It was cold. It was dark, but the darkness did not mask the faint scent of iron that filled the air. Earlier that same day, I watched the white crystals fall onto the ground. I watched as they poured out of the sky, much like riches from the Heavens.  It was all so beautiful. So peaceful. The smell of a dying man is oh so familiar to me, therefore the smell of iron surrounding me, was no bother. The only issue I had was the body the intense smell was coming from. That body was mine.
My obsession with murder started with a hatred. I watched my father walk out when our family was in need. I watched my mother’s heart harden, and morph into an ice like object. I watched as her tears turn to screams toward her children. Going into my eleventh year, I heard screams of a familiar voice. A cry of pain, betrayal, and astonishment, filled the air.
The screams belonged to my mother.
I arose from my bed, and walked toward the cries. My once beautiful mother was lying in a puddle of her own blood. My brother, Carlisle, was standing over our mother’s dying body, holding a knife that was covered and dripping in blood. He was smiling proudly when he turned to face me. “Malaki,” he beamed, “I did it. I killed her.” I was horrified. My mother, my friend, the person who was always there for me, the person who never looked at me differently or judged me, was gone.
She was dead.
As I recall from my memory, Carlisle was so proud about his first murder. At this point, I was on my knees crying and mourning the corpse in front of me. Carlisle laughed at the love and affection I possessed for our mother. “God, why are you so wimpy? Why can you not follow in our father’s footsteps, by being a real man?” He could not hold in his bragging about our father, whom I hated for multiple reasons.
“Why did you do this, Carlisle? Why are you comparing me to our wretched father? You make it seem like he was there for us, and supported our family. Open your eyes, Carlisle. He was never there for us, nor will he ever be. He does not want us, he never did.” My words were turning angered as I was becoming agitated with how naïve my brother was. The blood inside me felt as if it was boiling. Bubbling and rising higher and higher with each word Carlisle said. He was turning the knife in his hand; his grip on the knife was loose.
Without a thought, I pulled the knife from his hand, cutting a morsel of his finger as I did so. I stared at the blood that was once inside my stunning mother. I held the knife tightly in my right hand. The next action I did was a mixture of hatred, justice, adrenaline, and what should have been done years before.
I plunged the bloody object into, Carlisle’s chest. His screams of pain and horror, made things worse. I could have stopped. I could have never stabbed him in the first place.
I pulled the knife out, and then shoved it back into his flesh. I twisted and turned the sharp object in his chest repeatedly. We had twelve knives in a wooden block on the counter. By the time my anger did no longer exist, Carlisle had seven of the knives inside of him.
I slid into one of the wooden chairs in our dining room, with a cup of tea in my hand. I had put a sheet over my mother, for I could not stare into her eyes knowing she died broken and incomplete. I watched my brother bleed out on the floor. The way the blood dripped and expanded, it was a sight I had never seen before, but it was so soothing.
From that day on, I helped the world. I would never give a title to my job, nevertheless a title as wrong and stereotypical as “murder”. I would extract the unneeded and harmful people in the community. I have seen in my many years, the men are usually the ones who hurt others; by abuse, murder, or anything damaging. Therefore, I kill the men who kill. I abuse the abusers. I bring terror to the ones who terrorize the innocent in the world. I have extracted hundreds of people from society.
My mother visits me every time my eyes close. Her voice is still so soothing to my soul. She is so calm and precise with her actions. My mother, whom was once so beautiful, now is roaming the Earth invisible with a nonexistent identity to the people near her. She is always with me in times of need, unlike other people who were in my life for a limited time.
Being abandoned by the world had its benefits. Hiding was easier. Removing people, and making the world more pleasant, was easier. I lived in a rundown apartment complex, whose main residents included the lowest in society. I never removed these creatures from the world. If I did, who would I disguise myself as; in order to hide from the world?
I did not need friends. People are traders, whom I do not have the soul for. The only meaning in some people’s lives is to see others shatter. I have no heart for that. I do not need anyone because I have my mother. Her opaque existence is all the love I need in my whimsical life. She holds discussions quite nicely, unlike the breathing rocks outside. She gives me advice that is needed for my future being. She is my one and only. She is my perfect mother.
