Short Story writing prompt:

In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. – David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress (1988)

In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. Unobtrusive messages. If you didn’t know what you were looking for you were not likely to see them. I was elated as the morons I was dealing with shrugged their shoulders and made nothing of it. Mankind is strange in the way that they believe they are already knowledgeable enough, intelligent enough. Alas, they are mistaken. But I digress. In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. Had they been paying attention the game would’ve progressed much more rapidly and it would’ve been to a great extent, simpler.

The first message was right outside Amanda’s residence, a compass carved into the plaster on her wall. It pointed unswervingly at her location. I remember the night as clear as if it was yesterday. She had returned from work at a late hour, as usual, while her infant son had been weeping for her the entire day and eventually fell asleep, exhausted. Worn out from crying for his absent mother. Exhausted from yearning her soft bosom against his rosy little cheek.
She had walked into the house barely glancing at him before falling onto her bed like the spoilt pocket of potatoes that she resembled. The alcohol induced lull into which she fell suited my needs perfectly and it was with very little if any effort that I was able to confiscate her from the house where she never lived.

In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. Such as at the second locality. The historians tell us that the ancient Egyptians were intelligent beyond their own means and I do believe they were correct. Consider the Giza pyrimads, not the structure, but the alignment to the Belt of Orion. There lies great wisdom and mystery there. But I digress. Had they been paying attention to the alignment of Orion on that night, it would’ve pointed them to the same location as the compass pointed. Had they been paying attention, they would’ve seen the feint markings on the pavement, Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka were proudly displayed and aligned with their counterparts in the heaven.

That night too is a fond recollection; Mari had arrived home punctually at 17h30 as every other day. Her two young children greeted her at the door. Beautiful babies. The boy was a mere six years old and the girl not yet four. They sparkled they were so uncontaminated and clean. Mari did not indulge the grime and untidiness that walks hand in hand with a child. Mari was not mommy, but Mother. A firm peck on each cheek while the children cowered as they looked at her. After the customary screams of fear and pain had subsided one could still hear the silent sobs of the two frightened children alone in their beds. Mari’s sleeping tablets ensured that she could not hear the incessant noise of their wailing at night and soon took effect. Perfect. I was able to lift her off her bed and carry her to the car with no exertion whatsoever.

In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. As the realization that my messages were being overlooked dawned on me, the subtlety was replaced by cruder more obvious messages, yet they still could not find me. I think that it was after the sixth or seventh time that I started using these women’s own blood to leave the trail. The direction was always clearly indicated, whether using a compass, constellations or astrological signs, yet, there was no-one that could break the code, that could understand the wisdom of the Ancients.

After every incident I would watch the newspapers like a hawk, but they were unable to connect one incident to the next. It was then that I realized that I had become a ghost. I was invisible and ultimately untouchable. That was my tipping point, yet, I also understood that now, more than ever I could not make mistakes. Thus I became more attentive, more meticulous and more cautious with my every action.

The warehouse where these women were held was rather comfortable. Each of the 33 cells was fitted with a lavatory, basin, shower, desk and bed. The food was in no way cuisine, but it was nourishing. They were unable to see or hear one another, thus believing that their confinement was solitary. 32 of the cells were now occupied and still there was no indication that I would be found. I did not fear being caught as I am an enlightened individual. I have been fated to sacrifice my life for the sake of my destiny. Destiny also thought it well to bestow on me the gift to express the shadow side of the collective consciousness of mankind. I am not a tyrant, nor am I a malevolent being, however, I will through my actions transform the world’s perception, the world’s morality and the world’s mothers.

It had taken me years to formulate my plan, to ensure that every cog in this great wheel would run smoothly and above all, to scrutinize the inventory of items that would qualify these women to be included in this, MY destiny. My own mother had been the raison d’être of this path I now found myself on. It would not go unnoticed any longer. As a child I had longed for her presence in my life, I had dreamt of doing things with her as a mother and her child should but she chose to bring me into this life and then leave me to fend for myself. Her drunken stupors, incessant yelling and harsh blows had shaped me, as the sculptor shapes his clay.

It was time. I readied myself for the last moment, for the culmination of the events that would finally bring into fruition all my hard work. Tonight it was Lana’s turn. Lana too was a atrocious mother who would drug her children and then leave them with no supervision while she cavorted with any man she could find.

The anticipation of this night had been building over a period of 33 weeks, this one being the last. Tonight, when Lana was safely in her cell, when the only sound was that of a crying child, when, as every one of the others she starts writing that farewell letter to her children, then the grand finale can eventually take place.

33 Women who should not carry the name mother
33 Families who have been rid of these shameful creatures
33 Cells
33 minutes before they start choking on their own words and thoughts
33 minutes until death creeps in through the cracks

As I leave the warehouse to complete this last task I switch on the recording of the crying children. On the monitors I can see each one of the 32 women screaming into the darkness, their eyes fill with tears and the insanity claws into their souls just a little bit deeper. I walk to my waiting vehicle and flip open my Cellphone, number 3, speed dial. A tiny voice answers the phone. “Hey baby” I say; “Mommy will be home by supper”.

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