Deliverance
By Jason Granado

As the inner darkness completes its mission to enslave my heart and mind, I find myself apart from myself, as if standing beside this other unknown person, who looks vaguely familiar, yet foreign in every way. From the back of my mind I know what I'm doing, but have no control. Cleaning and waxing the barrel of the sniper rifle; I know what I am about to do yet can't stop it from happening. I am possessed; by some foreign entity I call "The void".

My last thoughts came as I inwardly ask myself, "Why must I go on in torment when so many deserve worse? Why must I suffer when there are those who have never felt its bitter touch? Why must I feel the pain of loss, when others have everything to loose yet don't?" It was at that moment that I felt myself slip, falling further into the void of hatred and sorrow. It was at that moment that the Angel of sorrow placed its thorny crown atop my head, with its spikes digging deep into my very being. It was at the moment that I became a slave to the hatred that has built within me for so many years.

And as I load the final round into the rifle I ask myself, "Why be blessed, just to have it taken away? Why be blessed and have it kept at arms length? Why me?" And with those selfish, self-pity thoughts I see myself leaving the roach infested South Bronx apartment. Walking through the thugs and crack heads, never making eye contact as they look at me strangely holding the guitar case that holds a cargo darker than any Slayer song.

The walk to the subway station is not very long, just a couple of blocks away from this rundown neighborhood I call “home”. Absentmindedly I keep walking as a hand settles on my shoulder, startled I whirl around ready to throw all my weight through my fist to hopefully break the attackers jaw. Before I even have a chance to completely turn around, the persons voice registers in my brain as little old lady Daniels from across the street. With a sigh I fake a smile and make small talk with the nice old lady.

“Kenneth sweetie, are you alright? I’ve been calling your name for a while now and you just keep walking away, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were avoiding me, you’re not running away from me are you?” It takes all my will power not to bluntly say yes to the old woman. Granted she is a very sweet and very nice lady, but sometimes she has a way of annoying the fleas off a dog’s back. Yak, yak, yak; and people wonder why her husband committed suicide.

“Oh course not darling, why would I run away from the nicest person on the block? I just have somewhere I need to be and a lot of things on my mind is all. I didn’t mean to ignore you, I’m sorry.” There, I didn’t lie and I didn’t offend her, I did my first good deed of the day. “Well you look troubled my dear, why don’t you go out and find yourself a nice lady friend? A handsome darling like you should be batting women away with a stick, why if I were only younger I’d court you in a heartbeat.”

I smile both internally and externally, the latter being a complete fake. Inwardly I smile from the “Batting women away” comment that she made, there’s only one woman I would gladly use a bat on and she sure as hell deserves it. “I would be so lucky Mrs. Daniels. I’m sorry though, I’m gonna miss my train if I don’t hurry.” With that we part, not bad considering I never once lied, and she left with a smile on her wrinkly face. As I get closer to the station I cringe as I see my train arrive and depart in record time. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so nice to the old lady after all.

The New York City subway stations are the melting pot for criminals, hopefuls and petty thugs. A hundred years ago when the designers sat down to create these railways, they probably had no idea it would become the lifeline of the city, nor would they have expected it to be the major transit of criminals on the run. Statistically it is supposed to be safe to ride the subways, try telling that to the few people that have been killed by crazy homelessly folk that just felt like pushing someone down onto the rails or those few petty crimes that just went wrong. I’ve never believed in statistics, though ironically I’ll probably become one after all this is said and done. As I stand here, patiently waiting for the next train; which I might add is late as usual, I can’t help but feel at home among the other criminals... not that I’m a criminal; I am just a man with a purpose. For some reason the movie “The Blues Brothers” comes to mind.

Thankfully around this time of day the subway cars are usually empty since everyone is still at work, but in a few hours it will be packed with the rush-hour passengers. The subway car of the Downtown #6 local stinks of urine and ammonia; someone’s sick attempt to cleanse the city of the filth it drowns in on a daily basis. It sickens me that this train was only made famous by a crappy Jennifer Lopez album title, as if the witch even remembered her Puerto Rican roots or her hood. I slowly drift away as the slow rhythmic rocking of the car lulls me like a baby in its mother’s womb. Before I know it, I am already at the 125th Street station, the intersection for the #4, #5 and #6 trains heading to and from the Bronx. I catch the uptown #4 train, dirty and infested with would-be gang members, homeless junkies, Nam vets and the few decent people just trying to make a living. Getting off at the 149th Street Station, the archaic architecture standing out as if frozen in time, the signs of age showing like a huge gash on someone’s forehead. I'm glad to be leaving the station, leaving behind all its dirty secrets; leaving behind the bubble of time trapped beneath the streets of New York City.