My mother and I had a long thorough discussion this morning. Her birthday is tomorrow. For that marvelous occasion, I planned to travel to her home; the house where her body remains at rest, and the home where I was born and raised.
I told her about my plans, to which she responded in horror. “You will not go there. That place is cursed with my blood. If you love me, you will not go.” Her voice echoed in my mind. It pounded against the walls of my head, making me dizzy.
I pulled into the driveway of the place I used to call home. I love my mother, of course I do, but something in me made me come to this house. I felt tension in the air, and the smell of a rotting body, or bodies, filled my nose.
I moved toward the house, with flowers in my hand and love in my soul. The door was unlocked, which is odd considering that I locked the door when I left. Everyone who lived in this house was dead.
I opened the door and stepped inside. I heard a familiar voice coming from behind me, and the smell of something burning in the oven.
I felt a slight sting against my throat. Looking down, I saw a silver object; a butcher’s knife.
  “Hi, brother, did you miss me?” Carlisle smiled in disgust. He pushed the knife into my skin, releasing the blood from my neck.
He pushed the knife deeper and deeper into my neck, until I was choking on my own blood. Carlisle pushed me onto the ground, thinking I was dead. I was choking on my blood, and thrashing my arms. I stuck out my leg, which Carlisle refused to notice. He tripped over my leg, and bashed his head inside the open stove. He fell onto the floor, his flesh turning into liquid.
He was now lying on the floor breathlessly. I struggled to my feet, my hand clasped tightly around my neck. I snatched a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer. I rammed them into his chest, cutting everything in its path. I reached the desired area, and started cutting his heart. Surprisingly, his heart was not as hard and frozen as I assumed.
I kept cutting, destroying his heart. Or what he had of one. I stood up and tied a kitchen towel around my neck tightly, in place of a tourniquet. I stomped down on the scissors, shoving the sharp instrument deep in his chest.
I heard multiple voices. I followed the noise and reached a door; the door to the room I slept in and dreamt as a child.  I opened the door and found nineteen women. I guessed they were no more than eleven. As I approached the girls, they stepped back in horror. Their eyes wide and glossy, their mouths open, and their hands clasped together as if they were interlaced with one another.
I told the precious gems to follow me, for I would not hurt them. They did so after continuous begging and promising. I took the outside and call 911. Soon, an ambulance arrived, saving the little girls and I. I looked back and saw a sight I never wanted to remember.
My mother’s corpse was on a stretcher. She was covered in her own dry blood, as well as her son’s fresh blood. I started screaming and pulled the IV out of my arm. I tried to arise out of bed, but I could not. My vision ad head were getting fuzzier and fuzzier. Then, it was black.
I awoke in the hospital. A nurse was by my side, weaving the skin of my neck together. I touched the area that had been sutured, when she turned her back. I looked around me, trying to recall what had happened. I was on a ventilator; I could not breathe on my own. Oxygen had to be supplied to me; I was stealing oxygen that someone else needed more.
A few days went by, and people were coming in and out of my room thanking me. What I did, was an act of love and a reflection of my own experiences. Those girls did not deserve to have everything taken from them.
Nurses kept telling me I was allowed to go home. I never did. Why go home, just to get murdered? One of the doctors drove me to the house, which ended with me in tears and pounding against the car windows. They took me back to the hospital. Unlike others, I was perfectly content with living in the hospital. I did not want to go to the house, which is where they always took me in an attempt to get me to leave. The image of my mother, dead and hopeless, was never leaving my mind. Going home was not an option, ever.
Seven months later, I decided it would be the best for everyone if I went home. I learned that not everyone is out to hurt me. I made friends, I felt safe, and I became confident with who I am. The world was not as tragic as I made it out to be. People have their own opinions, their own thoughts, and their own beliefs. If someone believes differently than I do, I do not yell at them. I go on with life. I learned that some people are nice, loving, and caring of you. Those people need to be cherished and loved, because today could be their last day, or yours.
I went to the house where my mother took her final breath, where she gave birth to her sons, and where she loved to be. I brought my bags along with me, for I was here to stay.
I looked at this house was a new perspective. Good memories came into my head instead of bad ones. I changed my outlook on life.
