Descent

It was my first memory, but to this day, it's my most vivid. That man's eyes were filled with pure, vitriolic hatred. He fired directly at a young child, as if the child had done unimaginably awful things to the man. I later learned it was a .45 ACP round, delivering around 500 foot pounds of force to the child's chest. It was fired from about 50 feet away, travelling 1000 feet per second. I know this because I, for reasons I still don't quite understand, grabbed the bullet casing during the commotion. It took place on December 29th, 1995, just several minutes past noon. The man turned away from me after firing, dropped his dull metal handgun, and sprinted into the woods nearby. Police response time was just over 16 minutes; They arrived, cleared the scene, and, according to my endless research, found absolutely no reliable information on the man. The young boy seemed entirely unremarkable as well. 12 years old, a 6th grader. He was an only child, C+ average, interested in nothing more than his friends, girls, and television. Whatever hatred the man felt for the boy was completely unwarranted; The boy spent all his time either at school or at home with his father. The police theorized that the man was mentally ill and misappropriated hatred toward another person on the boy.
That was over 20 years ago, yet the event is burned into my mind. I relive it again and again and again. I've gone through countless psychiatrists, counselors, and drugs trying to undo the damage inflicted upon my 6 year old self, yet I'm still left broken. I feel the man's eyes in the back of my head. Such malice, such unabashed abhorrence. I feel as if his eyes are becoming my own. At first I didn't understand how one could feel that way about another human being, but as I descended into depression and anger, I started to understand. I started to hate this man that I had never truly met. We had never said a word to one another, yet I wished for his death. I wished I could kill him the way he killed that boy. I could have done anything. I could have gotten straight A's in school and went on to work in a fortune 500 company. I could have focused on football, gotten a full ride scholarship to a prestigious school, and played professionally. Instead, I took a dive down the rabbit's hole of my own mind. This man drove me to insanity, and as a result, I had nothing. At 22, I was unemployed, and spent all my time reading, drawing, or any other task that could keep me distracted. This man may have only wanted to kill that boy, but he brought something far worse than death upon me.
Many times, I tried to kill myself. I swallowed nearly a whole bottle of sleeping pills I had been prescribed, but woke up in the hospital and spent several weeks in "rehabilitation". I slit my wrists trying to bleed out, but simply didn't cut deep enough I suppose, and the pain proved to be too much. For the longest time, I didn't have a reason to live. My life was taken from me at a very young age, and my meager existence since then has been entirely without purpose. However, I finally found a purpose. I decided I would find this man, and I would kill him.
I obtained the prints lifted from the handgun he used, and managed to find several people who had seen him after the shooting that the police seemed to miss. I only had a vague description of the man. He had long brown hair, and a messy, unkempt beard. That wasn't enough detail to be sure, but several shopkeepers did remember a man like that come through that day in a hurry, distraught enough that it was memorable. They never remembered much, but after years of travelling down the highway he seemed to have followed, I came across an old family-owned diner. I asked the owner about the man, and a shocked look came over his face. "I do remember that man... He was very peculiar, seemed to have some sort of mental problems. He actually told me someone might come through looking for him someday, but I figured he meant the authorities. I told them about it, but they had no clue who he would have been." The owner sighed, looking somewhat uneasy. "I'm not sure why you're looking for this man, or who either of you are, but he asked me to tell anyone asking about him to turn back while they could. To go have a real life, and above all, to not do it." I tried asking what he meant, but the owner of the place seemed to have no idea what any of it meant.
I sat in the parking lot for several hours, thinking about it. This man I have been hunting, I had never had any contact with him. This indirect message was the first contact I have ever had with him, in any sense. It was cryptic and meaningless. Why would I listen to a single thing he said? I pressed on, stopping by nearly every store, restaurant, or gas station along the highway. Finally, I happened upon an old convenience store. The owner seemed confused by my questions, but told me he had no problem sharing the surveillance tapes from that day. I looked over them for hours. I looked at every single customer, and nobody looked like that man. I watched it several times, trying to remember what the man looked like, what he was wearing, how he walked... Finally, I saw it. I saw the man. He had gotten a haircut, and shaved some of the beard, but I saw his eyes. They were blurred, undistinguishable, but unmistakably him. However, he seemed somber. Regretful. I didn't care. I stared into his eyes for hours. I imagined killing him for what he had done. I wanted him to beg for mercy. I wanted him to understand exactly what he had done to me, and for him to experience much worse things. I finally removed the tape, threw it at the ground, stomped on it, spat on it. I couldn't find the man, but this was still somewhat satisfying.
I was going to find this man. I didn't know how, but I was going to find him. I found a gunsmith in my travels. I bought an old handgun from him. An old 1911, chambered for .45 ACP. I asked him about refilling that same casing I retrieved, making it usable. It was a fitting use, I thought. It would be perfectly appropriate for me to rid myself of the physical object of my obsession, and rid myself of this mental obsession with it. The gunsmith seemed to be rather wary of me, and even mentioned that I seemed to be out for blood. He said he didn't want specifics, and just said to make sure it didn't get back to him. I didn't mind, of course.
