Scribbled Thoughts

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🔪📝🙄 – Swipe for two stories from yesterday’s prompt! Story credits: @chelseycola @fede_paolini_vp20 – #writing #prompt #community #promptsre

A post shared by Writing Prompts Re (@writing.prompts.re) on Jul 16, 2019 at 12:44pm PDT

I had only ever required one permit for myself, ten years ago on my father. My mother had died of cancer four years earlier, a painful process that made her wither slowly before my eyes. My father’s love for her had faded long before that, preferring short-term lust with young women. He had been in the pub woeing a future conquest as I sat in the hospice, watching my mother breathe for the last time.

            I wanted to run but I dreamed of justice instead. I went home and waited, informing the stumbling, drunk, waste of space his wife had died when he finally decided to return at six a.m. He paused a moment, then grunted and disappeared upstairs.

            Before my mother has been diagnosed I’d completed a beginner’s course at the local archery club. I was eighteen when she died, two weeks before starting my accounting course at the university. I joined their archery club immediately, starting an early part-time job setting up a bakery before my morning classes. For three years I worked, studied, practiced and saved my money.

            My graduation was a wonderful day spent celebrating with friends and starting a relationship. A beautiful woman named Claire, who had been experimenting between men and women for the last year, had been dancing around me for six months. My sexuality had never been a secret, but I wasn’t interested in people still exploring their preferences. Claire, however, was too much of a temptation, and a way to escape.

            Our relationship only lasted three months, but I spent two of those living in a shared house with her. My father merely grunted as I left, eyes never leaving the T.V. After Claire and I parted I found a different shared home, preferring to save as much money as possible. For a year I worked, attended archery practice in the evenings and tournaments at the weekend, improving my skills until I was winning trophies.

            On the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death I filed for the permit.

            Target: My father, Alan Phillips

            Justification: Was a terrible husband to his dying wife. Remains a terrible father, is wasting his late wife’s money and running her house into the ground.

            The woman at the desk nodded, stamping the form as approved.

            ‘Good luck. Remember, you only have 48 hours.’

            I gave her a cold smile, ‘I only need four.’

            My father was still sleeping off his latest drunken indulgence when I let myself in. I had my recurve bow in its case. I took my time assembling it, glancing occasionally at his bloated face, drool on his chin, the TV’s light reflecting on his red complexion.

            I didn’t bother waking him, didn’t bother with a speech. I was so close there was no way I could miss his heart. He died instantly. I felt no guilt, no satisfaction. I felt lighter, and relief.

            There was a number to call on the back of the form. In fourty-five minutes two men had shown up to remove the body and the chair stained with blood. All that was left was blood on the carpet and an invoice.

            The paperwork afterwards was a lot more exhausting then the murder. Eventually I was transferred the ownership of the house and its mortgage. My hard-earned savings secured a manageable billing situation, as well as enough to redecorate the entire house.

            For six years I was happy. I had relationships that ended, but none bad enough to need a permit. I never wanted to kill anyone else.

            Until…

            ‘I just didn’t think it would be that hard!’ Claire sobbed as I handed her another tissue, ‘He’s such a prick, and the stuff he’s done to me…but I just couldn’t do it. And now my permit has run out.’

            Claire had run through her experimental stage and married a bitter newsagents owner five years ago. They had a beautiful daughter, Lara.

            ‘He doesn’t do this sort of thing to Lara, does he?’ I asked, waving at the burn mark on her arm.

            Claire gave a bitter laugh, ‘Trust me, if he’d ever even hinted about doing this to her, I wouldn’t have waited to get a permit before killing him.’

            ‘Does he still come home after work and sit on the outside decking for a drink?’

            ‘Yes, he stays out of the way until dinner’s ready.’

            ‘And you’re still good friends with your neighbour, right? The single mum with her own business?’

            ‘…Yes.’ Claire said, frowning. ‘Why?’

            ‘I’ll kill him for you. You just need to make sure Lara is staying somewhere else, and your neighbour lets me use her upstairs window.’

            So three days later, on a Friday, I took a half-day off work and took my form to the Legal Murder Office.

            Target: Tom Hill

            Justification: Physically abusing his wife Claire Hill, my friend.

            It was quickly approved and I made my way to Claire’s neighbour’s house, walking instead of driving in case Tom recognised my car. Carrying my big bow case was awkward but years of archery had given me strong arm muscles.

            Claire’s neighbour Susan was waiting with a buffet of food and the kettle ready to boil.

            ‘I thought we could celebrate, you know, after. I hate that bastard.’

            I set up my bow upstairs and chatted for two hours with Susan as we waited. Eventually Tom opened the back door and settled into his favourite chair. The angle was a little awkward, I had to shoot him in the back three times through his chair before he stopped moving. I waited five minutes, looking for any twitches, before calling the number on the back of the form.

            Susan watched with me as the men took the body away.

            ‘You’re pretty good at this,’ She remarked, matter of fact. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in killing my old business partner? She conned me out of a lot of money.’

            I watched as Claire stared at where her husband had died, crying. Were they tears of relief or grief? I wasn’t sure.

            ‘Why not? This is started to feel fun.’