I Did It for Marilyn

My name is Naomi Lopez. 13 years ago my girlfriend was kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. I killed her murderer. This is my confession.
My girlfriend’s name was Marilyn Branson. We met back in 2007, when we were both in college. We had a pretty classic meet cute story, actually. We were walking along, both of us holding a ton of overpriced textbooks, when we accidentally walked into each other. We both dropped our books and fell on our butts.
“Sorry!” she said.
“No, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” I replied.
“No, no, it’s ok,” she said back.
We kept talking over each other, profusely trying to apologize, then stopped. Marilyn laughed. She had this cute little laugh that, even back then, made my heart melt. I immediately fell in love.
Turns out, we both had Intro to Psychology together. Despite our initial awkward meeting, we became fast friends. I think it only took a few months for us to actually start dating. She had to keep it quiet from her family, since she wasn’t out to her folks yet. As far as they knew, I was just their daughter’s really close friend, Naomi.
Marilyn loved music. She was probably the most talented pianist I’d ever heard. Watching her play live was incredible. Her fingers danced across the keys with a natural ease. She was able to make up lyrics for songs as she played, melding both lyrics and instrumentals on the fly. It was incredible.
She was incredible.
It’s funny, the first time I saw her play, my very first thought was, “I am so glad she is good with her fingers.”
Marilyn also loved bouncy castles. I remember on one of our first dates, we went to one together. I was a bit shy about it, since it was kind of for kids, but she encouraged me. Watching how happy she was, hearing that cute little laugh again, I joined in.
That was probably the happiest moment of my life.
We were together for three years, and I had never been happier. Every night, we’d come back to our apartment from our classes, have a nice dinner, then go to bed together. Every morning I’d wake up to see her face illuminated in the glow of the sun and all I could think was how much I loved her.
Then, one night in 2010, she didn’t come home. She didn’t say she wouldn’t be back, which was very unlike her. I called her, and got no response. I was worried, but hoped it was nothing. The next morning, she still wasn’t there. Her friends hadn’t seen her. Her family hadn’t heard from her.
I wasn’t sure whether or not to call the cops. She was missing, sure, but could I trust the cops to look for a black lesbian? After 48 hours, though, I broke down and called them. Three showed up. Two of them asked me questions while the other just stood awkwardly in the corner.
They didn’t find much. No sign of any foul play. The last person to see her was a classmate who said she seemed to be heading home. No footage was found of anyone taking her. No ransom note, no evidence, nothing.
Marilyn was outed to her family during the investigation. I don’t know who did it. All I know is that they didn’t take it well. The Bransons had been like a second family to me (my parents had thrown me out after I came out), and having them scream at and blame me for what happened to Marilyn killed me.
I saw her missing person poster. This wonderful, complex person was broken down into a few base components. Black hair, dark skin, scar on her left cheek, green eyes, 190 pounds, and 5’8. They didn’t know about her laugh, or her musical skills, or the way she bit her bottom lip when she was thinking.
I guess that’s why I’m writing all of this. Marilyn Branson was more than just a series of physical characteristics, more than just a victim, and I want everyone who thinks of her to remember that.
Somehow, I was able to graduate. My GPA was shit due to my exhaustion from nights of staying up, hoping against hope for a call from Marilyn. But, I still put in the work to graduate. I knew Marilyn would’ve wanted me to.
Two days after my graduation in 2011, I heard what happened to Marilyn. I spent the first few hours crying in the bathtub, then two days lying in bed. I’d wake up every morning to find myself alone.
Weeks passed. A funeral was held for Marilyn. I wasn’t invited.
Months passed. I tried moving on. I got a job. I tried making friends. After a few years, I tried dating again, but it never worked out. I just couldn’t move on from Marilyn. I thought about her constantly. I thought about that time in the bouncy castle. I thought about her laugh. I thought about finding the son of a bitch who murdered her and killing him with my bare hands.
The police stopped searching, but I never did. I tried finding cases that were similar to Marilyn’s. Dead body in a woodchipper, head used as…well, you know. Nothing. I tried finding unsolved cases near where Marilyn went missing and where she was found. Nothing was similar. Just a lot of mentions of Fargo and some things here and there about some old creepypasta.
I wish I followed up on the creepypasta lead. By the time I realized it was about Marilyn, the person who posted it wouldn’t respond. I’d later find out she died, killed by the same son of a bitch who took Marilyn. Before this woman died, though, she left behind one key piece of information: “chippr.” I didn’t know if that was this guy’s email address (the email provider wasn’t listed) but it was something. Maybe he used this as a username elsewhere. Maybe this could be a lead.
I spent the next week trying to find anything with this lead. I was hoping for a name or an address, but I’d settle on an email address at least.
I didn’t find that though. Just scattered comments left by chippr on various fetish message boards, talking about his woodchipper fetish. Some of these dated back to 2008, two years before Marilyn was kidnapped. How long had this guy been planning something like this?
I also discovered that chippr had been commissioning art of his woodchipper murders for years. It wasn’t easy to find, but it was around. It was also absolutely disgusting. After those commissions, those artists stopped posting.