For weeks exactly after I came home, people started harassing me with threats. They said I was unworthy to reside in their community, even though I was the one who kept the community safe. That was the issue. They never knew that I killed the rapists, abusers, murderers; they only saw that I killed my brother. The town called me selfish; stating that I saved the children so I would not go to prison, using the children for my benefit. These words cut deeply into my heart. The reason I saved the girls was so they could live. I did not save them so I could get a prize. This is the same reason I removed people; I did not want others hurt or dead because of someone else’s point of view.
The threats were continuing, saying how people were going to kill me to help others. I boarded up all my windows carefully, along with my doors. I stayed in my home. Isolated from the world; I could no longer hear their mean words, their threats, their hatred. But, I could hear my sobs. My heart ached for my friends. They were all I had left in this world.
Mother forgave me for going home. She was happy I found friends, but jealousy seeped through her smile.
The town’s crime rate increased dramatically. I did care, but I remembered the threats. I remembered what terrorizing words were used against me. I never left my home, for isolation was not a problem. Mother told me that someone would come see me, so I needed to take down the boards that covered my doors and windows. 
I waited for days, weeks, and still no guests. Finally, I heard a knock on my door. I was conflicted on whether I should answer it. Then, I remembered my mother; the way she spoke, her voice, her words. I remembered seeing her corpse on the stretcher. I remembered seeing her lie on the kitchen floor, bleeding and hopeless.  There was a reason she told me someone was coming, this person had a message for me.
I walked to the door and opened it slowly, to see a girl facing me. She looked very familiar, as if I had seen her before. “Hi, my name is Margret Thompson. I wanted to thank you, sir. You saved my life. You got me out of that room, along with many others,” she wiped her eyes, as tears flowed down her splotched cheeks. “I just want to say thank you. We need you back. You have saved hundreds and thousands of lives. The people are getting worse. They are killing, shooting inside of schools, murdering on the streets, and that is just the beginning. We need you Malaki. Please.”
With those words, I remembered why I started removing people in the first place; because people need help. Some people ask for help, in order to get better; while others sit hopelessly and glum, falling into the black pit known as depression. Someone is in need and I will help them. I promised the day my beautiful mother died, that I will help anyone and everyone in need. I promised I would make the world a better place, and I will keep that promise.
From that day on, I continued to do what I had done for years. I had helped people by removing their worst nightmares from this life. Also, I remodeled my home. I cleaned all traces of blood, painted every wall, and redid every wood or tile speck in my house. I made the house my own.
Life was perfect, but there was one problem. Perfect did not exist.
In the winter, a man was slaughtering various women all over the city. I researched this man, and my knowledge of him grew. I reviewed his crime scenes, and realized that the weather had an advantage over him. The snow made him sloppy; it left every footprint and every detail of his crimes. I could track his every move, his every breath, his every thought. The only thing I could not track was his history. He started his killings twelve years ago, before that nobody knows who or where he was. His crimes started three days after my father left us.
I sought out and found this man. I waited behind a rotted willow tree in his yard, right around January. The man approached his home, and stopped suddenly as if something was out of place. The man seemed familiar to me, though I could not understand why.
As he came closer, I recognized his scent. I recognized the way he dressed, his mannerisms, and especially his face; he looked like me, or rather I looked like him.
“Dad, it is me, Malaki! Your son,” I ran to him, locking my arms around him as I did so. He looked down at me. He took my arms off of him, and slid his hands into his pockets briskly. I held out my arms, naïve thinking he would love me. A heavy object was pushed against my chest. Against my heart, I felt a small circle. A gun was pointing at me, with my father’s finger on the trigger. I heard a loud bang, a sharp pain grasped my chest, and my head joined the concrete. Then, darkness.
  I opened my eyes to complete darkness and a numbing sensation throughout my whole body.
It was cold. It was dark, but the darkness did not mask the faint scent of iron that filled the air. Earlier that same day, I watched the white crystals fall onto the ground. I watched as they poured out of the sky, much like riches from the Heavens. It was all so beautiful. So peaceful. The smell of a man is oh so familiar to me, therefore the smell of iron surrounding me, was no bother. The only issue I had was the body of which the intense smell was coming from.
That body, was mine.