have purposely developed a stoop to make me appear shorter than I am. When people look at me, they see a bespectacled, diminutive, out-of-shape nerd who would mostly likely get his ass kicked by a ten-year-old. I’m the last person anyone would suspect of eradicating the murderous scum!
Including as it turns out, the sexual predator I told you about who after raping and torturing his victim gave her a cheeky wink before setting her on fire. After several years I have finally tracked him down and he’s about to learn that revenge is a dish served hot… piping hot!
In the meantime, I urge you all to live a good and honest life and hope that you never entertain the idea of committing murder. Because if you do… I’ll be coming for you!