A few days ago, I got another lead. Some porn artist had an interaction with chippr. I messaged this guy as soon as I could, hoping I’d get a response.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m Marilyn Branson’s girlfriend. I’ve spent years trying to get this chippr guy. Can you help me?”
This guy (who I’ll call Art) replied, “Help you what? Die?”
“No. Help me stop him.”
“Yeah, because that worked out so well for the last person who did that.”
“What, you think he’ll let you live if you keep quiet and make his horny little doodle? He’ll still kill you. He’s been doing this for over a decade. I’m offering you a chance to stop this guy and maybe not die.”
Art didn’t respond for a few minutes. I thought I might’ve pushed him a bit too hard. Then, I got another message from him:
“fine.”
Art sent me what he’d gotten from chippr, including the picture of the woman he tortured. The background of the image had a window, and through it I could see a black truck. Art and I spent a few days planning how to stop chippr. The plan we came to was risky, and it took a lot for me to convince Art to follow through with it, but it was the best shot we had.
We both knew that chippr knew where Art lived, and had no intention of letting him live. He wouldn’t break into Art’s house, though. That’d be too obvious and leave too much of a trail. Judging by what chippr did earlier, he’d probably ambush Art somewhere out of the way. Perhaps at a local dive bar, like where he initially found Art. That, we realized, might be a good place to ambush him instead.
With that, our plan was set up. Art finished chippr’s commission, and then went back to the bar where chippr first met him. I came in a bit later, and stayed away from Art while still keeping an eye on him. Art, meanwhile, got absolutely hammered. The plan wasn’t for him to get that drunk. I just think he wanted to.
I kept my hand in my coat pocket, gripped tightly around the revolver I brought with me. I bought it a decade ago. I hoped I’d be able to use it tonight.
The hours ticked by and Art got more and more incoherent. It was starting to seem like our ploy had failed.
Then, someone new walked in. The bartender, upon seeing this new arrival, said, “Hey, Officer Duggan, how are you?”
“I’m alright, Chet. Just came in to get my buddy home,” Duggan said, grabbing Art. “His wife’s worried about him, you know.”
Art slurred out something, probably saying how he wasn’t married. Duggan laughed. “Alright, come on, bud, let’s get you home.” Duggan pulled Art off the barstool, and dragged him outside. I followed behind them. Once outside, I saw that Duggan was dragging Art to a truck, the same black truck from the picture. I heard Duggan say, “I told you I’d see you soon, didn’t I? I can’t wait to see what you look like in a woodchipper.”
That was it. It was him. This son of a bitch was chippr. He was a cop all along.
I pulled my revolver out of my coat pocket, holding the cold metal of the gun in a white knuckled grip.
Duggan heard the cocking of the gun, and stopped.
“Pulling a gun on a cop? Really?” he asked.
He turned around, and I immediately recognized him. He was one of the cops who came to investigate Marilyn’s disappearance after I called 911. The awkward one who stayed in the corner. This bastard probably tampered with evidence. He’s why it took a year to find Marilyn. He’s why no one could find out who killed Marilyn even though his cum was smeared all over her face.
A part of me wanted to ask why he did this, why he killed Marilyn. A part of me wanted to scream profanities at him. A part of me wanted him to monologue like a cheesy supervillain, revealing his evil schemes and dastardly plans. The biggest part of me, though, the one screaming in my head, just wanted to kill this bastard.
I want to say that pulling the trigger was hard, that I had a moment of hesitation. I want to say that I saw his humanity for just a brief moment. I want to say that I thought, “No, he must stand trial for his crimes.” I want to pretend I felt a bit of mercy.
None of that was true, though. I had no hesitation. I had no mercy. I pulled the trigger and watched my bullet bury itself in his chest. Duggan fell, gasping, as blood spread around the wound.
The bartender came out, hearing the gunshot, and, upon seeing a woman holding a gun in front of a dying officer and a drunk guy, ran away to call the cops. I didn’t chase him. Why would I?
The cops came quickly, and took me in. They made sure to be as violent about it as possible. I’m genuinely surprised none of them tried to kill me.
Officer Duggan would die half an hour later. I’d learn that tons of erotic woodchipper art was found on Duggan’s computer, and that the severed head of Gwen Munroe, a woman who had posted online about an old creepypasta she found, was discovered in his truck.
I don’t expect this to exonerate me. I expect him to be treated as a hero in the media. Some Fox News asshole is going to declare him a hero while I’m going to become a monster, some antifa goon or violent leftist. You’ll hear about how Duggan was a good cop, and every news anchor will talk about the old ladies he helped cross the street while neglecting the fact that he threw them into woodchippers. If his murders do come up, they’ll be dismissed as mental illness or fake news.
What you won’t hear about is Marilyn Branson. You won’t hear about her smile, her laughter, her talent, or her love of bouncy castles. You won’t hear about how a woman named Naomi Lopez loved her with all of her heart.
I guess that’s why I’m writing this. I want you to know. I want Marilyn Branson to be more than a missing person poster. She’ll always be more to me.
I hope, when all of this is over, I can see her again.
Category:Dorkpool
Category:Computers and Internet