Mark

"Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before—it takes something from him." Louis L'Amour

It was just another day in the sales department of a national communications company based out of Atlanta; the constant chirp of ringing phones, the monotonous drone of salespeople giving the same pitch over and over, the blinking lights on the call-waiting switchboard. Why should things change anyway? He was passed over for a promotion again, even though it was obvious he was a better salesman than Dick Anderson. If they gave him any district other than Southside they'd see that. Those Southside jerks were a bunch of stingy rednecks; it wasn't his fault his sale record was in the toilet.

Nothing changed about his desk either. The cubicle was small; the walls were unadorned expanses of gray. Everything was generic; the computer, the phone, the stack of file folders, and the most recent sales pitch taped to the bottom of the computer monitor. The only thing that distinguished this cubicle from the rows of others was an old metal nameplate tacked on the outside panel: Mark Brown, Telemarketing Division.

Mark wasn't a bad looking guy. He was 5'10", an average height for an American man, but not tall enough to stand out in a crowd. He had thick, dirty blond hair that he kept in a business cut, and his eyes were actually a startling dark green color but from a distance they looked plain hazel. With soft and generic looking facial features, he looked, all in all, pretty nonthreatening. Mark had always looked like an easy target. It was like there was a sign on his back inviting anyone to step on him. His family had seen it too. Growing up the middle child in a home full of mediocre achievers, Mark always felt like he deserved more. He had been pretty verbal about it too. I'm getting out of this town! I'm going to do great things, you'll see! Those were phrases he constantly yelled at his dad and his goading siblings. They just didn't get it; this whole job thing…it was just temporary. He was still going to be awesome at something, never mind that the "what" hadn't come to him yet.

Mark rubbed his temples as he was interrupted once again by the angry man on the phone ranting and raving about dumbass telemarketers always calling during dinner. Yeah, cause Mark wouldn't rather be sitting at home eating either. He really wanted to slam down the phone, but the company had a policy of never hanging up on a customer. The costumers hung up on them often enough, didn't they? Mark rolled his eyes and switched the phone to his other ear. Finally the man let out his final stream of curses and hung up. Mark put down his receiver with a forced calm and let out a sigh. He hated his job. If it were up to him, he'd torch the whole place. Too bad something like that would point right back to him. As hard as it was for his coworkers and his family to understand, he wasn't that stupid. There was enough shit in his life without being in prison too.

Mark stood up, kicking his chair back a bit more forcefully than necessary and grabbed the files he had to return before going home. As he was walking out of his cubicle, a tall figure stopped him.

"Mark, hey," Dick Anderson said, clapping him on the shoulder. Head of Telemarketing my ass, Mark thought darkly. "Look man," the corporate tool continued, "I noticed you've only made fourteen sales this week. So, you're going to have to extend your hours next week and pick up the slack. This isn't acceptable, Mark, a temp could do better." Dick's hand had never moved from his shoulder. Mark looked down at the oversized appendage touching him and wanted to scream. How could anyone stand being touched by such a condescending douche bag? Dick Anderson was not worth the dirt on his shoe. If he could manage it without getting caught, he would have cut that smug smile of that jerk's face and plunged Dick's own kitchen knife into his heart. But instead Mark gripped his files tighter and nodded silently; definitely not worth going to prison for. Dick left.

Mark walked down the line of endless cubicles, each step forced, to the file room. He put away his client folders in their correct alphabetical order even though he really just wanted to rip them up.

The convenience store was located on the corner of Highway 43 and West 21st Street. Mark perused the aisles, his hand trailing along the variety of salty snacks all lined up together. He picked up a bag of salt and vinegar Lays and walked to the register. He held up the bag and put two dollar bills on the counter. The cashier, a balding Indian man in his mid-40s, took the money and handed him a pile of change. Mark tossed it in the little plastic box with the picture of sick kids next to the register. The box had two nickels in it and he had a feeling the sick kids never saw the money. That didn't matter to him; he just didn't want the loose change in his pockets tonight. It jingled.