When I reach my destination, another roach infested building, in a shittier part of the South Bronx, I feel my heart quicken with excitement and anticipation, but not fear. No, I am not afraid, I know what I'm going to do and have no fear. I cannot be touched or hurt more than I have already felt in my life. I have no fear.

I use the elevator and head to the top floor, all the while telling myself "They'll understand. I'll teach them." Exiting the stopped elevator, I immediately head towards the stairway that leads to the upper roof, the stage where for a brief moment I shall act as the hands of God and do what no one else has the testicular fortitude to do. The roof is a small space with only one door leading to it, which I have broken the knob to. I find the perfect spot to fulfill my task, overlooking the vermin infested streets of Morris Ave. Drug dealers lining the streets like ducks in a shooting gallery, sick people coming to and from Lincoln Hospital, shoppers stopping at the deli to further feed their gluttonous habits. Streetwalkers that solicit themselves for money just to find their next fix, their pimp standing watch so he can beat, rape and then collect his daily "pay"; like I said the perfect spot. I know I will be looked for, most likely by choppers from above, but with the inclined slope of the roof, and the darkness of the night I should be hidden for just long enough to finish.

With a deep breath I open the guitar case that the thugs thought was just a harmless guitar that they could mug and kill me for, and then pawn for more drug money. I remove the rifle and assemble its parts together with care, I take great pride in the rifle, so much so that I clean and polish it like an antique car owner would do to a '67 Chevy. The gun won't fail me, not like I've failed everyone I know by not jumping off that ledge years ago when I had the chance. Since then I have known that my life was a fake, something that should not have been. Death failed to claim me that day and has tortured me ever since. Each day that passed was an agony, blessed with life, love, a child and more; yet all too far to touch and hold. Fates cruel punishment for not having done what I was supposed to have done a long time ago, something I should have but was too afraid to do. This time will be different though, this time I have no fear, and I know what is to come.

Having everything set and prepared, I close my eyes and think of that immortal song composed by Kansas, "Dust in the Wind". The lyrics running through my mind like a recording, reminding me of the meaningless of life. It serves to remind me of all the pain, all the hurt, all the shit that I have had to go through in life just because I was allowed to exist in this mortal world. And with that song lodged in my mind, I watch myself as I prepare the first shot. A local thug named Hector, about the age of 24, who hadn't even finished High School. A son whose mother prays for daily, and who is hurt by the pain her son puts her through each day. I frown wishing that she were here too, for she is as guilty as her son because she knows what he does, yet does nothing to stop him. And in a whispered exhale of breath I say, "Feel my pain." and unleash hell upon the streets.

Hector is caught in the throat, given enough time to see his life flash before his eyes, and through the scope I see a deep look of fear as he knows who owns his soul now. Before anyone has a chance to realize what is going on, I unleash another round into the boy buying drugs from Hector. A young kid named Keith who had the whole world in front of him but refused to accept it, proficient in playing the guitar, with dreams of starting his own band and playing in front of millions of people. Those dreams flash before his eyes as a bullet makes a hole in his chest where his heart used to be, the heart that failed to love his mother enough to face his life and everything it had to offer, but instead chose the road of less resistance which lead to his addiction to Marijuana and crack.

I switch to the night scope as I pluck off a woman who left her baby outside alone in the streets as she gave a blowjob for some crack. The pusher receiving the best blowjob of his life takes it right in the head, and while his bitch continues to suck his prick, not having noticed anything from her desperation, takes it in the back straight through the heart. When she realizes what happened, she looks out at the street where she left her baby, and an eternity of guilty feelings rush towards her as she realizes how shitty of a mother she has been to her child. With a tear in her eye the blackness overcomes her and the devil claims her dirty soul for its own.

Like typical New Yorkers no one had seemed to notice the drug deal and his client being shot right in the middle of the street, which suits me, fine; and as I line up my next shot I am thankful I spent the last of my money on the silencer and night vision scope. My next target is a Catholic Priest; father O'Reily, who is known to have sodomized a little boy and his younger sister while their parents prayed at mass. The father takes two lightning quick shots, first in the crotch, and then in his third eye. His last thoughts are of the wrath of God, for he knows he shall be judged by the Lord and cast into the fiery halls of Hell. When he falls to the ground, a woman standing next to him screams; her screams are silenced by a shot in the mouth which explodes her vocal cords through the back of her neck.

