A Tall Tale

This was genocide. His wife laid there motionless, dead in her bed like a marionette doll with a bullet happily buried into her skull.

You could smell the gun residue staining the air around silk lavender sheets drenched in a lover's quarrel. Her body laid there skull pouring like a fountain onto white lavished carpet. You could pour a full wine glass with her blood.

Staring at her corpse he picked up his .45

The gun was heavy in his hand as stalked his way down the long hallway. The walls had stories to tell. Memories of him and his family. His four year old daughter, Raine, his eight year old son, Elijah and now his late wife, Rachel. He peeked into his daughters room and took a deep breath. His eyes razor blades cutting through to where her body lay. He stalked her with eyes seduced by murder. Breath panting like a rabid hound thirsty to sick the barrel of his beloved into the skeleton of his baby girl. First he sat down in her rocking chair carving his fingers into a gun. He was ready. He loaded his love with a single bullet. He walked grimly up to his daughter. She was awake.

"Papa?" She said her blue eyes gazing up at the barrel of his gun.

"You're not my daughter." He said pulling the trigger.

She painted the wall behind her. The room falling to the sound of death as her decapitated body fell like rain.

He sighed satisfied and smiled a cheshire cat's grin walking away from a virgin corpse caressing his gun.

He walked down the hall into a blue room of wonder. Toy cars scattered the floor, posters of super heroes painted the wall. His son was not in bed. He breathed and a sinister grin masked his face. As he called out, "Eli... Eli... Don't make me find you. Come out. Papa has a story to tell you." He breathed in again, this time smelling urine he looked down. A trail of fluids stained the carpet leading a path to the closet. He walked out of the room.

The little boy thinking he had been free panicked dashing out the door only to meet the barrel of his gun. A loud shriek escaped Elijas voice as his father beat him with the barrel of his gun. Ripping back flesh with each strike. Finally standing over his broken, beaten, and maimed son he placed his foot on his chest gazing into his son's eyes and said, I loved you most." turning a sad boy into rubble with three gunshot wounds. He sat his gun down next to the carcass of his son and walked back to his daughter's rocking chair. Tired and exhausted, hungry, and fulfilled. He had done the act proudly he thought to himself craving a cigarette. He wasn't a smoker but what was cancer to murder?

He watches her. Closely from the 10th floor. She is on the 3rd floor of the executive building at Google. Her brown long hair luscious in the summer sunlight. Her green eyes piercing and empathetic. They held her heart so beautifully. He smirked pulling out his .50 caliber rifle and setting up the stock. He had chosen to be at the southern side of the hotel approximately 5miles away. He breathed, Relaxing his body and envisioning a clear concise execution of his kill. He breathed out pulling the trigger. The bullet fired from his gun spiraling through the air. Her sandwhich fell. Her head hit the floorm she was dead. Her kids were now orphans and would probably be split up in foster care. He had ruined several lives that day. He smiled. Pulling out a cigarette. He took a drag. The sunset was beautiful from his apartment. They cops would surely have him by sundown. He was okay with that. He had no family to go back to. He had killed them. He pulled out a revolver and loaded all but one round. He put the gun inside his mouth pointing the gun towards his skull. He pulled the trigger. His body fell as the gun hit the floor. He had killed everyone he loved