Mark walked out of the convenience store, the door bell clanging as it closed behind him. Faded orange light fluctuated across his face as the street light above him flickered, casting a jack-o-lantern effect against his visage. Clearing his throat, Mark opened his bag of chips and started down West 21st Street, a path he'd taken many times the past few weeks. He walked for nearly a half hour, putting one foot in front of the other, his shoes scrapping lightly on the pavement. Reaching into the chip bag for the final time, he frowned when his fingers brushed across the empty plastic. Mark tossed the empty chip bag in a trash can sitting at the edge of someone's driveway, licking the salt from his fingers, his mouth tingly from the flavor. Some people didn't like the course texture of that much salt, but Mark found it very energizing. It fed his flame.

The ordinary looking man continued down the road, his feet moving almost completely on their own as his mind was occupied with scenes from his life; Dick Anderson's sneers, the people on the phone complaining, shouted profanities, his father's condescending eyes. Heat bubbled up from the pit of his stomach until he felt like he would throw up. Every limb, every extremity felt like it was on fire. He felt so alive, so full of hot, raging energy. Mark clenched his teeth to keep from growling and his hands balled into fists, his fingernails cutting half-moons into his palms to keep him from screaming. No need to tip off the neighbors.

Mark finally stopped at the base of a driveway that curved slightly downhill to a house that was set back from the road. There was a black Beamer parked under the carport. He walked down the driveway, reaching into his pocket as he went and pulling out a pair of latex gloves. He had walked this path before; he knew every door, every window by heart. He knew exactly where the man would be right now; in the study, sitting on his couch, working through the late hours of the night. Mark carefully wrapped his hand around the knob of the backdoor; it would be unlocked. Click. Slowly opening the door, he slipped into the dark room. Mark scanned the kitchen, his gaze falling on the block of knives on the counter. He picked up the largest knife and held it balanced in his palm. Perfect. Holding the knife in a backhanded grip so that the blade ran up his forearm, Mark moved from the kitchen to the living room, each step careful and deliberate. Quiet jazz music came from down the hall and the living room was set up like a magazine picture. The man down the hall probably only spent time there when he had company. Mark's fingers ran along the arrangement of framed degrees and certificates and his eyes scanned over the titles of a variety of plaques on the wall. Businessman of the year, The Lemelson-MIT Award for Innovation, the President's Volunteer Service Award…

Dark green eyes glanced down the hall. The door to the study was open and the soft light of a lamp bathed the hallway in a halo of pale yellow. His thumb moved along the hilt of the knife; he needed to kill something…soon. Mark tightened his grip and leaned against the wall; he began to focus his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He needed to keep it together if he was going to get this right; there was a specific way it had to happen…

He heard movement and adrenaline flooded through him. It was starting. Mark disappeared into the shadows.

The owner of the house, a successful businessman in his late thirties, sighed as he walked down the hallway. He rubbed his shoulder, mumbling about old rotator cuff injuries as he went into the kitchen. Without turning on the lights, he pulled out a glass and turned on the water. When the glass was full, he turned the knob and leaned on the sink, throwing back the drink in one gulp. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and put down the glass. It was time. Mark slid out of the shadows and pressed the tip of the knife into the middle of the man's back.

"What the…" the man said, starting to turn around. The attacker grabbed him by a neck hold and pressed the blade more firmly into the man's spine. The frightened man cried out in pain, "What do you want? Please!" Mark dragged him out of the kitchen and pushed him into the living room, releasing his grip. The man stumbled forward and fell on his hands and knees as Mark laughed darkly and changed his grip on the knife.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" He snarled, "So used to being in charge of everything. How's it feel to be powerless? Huh? How does it feel!" The man scrambled to stand up, his eyes wide in fear. Mark laughed again as he slammed his boot into his victim's chest. The man slammed into a table, but caught himself on the edge before he could fall again. He glanced to the right and there was a moment of utter stillness before he made a sudden dash for the cordless phone lying next to the sofa.

