Revenge is an odd thing.
       You don’t always want to do it, but all the same it makes you feel better, makes you feel relaxed, less... scarred.
       Which was why Thatcher was dying tonight.
       Him, and my parents and uncle and even Thatcher’s family.
       No witnesses. None.
       So this decision is why I’m walking down the streets of San Francisco, towards the other side of the town, fingering a knife I have hidden in my book bag. I glance out into the bay, only to see darkness, and ever-so-faintly, Alcatraz Island. It frightens me, but at the same time I felt elated, excited to be looking at it.
        Excited to know that I could end up there someday.
        I stop grinning to myself and frown, stare at my feet. I keep my regular, nervous slouched position till I reach Thatcher’s house, which is at the very edge of town. There I perk up and try to open the door, but immediately think, Idiot. The door obviously isn’t going to be unlocked. What killer just walks into a house, dumbass?
         Frowning, I scratch my head, wondering what to do, then I realize- I have a key! I’ve had a key to Thatcher’s house since the beginning of our now ruined relationship; why didn’t I think of it before...?
         But it doesn’t fit, and I realize- Dammit, he changed the lock. Fuck, you idiot, he told you that before, after we broke up. God fucking damn the whole thing.
          I sigh and curse under my breath, then shake my head. Now, what? This whole night’ll be ruined if I don’t do this. I let out that little growling sound I’ve been doing since I was a baby and glanced around. What to do, what to do...?
          The window! The window, of course! I walk up to the thick panes of glass and attempt to look through, to see if it’s locked, but I honestly can’t tell, so I try it.
          It opens smoothly, quietly. Grinning giddily to myself, feeling a kind of happiness I never had before, I climbed inside slowly, carefully. I set my book bag down and slide out my knife, my precious, beautiful killer knife. Laughing softly under my breathe, I walk up the stairs looking at all the familiar, expensive paintings and furniture, carefully put in the most perfect places. It made me sad thinking about how familiar this place was; it made me think of the first time we kissed, when he had invited me over as a friend and I had left as something special; it made me think of sneaking over here at night when his parents weren’t home and snuggling with him in bed.
          I sigh inwardly as I open the door to Mr. And Mrs. Kegley’s room. They’re sound asleep, side by side. I slowly walk to the edge of their bed and stare down at them, head cocked to the side. I don’t know if it’s right to kill them. They did nothing wrong, did they? But as I said... no witnesses. I kill them both in one extremely swift movement of my arm, the knife slicing into both the jugulars at an unbelievable speed that shocked and even scared me.
         I back away, then stare at the blood on them and the knife. They still look sound asleep and fine.
          But Thatcher will look like he was attacked by a crazed animal.
          Smiling to myself, I walk slowly towards Thatcher’s room, licking some blood off the knife in an oddly instinctive manner. I’m shocked by how... good it tastes. I lick some more off, thinking how crazy I am, and how crazy this whole idea is. I carefully turn the knob to Thatcher’s door and hesitantly walk in. I look over at Thatcher’s bed to see him curled up in the blankets, facing the wall. I try to walk closer, but then I trip over a book in the middle of the room and have to stumble to catch myself.
       That’s when he makes a little noise and starts turning slowly around towards me. “Dad?” he mumbles sleepily. But then he squints at me. “Destry? What are you doing here?” He squints even harder as I advance closer slowly, like a predator. “And... what’s that red stuff dripping down you-”
        He stops with a shrill scream as I dig my knife into his arm, twisting it this way and that. “Destry what the hell!?!” he yowls, trying to push my arm away.
        I pull away and hop up onto the bed, on top of him and put the knife under his throat. “I’ve waited years for my mind to reach its breaking point. I’ve been neglected by my mother, beaten by my father, and brutally raped by my uncle. I’ve been called stupid, crazy, freak, insane, mental, and nancy boy one too many times, and now I’ve been humiliated by you, you... you incompetent piece of trash!”
        With the word “trash”, I slashed my knife across his face. He cries out and grabs his eye, whimpering. I can’t help but laugh at his face.
“Please stop...” he begs, but I snarl in reply, “Never, not until your last fucking breath.”
           I grab his hair and pull him closer, then cut a nick in his ear, and then the other one. At this point he’s started crying. “Help!!!” he screams, but then I slap him with a strength I never knew I had, and snap, “You say another thing without me giving you permission and I’m cutting off apart of you you REALLY don’t want cut off!”
          He cries out as I slam his head into the wall and slash at him again, this time in the cheek. I repeat this several times, not knowing what else to do that wouldn’t necessarily kill him, then stop and let the both of us breathe.
          “Can I please talk?” he whimpers.
          I slash at his face one more time, barely missing his right eye (the eye he could still see out of) and then say, “Yes.”
          “Look, Destry, I... I broke up with you because I was afraid of being caught, not because I don’t love you...” he murmurs, looking at me with a pleading look on his face- a look that’s making me feel sick.
           “You told me this. It doesn’t change the fact that you humiliated me. You didn’t even tell me we were broken up until after you stopped hanging out with me. Till after you started joining in with their jeers. I’ve felt hated” -another slash to his face- “and worthless” -a slash to the stomach- “since I was a little boy. WHAT LITTLE BOY MOTHERFUCKING FEELS LIKE NOTHING!?!!?” I scream at the top of my lungs, digging the knife into his thigh. He begins to scream as I continue, “ANSWER ME, GODDAMMIT, ANSWER ME!!! DID YOU FEEL LIKE NOTHING WHEN YOU WERE SIX!?!! DID ANY OF YOUR FRIENDS FEEL LIKE A PIECE OF SHIT WHEN THEY WERE SIX!? DID THEY!? DID THEY!?!?!!”
         Sobbing, Thatcher replies, coughing, “No they didn’t, no, they didn’t, no, no, no.” He moves his hand to wipe away tears, but with a vicious howl I smack it away from his face.
         He looks at me with shocked, tearful eyes, blood slowly oozing out of one of them. I set the knife down for a moment and, putting my two fingers under his chin, bring his face close for a little kiss. He kisses me back in a desperate manner, and with a snarl I push him away.
         “I love you,” he whimpers, wrapping his arms around me and burying his face into my bloody shirt. “If you let me, I’ll fix everything between us. I’ll make it better. I won’t tell anyone what you did.” He shudders. “If you want, we can run away together, too.” He coughs up a little bit of bloody mucus. “We can have a really nice life.”
       I stroke his hair as I murmur to him quietly, “I love you, too, and your offer sounds tempting, but no. It’s too late. What has been done is done. I am no longer Destry the Weak, Destry the Freak.” I grab his hair, pulling his head to the side and whisper into his bloody ear, “I am Destry the Killer.”
       I kiss him one last time, ever so softly, and he kisses me back in the same manner, even though he knows this is the final kiss of death, because as we’re kissing I slowly drag my knife across his vulnerable throat. When I move away from him, he falls to his side.
       As I stand, I hear babies crying. I forgot he had two little siblings. I sigh, wondering what to do, but end up going out of the house and to the bay to wash off, to head home and finish the job.
       Three more kisses of death to deliver tonight.