Pursuit of Happieness

There was something in the way they moved. The fear that could be seen in every step, could be smelled in every drop of sweat, that could be heard in every breathless gasp.

How they begged, oh, how they begged! Begged for their lives, named off family members they'd never cared about until they fell under her hand.

Murder.

Glee.

She'd realized about three years ago, when she turned sixteen. She got into a fight with her drunken father, unconsciously grabbed a knife, and suddenly she was stabbing him, over and over again. After realizing what she'd done, she went through all the television shows and movies she'd ever seen where someone was murdered, trying to remember what the murderers did afterwards. She wiped down the knife and put it back in the knife block, tried to remove all the evidence that she'd been there, and ran to the phone to call the police.

Killing made her happy.

She couldn't explain it. Maybe she was a psychopath, or sociopath, or whatever it was called. Maybe she was absolutely bonkers. Who was she to say, though? All she knew was that killing people, mostly those that were a waste of space, made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

In the past three years, she'd killed nearly fifty people, not counting her father. Most of them were drunkards, people she'd tailed for months to learn their routine. Some were bums, just random old guys or young adults that'd fallen into hard times and hadn't managed to land on their feet. Sometimes it would be a mugger, or another murderer, people she'd seen on the news or just watched commit a crime.

So she wasn't all bad, right? She took care of bad people then called the police with an anonymous tip saying where to look for the body before skipping town.

She wasn't stupid. She wouldn't stay in a town for long, not after she'd killed a person or three. Her name changed almost every day, as did her transportation and wardrobe. She'd been called so many different names she couldn't remember her real name. It started with an 'A' she was pretty sure. It'd been kinda strange too, something that a lot of people had pointed out. She thought her nickname had been some Pokémon character or something like that. Some cartoon, she was sure.

It wasn't until someone she vaguely recognized--a sister? Cousin?--walked up to her and said the name--Ashling? Ashling Davis?--that she remembered.

Her name was Ashling Cassandra Davis, she was nineteen years old, she had one older sister and a baby brother, her mother had walked out of their lives not long after he was born, and she'd probably been assumed dead for a couple years now.

Without thinking, she turned and ran. Ran like she had all those years ago. Away from her past, away from the memories. Killing her father, watching her mother walk out the front door, all the long nights spent with her sister, taking turns caring for a baby and their father.

She barely registered the thought, something else, deep inside her recognized it long before she did.

Kill.

She didn't hesitate as she walked to the corner her target walked by every Wednesday. He should've been put away years ago, he'd committed more crimes, had spent more time in jail, than anyone else she'd taken care of. The small poster board she'd written all his crimes on was in her bag, ready to be attached to him after the deed was done.

She stood on the corner, pacing anxiously, waiting for him to walk by. It wouldn't be hard to lure him into a nearby alley.

He was almost middle-aged, but still looked fairly young. He could pass off as mid-to late thirties, unless one was to step too close. Then his true age could be seen. The still-subtle wrinkles around his blue eyes, the slowly receding hairline, and the beginnings of grey hairs that were still hard to see through all the brown unless the lighting was just right.

She was ready to give up when he finally appeared, later than usual.

Better late than never, Ash.

Nodding to herself, she managed to stop and lure him into the alley between the Chinese place and a little coffee shop.

************

"You think I'm crazy."

"I think you need help."

A noncommittal shrug. "Same difference." Piercing green eyes glared straight ahead. "Getting rid of those wastes of space made me happy, so I'm crazy." A pause. "I mean I 'need help'."

"Mocking those that try to help will get you nowhere, Ashling."

It's Ash, goddammit, I've told you a billion times.

"That's what you keep saying, but I'm still moving."

How hard is it to get a name right? It's simple, three letters, one syllable. Ash. Ash. Ash. It's Ash!

"Room to room, floor to floor, doctor to doctor. No one can figure it out. None of you can figure out what would cause a sixteen-to-nineteen-year-old to kill over fifty people in three years, including her own father. None of you bothered to check out just who this girl killed. No one saw that those that she went after were wastes of space. Drunkards, abusers, murderers, rapists, muggers, all those people that did nothing but waste our air." Pause, to let it all sink in. "No one thought 'hey, maybe getting rid of these worthless pieces of garbage is the best thing anyone's ever done for the world, maybe this makes her happy'. No, she automatically 'needs help' is 'mentally unstable' should 'be committed until further notice'."

Unstable, needs to be committed, needs help, professional attention. Blah, blah, blah, yak-yak-yak. All different ways to say crazy.

Pencil scribbled across the yellow legal pad, brown eyes searched the brunette. She had been slowly going crazy since she stabbed her father at sixteen. Her state of mind was deteriorating the more she talked. At some points in her speech she was incoherent, words flying out of her mouth so fast one almost expected them to turn into birds on their way out.

Now you're the crazy one, doctor. It was only a matter of time before this happened. You talk to enough clinically insane people every day. Even when they're heavily medicated they're almost too much for you. How does that make you feel?

"We definitely need to keep an eye on her. Anything that could be used as any sort of weapon must be taken away and stored where she will not find it." A brief pause, a glance over the shoulder at the petite girl being taken out of the office. "Keep a fair distance away unless absolutely necessary. I'm unsure of what she is fully capable of."

****************

Murder.

Glee.

Killing made her happy.

Everyone has the right to the pursuit of happiness.

She was only pursuing her own happiness.

Five feet, three inches. Barely over a hundred pounds. Over fifty victims.

Fifty free spaces for better people to have.

What's wrong with that?