The Willow Water Bridge
an excerpt

ALL EXCERPTS ARE COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY UNEDITED. PLEASE KEEP THIS IN MIND. THE ONLY REASON I HAVE SPELLED ANYTHING RIGHT IS PROBABLY DUE TO MICROSOFT WORD REPEATEDLY KICKING MY BUTT. THOSE LITTLE RED SQUIGGLY LINES ROCK MY WORLD.
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The blood-crusted vertical blinds fluttered in the breeze as he stood in the doorway, sniffing the air. It was fresh, clean and innocent, the way it always is once he’s killed. The dirt and grime and hate and fear that stinks up the air, the stench of the dying and the evil in the world vanishes and he’s able to breathe again.

The pressure on his chest is what does it. It makes it so hard for him to breathe and it adds to his confusion.

The stench will foul up the air once again. It will cloud his senses a little more each day, starting with just a little perfume de odor, creeping and crawling up his nostrils until he gets sick enough to puke. Locking himself indoors only helped for so long. The ghost of the TV he threw out years ago would begin to whisper to him, days on end until it was screaming its sonorous pleas, stop this, stop this, stop this, stop this.

Harold Baty sometimes felt he was the world’s only salvation. He was sure that there were other’s out there, other’s that fate had provided with such senses, such unholy talent as he. However he was given an enormous task. To rid South Florida, the armpit of American society, of its hate crimes, its rapes, its thick layer of scum pushing and dishing drugs as available as the ocean’s spray… It seemed impossible.

He knew there were others, knew it because this was a worldwide mission. But here? He felt as alone as a man in a sci-fi story, a man standing on the barren wasteland that was once the planet his race lived on.

All of South Florida was a vestibule of hate and sex and every kind of filth imaginable. The slice and tear of his heart as he read the words that repeated the acts of criminals into the minds of readers was slowly killing him. Miami, Aventura, Fort Lauderdale, Oakland Park, Wilton Manors, Boynton Beach, Delray, West Palm…

It was enough that his world would start spinning. The whores that killed their babies, the mangled bodies of aborted children in garbage cans, sometimes the size of cats sometimes smaller than a fucking Bratz doll but still recognizable as a child. That’s what we’ve reduced life to, garbage. The rapes of the innocent, faggots spreading their butt-fucking filth, thieves so consumed with outrageous greed that they step into a strangers home, murder and take things that the good, upright citizens have earned with their labor…

Rain interrupted his thoughts and he breathed in. It was a cleansing, this rain. Not of his supposed “crime”. He sneered at the thought. No, it was a cleansing of his anger. Rain fell to allow him to let it all go. He stepped out into the rain and centered himself with the grass below his feet. He grounded himself and felt the rage and the heat slip down his body in silence. Mother would take it and mother would turn that energy green. She would lick every morsel of his pain, the emotional downpour delivered to her by the downpour she called forth. She sent him a message.

It is time to clean, my son.

Harold stood for only a moment longer, then entered the house, shutting the door behind him. He took with him the centered peace he’d found as he entered deeper into the dark and oppressive house.