Having followed his eyes, Mark lunged before he could make it to the phone. He grabbed the man by the hair and held the knife at his throat in a backhand grip.

"Please…Please…I'll, I'll give you whatever you want!" the man stuttered, his eyes wide with fear.

"What I want?" Mark growled, his lips twisted in a snarl. He slammed the man against the wall, ramming his head against the sheet rock, blood interrupting the expanse of beige paint. "You are nothing," Mark hissed. The man could see himself, his fear, reflected in his killer's green eyes. What he didn't know was that he was one of the few people in the world close enough to see that. "You are worthless."

Mark yanked him to the middle of the room, spun him around, and slit his throat. The neck cut so easily, like ripping through wet paper. The last beats of the man's heart sprayed blood from his open arteries, splattering the furniture and the walls. Mark dropped the dead body on the floor; its eyes were still open. He bent down, trailing the red knife along the man's chest. His own chest tightened and heaved as rage overwhelmed him until he could barely breathe. He gripped the knife; his knuckles turned white. He stabbed straight down into the man's chest, dragging the blade forcefully through the dead flesh. He did it again and again, the gashes short and jagged from where the blade got stuck in the ribs. Blood splattered on the front of his clothes.

The moment ended and Mark stood slowly, panting. He looked up at the plain walls speckled with red. Walking the few steps to the wall, he placed his gloved hand right below the spray. It was so beautiful, so perfect. He removed his hand, leaving a smeared red impression behind. Mark stepped back and froze when he heard a crack under his foot. Reaching down, he picked up a frame that had fallen from its place on the table. He flipped it over and brushed off the broken glass. Massachusetts Institute of Technology upon the recommendation of the faculty hereby confers on Victor Alan Mehloff the degree of Master of Science in Media Arts and Sciences.

Mark tossed the frame at the dead man. It landed hazardously against his arm. He was done. He was drained.

Stepping over the mess, Mark left the house just as silently as he had come. It was chilly outside and the cool air prickled his lungs. He breathed deeply, loving that sharp sensation. It pierced him to his very soul. Smiling, he removed the blood-smeared gloves, folded them into each other and stuck the ball into his pocket.

At home, the same night, Mark put the gloves, his blood splattered clothes, and the washcloth he had used to wash his face in the burn barrel in his backyard. He usually just burned things like leaves and tree branches, but on special occasions he had to burn the evidence. He couldn't sleep until all the loose ends were taken care of; he wasn't an idiot.

The next morning, Mark woke to a ribbon of light falling across his face. Damn blinds are worthless, he thought, squeezing his eyes tighter. Finding any prospect of falling back asleep futile, Mark sat up and groaned, his body stiff. He ran his hands through his messy sandy hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rubbing the tops of his shoulders, he felt quite a few knots in the muscle. Sighing, Mark managed to stand up and go to the bathroom. After taking care of the basics, he stood in front of the sink and rinsed the sleep out of his eyes.

Mark gripped the sides of the sink and looked up at his reflection in the small rectangular mirror. A tired looking guy with short dirty blond hair and hazel-looking eyes stared back. He looked so normal, so plain. "I killed another man last night." No reply, nothing at all. He didn't even know who or what he expected an answer from anyway. Feeling that familiar, dark tightening in his chest, Mark cried out and slammed his fist against the glass. Stars flooded his vision and he stumbled back, holding his hand. His reflection was splintered in the broken mirror by thousands of spider web fractures.

Once again, the rage drained and left him nothing but tired. He stared at the mirror in shock, each breath heavy. In. Out. In. Out.

