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5:33 pm

5:33 pm, September 9th, present year.

      The figure was waiting, trying to decide whether to call his victim or not. The figure was built, very muscular, but not exceptionally tall. He had experience in weapons and arms, and his victim knew it.

            Power. Control. These were his favorite words. He loved to have his finger around a person, and squeeze when he wanted to, and choke when he desired. He craved power, it drove him. It gave him strength. That’s why he would wait 24 hours to kill his victim, his prey. 24 hours was enough time to drive the victim and his close relations crazy with fear, worry, stress. He smiled to himself. He loved the way it felt, the way it made his blood flow and his mind race.

            Revenge. Another critical word, along with hate. Revenge drove a man past ordinary lengths. Hate and love. The two emotions that caused humans to endure tremendous obstacles and withstand oppressive pain.

            He took out his phone and attached the number scrambler to it, then activated the voice distorter. The victim’s number was on speed dial. He would be talking to his victim often.

            It rang only once before it was answered.

            “What do you want?”

            “Well don’t we sound happy.”

            “I’m the only one talking. Therefore, it is just me. Get your grammar right.”

            The victim was getting cocky, proud. The figure couldn’t allow that. His victim needed to know that he was powerless.

            “Chase, you do know what I can do to you, right?”

            “Yeah, but you won’t. I still have over 22 hours left. You won’t kill me before then.”

            Furious! How could the victim talk like this?!

            “Shut up Chase! I won’t kill you, but I can put you in excruciating pain. So much pain that you’d wish you were dead. But you won’t be, not until your clock reaches 3:15pm, on September 10th.”

            “But I haven’t done anything to make you inflict pain on me.”

            “Not yet, but don’t test me. I have a short temper.”

            “And you’re accusing me of being cliché!”

            Victim’s shouldn’t talk like this! The audacity of his victim.

            “Chase, I don’t like the way you’re talking to me. Will I have to teach you another lesson?”

            Nothing. His victim was scared. He could feel it.

            “No, I understand. But the police are working on opening a case. You will be a wanted man in a matter of hours.”

            “The police are so juvenile. It takes them weeks to find a reason to start an investigation, then after a few days, they close it due to ‘lack of evidence.’ Please, the police can’t help you.”

            “We’ll see.”

            The victim hung up.

            He was enraged! Victims never hang up on the killer, the hunter. It’s a sign of defying authority!

            But he would be patient. A warning was in order, nothing more. He had a plan, a glorious awful plan. He would have to wait a few hours to execute it though. But he would wait, he had too.

            Breathe. Calm down. He steadied himself. He grabbed his sniper rifle and started dissembling it, piece by piece. Slowly, so not to hurt anything. Once it was all taken apart and spread out on the floor, he started meticulously cleaning and polishing each individual component. It kept him at peace, it gave his mind something to do, to focus and zone in on a single task.

            He felt better. This was his victim. The victim was helpless.

            He smiled to himself. He enjoyed this.

*          *          *

            I had hung up first. How stupid was I? Something was going to happen, I knew it. Oh why oh why did I ever act like I was confident. The whole time while I was talking, I was shaking. My knee couldn’t stop bouncing, and I had to hold my right hand steady with my left hand. Somehow, I was able to keep my voice from stammering.

I don’t know why I thought acting cocky would be a good idea. I thought maybe I could outsmart him and act like I had the power. Which I knew I didn’t.

            But maybe it had worked. I definitely had rattled him. He was obsessed with having control, I knew that much. Pretending that I had some power myself seemed to disrupt his intent of calling. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

            My cell phone buzzed. A new text message. Restricted number.

            It read, “Don’t ever hang up on me again, Chase.”

            Screw confidence. I was scared.