The Mind of a Hero

Chapter Fifteen: The Case of the Manhattan Murders

Oh, sad music? I'm glad you asked! "The Heroine" by Unwoman

Mentions of suicide

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Elmer released a shuddered sigh, staring through the clear glass in front of him. People moved around him, skittering like small mice, but he could hardly hear them.

His heart pumped in his ears, hands, and neck, leaving him annoyed as well. He could see the white dress shirt of the doctor neck to him, and he could see nurses preparing the murderous cocktail he was soon to feel the effects of. His eyes were sore and red from the night of tears, and his belly was still full from his final meal.

He'd eaten a pierogi and borscht, side dishes to the pizza and french fries he'd eaten with them. He'd also asked for a cup of tea, peach and ginger with honey. It was the best tasting tea he'd ever had. It helped him find peace in this.

He'd always thought of death to be a peaceful way to go, something he had minor control in. He imagined he'd be around the people who'd carry his lineage and legacy, and they'd say a prayer for him, blessing his soul and humbly asking for the mercy only God could bestow on his resting soul.

The people watching him couldn't carry his lineage, and there was a priest in the corner.

Elmer let out another shaky sigh, closing his eyes. He'd made amends with his fate, there was no reason to cry. He didn't have any tears left to do so, and he'd rather not have people watch him pretend. His dignity wasn't even intact, so the only thing he had left was face.

It was weird he had to believe that. It was weird people could buy tickets to his fucked up show—"Ladies and gentleman, give it up for Elmer Kasprzak, deadman walking!"—and share their experience with their friends, rate the viewing on Yelp. How fucked up.

"Elmer Kasprzak." He felt himself lean back onto the table, and he sobbed loudly. "Charged with seven counts of murder, assault, and evasion of police."

Elmer shuddered as he felt himself being strapped to the thin cotton bed, his wrists confined to the sides, and his legs shook with fear. He felt so cold, like a fan sat over him, but the nurses were sweating, and so were the guards.

"Last words?"

"I never", he paused, doing his best to keep a sob from escaping his throat, "I never wanted to hurt anybody. I just want to help- I wanted to help!"

He cried harder, and he could see Jack and Davey's familiar eyes on him, one staring with fear and the other with a bitter sadness, both with a stir of anger swirling in their pupils, like a mock tail of emotion.

"I'm so sorry, Mama", he whispered, feeling himself be lowered onto the cart-like bed by cold hands. He sniffled nastily, snot bubbles popping as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Mommy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry."

The priest in the corner prayed for him, and Elmer cried through it, pleading for mercy—"I don't want to die! No! No, please!"—although he knew he'd be dancing with the devil sooner than he'd like.

He'd rather have done it himself; that was what he was most upset about. He'd take the needle and stab it into a vein, and lie on the floor of his cell, dead and cold.

His eyes shifted to the doctor who pulled gloves over his hands, simple white gloves that glowed in the yellow light, the dinginess of it complementing the lack of interior design in the room. It felt like a movie, staring at a man with dark brown hair and a lab coat, with a mask covering his face and gloves protecting his hands, as if Elmer was contagious, and he was afraid to catch a cold.

There was a sadness in his eyes too, a look of disappointed remorse. He looked ready to cry.

"Please don't", Elmer begged, shuddering. "Please don't kill me. I'm sorry. Don't- don't do it, please. Please!"

Elmer looked for a chance to make eye contact with him, to stare into his eyes, but the doctor ignored him, turning to look at the nurse holding the needle.

He screamed until his throat was sore, loud enough for his lungs to run out of breath, but he went unheard. He was ignored and splayed for the entire world to see, a painting of a naked woman.

It was a crucifixion of sorts; being splayed and embarrassed by his enemies for the joyous pleasure of those who fell victim to his actions. Victims they weren't, though—none of the people watching him were affected, none of the medical staff were affected, neither was the priest. He wondered if he could relate to Jesus on that front, murdered for a crime they committed, for the right reasons.

Elmer watched the needle impale his tanned skin, and he cried. He screamed. He turned and shifted, thrashing like a monkey having a seizure, hurting only himself against the tight wraps on his limbs and head—and then he stopped.

He could feel the poison running through his veins, crawling like spiders with skinny limbs, tap dancing on his nerves. He could hear music playing, although it was silent.

He breathed deeply, lucidly, as he lay back, finding pleasure in his fatality. He could feel himself shutting down, each organ reacting like a light switch, going dark one by one. He could feel the injection leak into his stomach, aching like his veins had been cut to separate pieces, and he liked it. It felt so masochistically good; peaceful.

He gasped for air, looking around for any sign of help. He felt a pressure on his throat, pressing down and squeezing. He reached for it, but the familiar sting of cuffs heals his wrists down. He didn't like it.

He didn't like this; the cuffs held him down—his comforter was peeled back, and rough hands touched his wrists—and pinned him to the bed, forcing him to lie there—hands grabbed at Elmer's arms, pulling them behind him and baring his stomach to the world—and do nothing. Out of control, once again.

"Stop", Elmer groaned, shaking his head. He felt moments of his life flashing before his eyes, like a movie. He supposed that's what it sounded like. "N-" he gasped, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "No, stop it. I don't want to! Don't wan..."

He gasped, finally. He laid there with wide eyes. His mouth closed slowly, head falling to the side, his neck safe from the suddenness of it. His fingers twitched residually, and his eyes fell back into darkness, only showing the whites of his eyes. He was dead. Elmer Kasprzak was dead.

Davey opened and closed his mouth like a waterless fish, refusing to use it to breathe. His heart beat heavily in his chest, and his hands shook fervently, alike to maracas than palms with fingers.

He couldn't take his eyes off of him, wouldn't blink for a second. His eyes burned with the temptation, but he was scared he'd close his eyes, and he'd have to watch Elmer die again.

Jack squeezed his cellphone, clenching his teeth dangerously tight, feeling the headache accompanied with it. He looked over to look at Davey, wondering what to do, what to say—how can he react?

It's not that Davey had the answer, but Davey guided him. There were nights he stayed up wondering if they were like Elmer and Albert, if they relied on each other so sickeningly so. He wondered if Davey would ever kill for him, or if he would ever kill for Davey.

He reached his hand out as people stood up to leave, and held Davey's thumb reassuringly. He swallowed, watching as the men behind the glass began to clean the secluded room. They cleaned like there wasn't a body rotting with them, packed needles into bags and bibles into pockets, as if dignity didn't deter their pride.

Davey squeezed at Jack's hand, and he stood up. Jack followed after him, listening to the sound of their shoes patting against the wooden floors.