Sex and Murder Magazine

By Shane Collins

Ben had never murdered anyone before, but he had taken painstaking measures to make sure he wouldn’t be caught. He checked his watch, gripping the steering wheel with sweaty hands. The waiting was the worst. It could eat a man up, starting in the bottom of his stomach. It was different from the hate, which burned in his chest.

He looked down at the passenger seat and tapped the weapon with his index finger. It was a Glock 19, one of the most common firearms in America, and the reason he had bought it a year ago. Ben was convinced everyone in the city owned at least one. Its gunmetal body shined in the streetlight; he oiled it every time he came back from the firing range. He had fastened an empty bottle tightly to the muzzle. It wouldn’t silence all the sound but it would help.

Ben thought of Lisa. She was the reason he was there and she could never know. He’d told her that he was driving to New York for the weekend to see his parents. It was the first time he’d ever lied to her.

It was time. Ben put the handgun in a bag and left the car. He had parked it two blocks from Jared’s apartment. At two in the morning, there was no one on the street beside Ben. He left the main road and turned down an alleyway. His boots made a wet slapping sound against the pavement as he walked. Behind a dumpster was the beginning of a fire escape. He took his time to carefully put on latex gloved. He tied plastic bags around his shoes and put on a hair net. Ben reached out for the railing when he heard a groan and turned around. A homeless man lay huddled beneath a blanket against the brick wall behind him. Ben paused, terrified that this witness had ruined it all. The man smacked his lips dreamily and lulled into a deep sleep, happily unaware of Ben.

Ben sighed and climbed up the fire escape. Jared lived on the third floor. The window from the third floor opened up into Jared’s living room. He had taken a tour of an apartment there with the landlord three months ago. All of them had the same layout. The window was unlocked and he slid the window up. He was careful to be silent; worried that Jared might be asleep on a couch or recliner. He expected to see collections of beer bottles strewn across the floor and on tables, pizza boxes and delivery containers that had attracted a week’s worth of black flies. There would probably be a bong and used syringes on his table and bags of assorted drugs. Lisa had said he was violently addicted to OxyContin.

However the living room was clean. There was a couch, a table with a few books, and a small TV. The walls were clean white, without decoration, and the room was very ordered. Ben feared he had stepped into the wrong apartment, the wrong floor perhaps. Had Jared moved? No, this must be it.

Ben found a small bookcase in the living room with a picture. It showed Jared, smiling beside an older woman. It was him alright. Ben turned toward the bedroom. He pushed open the bedroom door. Ben’s heart beat furiously as the moment approached, worried a creaking floor panel or old door hinge would awaken Jared. The door slid open with a whisper and Ben stepped in like a ghost.

Jared lay in bed. He was asleep beneath white sheets beside a glowing red digital clock. This was not the abusive, drug addicted man he had imagined. Ben felt something, pulling him away from the door and back through the window he had illegally entered, but he fought it and crossed the threshold.

He pulled out the handgun from his back and leveled it at the dark, sleeping form. His hand shook as he willed himself to tighten his finger around the trigger. Something happened though, something he had not thought of in all his exhaustive planning. He had not prepared for this; the need to know. Vindication perhaps, or some other assurance. The kill was nothing without justification; then he was just another madman with a gun.

Against every instinct, he kicked the bed with his foot. Jared stirred. He woke up, suddenly aware that Ben was there. “Hello?”

Ben raised the weapon again and put a round in the chamber. Jared winced at the unmistakable metallic cling of a firearm and bolted upright. “What the hell?”

“Are you Jared Reisser?”

“Who the—”

Ben took another step toward him and in a voice that was considerably brusquer said, “Are you Jared Reisser?”

“Yes,” he stammered.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

Jared did not speak for a moment. “If Bart sent you, I’ve already paid him.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Ben growled.

“I’m reformed now,” Jared said. “I’m clean. Whoever you are or whatever I’ve done to you, I’m sorry. Things were crazy back then but I’m reformed now. I work at a retirement home,” he whimpered. “I’ve been clean for fourteen months. I’m taking night classes and I pay my taxes and every Friday I bring out my trash.” Jared began to sob. “I go to church.”

“Do you remember Lisa?”

He stopped crying and looked up. “Please.”

“Do you remember her, you son of a bitch? You dated her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and began to cry again.

“Do you remember beating her?” Ben asked.

“I—”

“Do you remember the time you put her in the hospital? Do you remember the night you waited for her in the parking lot? You attacked her and raped her right there, you fuck!” Ben feared that a neighbor would here his voice and call the police.

“I’ve changed,” he pleaded. “I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt me.”

“She didn’t go to the police because she was too afraid. I can’t let you live.”

“Please, I’ll—”

But Ben never found out what Jared would do. He pulled the trigger and the weapon made a muffled pop as the bullet burst through the bottom end of the soda bottle. He watched with the help of the street light as his head jerked back, bits of blood, brain, and bone splattering against the wall. His body slumped over onto the bed, leaving a dark streak on the wall. Ben kneeled down, picked up the hot cartridge, and put it in his pocket. He went back out the window, down the fire escape, and past the sleeping homeless man. A cop car with sirens flashing sped past Ben as he got into his car.