The streets turn to chaos as everyone tries to run away and hide. The stupid ones who think they can outrun a bullet by going up 3rd Ave are proven wrong as they receive a bullet to the back of the head, leg or spine. New Yorkers may have seen it all, but they don't have common sense to run into a building that doesn't have a huge glass window, those dumb ones take it in the head, exposing their gray matter to the open air. Those that haven’t been killed are doomed to a life as a vegetable, living off of a machine; kept alive selfishly by their family. Meat and bones displayed for "pity's sake".

By now the cops have arrived from the nearby Station on Grand Concourse Ave, blocking the streets, searching for where the sniper is hiding. I hide myself as the searchlights cast their brilliance over my rooftop. Reloading the rifle again, I remove the grenades from my bag. When the searchlights pass by I know the choppers will be coming soon, so I must hurry. I grab three grenades and toss them in the direction of the searchlights, by the time they are noticed the grenades explode in a huge ball of fire, taking two near by cars with it. The blazing fires light the streets as the police scramble away from the line of fire.

Hearing the choppers arriving I ready the bazooka, thankfully found on EBay for $2000 dollars American, thinking to myself with a smirk "Only in America." Seeing the police chopper coming close, I aim the crosshairs and release the enclosed rocket Grand Theft Auto style, and as if my very hand were stretching towards the heavens, the rocket finds its mark and disintegrates the chopper in mid-air. Pieces of fiery metal fall from the sky, piercing a woman who was stupid enough to be sticking her head out of her window just so she'll be able to tell her Salon friends that she was there when hell was let loose on the streets of the South Bronx. A child in a stroller, pierced in the soft spot of its still not completely formed head, silenced forever because its mother had run away when the shots were discovered. The mother, killed by a car speeding away when the grenades exploded; in the car was a father who had just picked up his daughter from a party, the daughter impregnated by the gang bang she volunteered to participate in along with her friend. All three died instantly on impact, the daughters hand nestled in the panties of her friend, who in turn had hers in the daughters panties; all while the father watched but said nothing because he meant to have sex with both when they got home.

Knowing that my adventure would soon come to an end, I come out from my hiding and unleash five shots into five people that were looking from the corner, thinking they were safe. Those five were told to run by the cops, but being stubborn chose to meet their maker in a chance to be able to see something exciting. They didn't think it was so exciting as a bullet ripped through their guts and exploded deep within them, sending scraps of metal ripping out of them.

With the rifle empty I reach for the Automatic as shots are fired in my direction, I've been found out. I throw another grenade, my last one, in the direction that I remember seeing the police holding their position. The grenade lands true and explodes beneath a squad car's gas tank, sending it flying upwards into the air. While everyone scrambles out of the cars way I pop back out and unload my entire clip and half of another at the police and nearby lookers. I aim at head height knowing that bulletproof is a motherfucker when you're trying to kill someone.

With my ammo depleted, and having finished my mission, I grab the last weapon in my arsenal. The pistol is a Colt ‘357 Magnum that was given to me as a gift when my ex finally quit law enforcement. I face the end of a barrel, with its only bullet already loaded into the chamber. From the back of my mind I see my life flash before my eyes. I see my family, my mother, as she faithfully stood beside my hospital bed after my surgeries. I see my first sexual experience, and my first taste of love. I see my soul mate, the woman who I placed my entire heart and soul; and whom I never once got a chance to hold in my arms. I see my unborn son, and all the possibilities that lay before him. I see the acts of death I have unleashed upon the world. Thirty-two lives were taken in the span of thirteen minutes, thirty-two souls sent to meet their makers by the self-proclaimed Angel of Death.

As I squeeze the trigger I pray for the lives of those I loved but never got to love. The bullet rips through the roof of my mouth up into my brain, and as it rips through the gray matter I hear the sound of bells ringing in the distance, and soon the darkness that threatened to claim my life finally claims my soul. When the roof is finally covered by police armed to kill, my body has already stopped twitching.

And as I stand beside my dead cooling body, I stare in wonder at this unknown person who has committed the ultimate crime. A smile covers my face as I close my eyes... in peace and deliverance.

The End