I found another surveillance tape with that man on it. This one was still rather blurry, but I had the forethought to get a picture of the man for my questioning, before destroying the tape in another fit of rage. Picture in hand, I continued my search. The man had gone off the highway at this point, but still stuck to main roads. Some people I questioned seemed confused. Some said the picture was too blurry, or that it was too long ago. Still, some remembered him. The man was absolutely manic at this point, and seemed to stop at far more stores and diners than neccessary. More and more people remembered him, simply for his odd behaviour. It may have happened many years ago, but it felt as if I was hot on his trail.
I stopped by a gas station for the usual questioning, but this one had been built after the man came through. I started filling up the tank on my car, and then, I saw him. I saw the man. Just at the side of the road. He stared into me with those eyes, then walked into the road. Passing cars seemed to pay him no mind, but he didn't get hit. I ran after him, and nearly got hit in the process. I got to the other side of the road and he was gone. I didn't know if it really happened at the time, but looking back on it, I knew it must have been a hallucination. My mind had been breaking for a long time, but that's the first time I had a hallucination.
It started happening more and more often. I would sometimes see him walking along the road, or standing behind me as I questioned people. People could certainly tell that I was losing my grip on reality. Many were visibly uncomfortable when I talked to them, others asked if I had anyone taking care of me that they could call. I was losing it, but I couldn't stop. I had to be close to finding out who this man was. Close to killing him. I had to be.
I finally happened upon an old motel. The owner was around when the man came through, and remembered him. But then... Then he told me. The man had killed himself in one of the rooms. Room 62, in fact. The owner actually had a clipping of the local paper about the suicide. They never identified him. The man killed himself on January 15th, 1996. He simply cut his own throat and died in the room's bathtub. I was stunned. My life was aimless again. The man was already dead. I could never experience the joy of killing him.
It was storming that night. I was wandering aimlessly, completely lost in every sense of the word. I walked into some sort of decorative metal art piece in a local park. It was like a geodesic sphere, but curved in a way I couldn't quite comprehend. It was one big, seamless piece. It didn't appear to be welded together. It was so serene, so simple, yet complex. I sat in the middle of it as a storm raged all around me. The lightning was constant, loud, bright, yet somehow calming. I was absolutely entranced. Lightning struck the metal sphere, and then I blacked out.
I woke up in a field. I had no idea what happened. I remembered the storm, the metal art, the lightning strike, but I wasn't sure if it was real. I wasn't sure anything was real. The man appeared everywhere, taunting me. I finally found my way to the old motel, but it didn't seem the same. I walked inside, hoping to ask the owner to just have the police pick me up. I stopped outside the entrance, and saw a newspaper. December 25th, 1995. I shrugged it off, assuming it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. After all, that man was following me. I was seeing him everywhere, misreading small print was a reasonable next step. The motel doors were locked, however. "Closed for Christmas Eve/Christmas, come back on the 26th". I couldn't open the doors. Either I had completely lost touch with reality, or I somehow went back to to several days before that man killed the boy.
I was already insane. I was seeing things, not making sense when I spoke, missing memories... Reality no longer mattered. If this was a fantasy, I was going to enjoy it. I was going to kill the man who caused all this, even if it was in my head. It was the 25th; I had 4 days to get all the way back to the site of the shooting. I stole a bike sitting outside the motel and went as fast as I could. I still had the handgun, and that single bullet. I could do it.
I finally got there. December 29th, 1995. 11:45 am. He would be here any minute. I sat and waited. And waited. I saw him everywhere, but I knew they weren't real. I would know if he was real. Then, I saw him. He was lifting his gun. He was going to fire. He was going to ruin my life. I glared at him. I was going to enjoy it. I fired that single bullet, and hit him directly in the chest. I basked in it for a moment. I had done it. I had dreamt of it for so long, and it finally happened. I stepped over his body, and the hallucinations washed away. Sitting there, in a pool of blood, was an innocent young boy. I had killed him.
You know the rest. I ran. And I ran. I didn't know what do to. I didn't know if it had really happened, but I felt more sane than I ever had my entire life. None of it made sense, but everything finally fit together. I let myself become exactly what had ruined my life. I stopped by every store, motel, and restaraunt I could find. Part of me hoped that seeing something familiar would wake me from these delusions. I finally made it to the motel where that man-- where I-- had committed suicide. And so, here it is. I'm either going to wake myself from this nightmare, or I'm going to die. If this has all been real... I'm sorry. I'm sorry to all the people who have had to deal with my psychoses. I'm sorry to the family who will never see their young boy grow up. I would give anything to take back what I have done... But I can't. Hatred creates hatred, rage creates rage. When met with hatred, one should respond with kindness. Anyone reading this... Just remember. It's not worth it. Never succumb to hate.
Category:Reddit Stories
Category:Horror