Mark walked into the kitchen and grabbed a towel and his first aid kit. He sat down at the table and inspected his hand; the knuckles were bloodied and there was a small shard of glass sticking out of his skin, which certainly explained why his hand burned so much. He groaned between clenched teeth as he pulled out the shard, afterwards covering his hand with the towel and pressing the fabric tightly against his skin to stop the bleeding. It was a superficial wound but it stung like the devil. He finally removed the towel and started wiping his raw knuckles with an antibacterial wipe. It burned but he was too distracted by a sudden thought to notice. Was he no better than the douche bags on the phone? Could he not control his anger long enough for it to diffuse? Was he just yelling profanities over a proverbial phone? Was this all he would accomplish with his life?

As he was bandaging his hand, the phone rang. He glanced over his shoulder; no way was he going to answer it. He couldn't; not right now. He sat there in silence, just staring at the phone until the answering machine picked up.

"You've reached Mark Brown, leave a message." Beep.

"Mark," his father's gruff voice came from the machine. "Your mother wants to know if you're coming home for Thanksgiving. Your siblings and their families are going to be there, so you think you can make time from that high profile job and riveting lifestyle you live, eh, kid? Call your mother." Beep.

What was he going to say to his family? How could he even sit in the same room with his nieces and nephews knowing what he'd done? How does life go on?

But it always does. He always has to go back to work on Monday. He always has to drive through Atlanta rush hour traffic and sit in his hot cubicle. He always has to deal with the dick, Dick, and talk to the asswipes from Southside. Always, unchanging, continuous cycle. No escape.

The next day, Sunday, the day before returning to the infuriating place that just so recently drug him to hell and back, Mark went for a walk. He liked to walk and it was a beautiful, cool, mid-November day; the trees had already changed into an autumnal rainbow of color. He walked down the familiar suburban streets, his feet scraping on the concrete in a steady rhythm. It was a plain day in a plain neighborhood; people raking their lawns, talking to their friends, kids playing outside. None of them knew who he was or what he had done. Did he have any right to be out there with them? Why didn't anything change?

Coming around the corner, blue flashing lights caught Mark's eye. Police cars were parked in front of that downhill driveway, as well as a silent ambulance. Yellow tape blocked off the scattering of people trying to figure out what was going on. Mark joined the crowd and watched as two paramedics wheeled a black body bag onto the ambulance.

Two days. It took them two days to find the body. Two days before someone in Victor's life got suspicious. Maybe it wasn't even his family, maybe it was maid or some other employee.

A police officer was working his way through the small crowd of people and he finally made it to Mark.

"Do you live around here, sir?" the cop asked, scribbling in his little notebook.

"Just up the road," Mark replied, sliding his hands into his pockets casually.

"Did you see anything or anyone strange in the neighborhood the past couple nights, specifically Friday evening?"

The killer shook his head and smiled wryly, "I'm sorry, officer, nothing. It's been a pretty quiet weekend."

The police officer nodded and closed his notebook, a tired look in his eyes. "Thank you for your time, sir. Please, remember to lock your doors, be careful, and keep your eyes open."

Mark thanked the officer as he walked away and then rocked back and forth on his heels, the cool air making him shiver. After a few minutes, he continued walking down the street, not sparing a backwards glance to the flashing blue lights. That cop didn't know just how accurate his advice was. Be careful. Keep your eyes open. No joke.

Mark walked for two hours, only stopping at the convenience store to grab some sunflower seeds, and made it back home just as the sun was beginning to set. Mark stood on his porch for a few moments and watched as the sky lit up with color. Beautiful reds.

Inside, Mark turned on the TV and started taking off his shoes. The news was giving a special broadcast.

"-murder in a suburb east of Atlanta. The victim, Victor Mehloff, pictured here, was found dead in his home early this morning. The police are not releasing any information surrounding the details of the murder but they are urging the community to be careful. The police suspect this is the work of the same person who killed Dr. Manuel Travis and Michael Young earlier this year."

Mark had realized something on his cool, November walk. The only thing he was ever going to be good at was killing. The only thing he could do right; not selling overpriced insurance or infomercial-esque products, not having a family, not finishing college…no. But he sure could murder and get away with it. Mark turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the sofa, kicking off his shoes. He didn't want to hear about it anymore.