The Ledger Man

This city breeds to eat the young.

I've seen it in the subways, the quiet corners, the homes that claim innocence.

They think the law protects them.

The law is a joke. The law is a mirror that smiles at predators and spits at victims.

I know the smell. I feel the marks.

So I wait for those amused by atrocities. I greet them with open arms—a shotgun with an axehead welded to the barrel. Tools of the trade.

Tonight, a man in a faded blue hoodie. Twenty-eight. Two victims reported. Four whispered rumors. He thinks he’s safe. I load another shell.

I watch him, footsteps soft, heartbeat a drum in my skull. The city is asleep, but not me.

I ease the pump back. Make sure the barrel is chambered. Justice isn't clean, it’s prepared. No single word can fully capture the worst act a human can commit. No apology can rewrite history. So I make an example out of the cruel and malicious—one trigger pull at a time.

I hear the keys jingle. The door unlocks. The fridge opens—he's home. But I got inside first…

Forgiveness.

They say forgiveness frees the soul.

Mine isn’t free. Mine’s chained to the ledger.

Forgiveness is something for mothers to choke on while they bury their children.

Forgiveness is currency for the guilty, not salvation for the scarred.

I’ve seen the guilty cry. Seen them beg. They wear apologies like masks, stitched sloppy, peeling at the edges. They want you to believe they’re human again. It's not up for debate.

Forgiveness doesn’t scrub the stain. Doesn’t pull the nightmares out of a child’s head.

Every time I kill, I hear it—the lie of forgiveness, the world begging me to look away…I won't.

The only forgiveness I have is a sharp flash of light. A scatter of lead. Justice ringing loud.

He steps into the room, doesn't notice me sitting on his bed. I wasn't there when he turned on the light.

Scumbags never check dark corners. They just kick off their shoes and lay in bed.

He turns on the tv. News of a teenager, molested and murdered. He chuckles.

The heinous display of irony is followed by a bright flash. His knee explodes. The room shook. I catch and pocket the casing before it can land. I chamber another round before he can scream. I shoot the other knee after he has a moment to reflect. He flails in agony, watching me approach. He sees me unshoulder and grip my shotgun like a bat. The axe presses tight between his eyes. I never want to kill someone, before they know I'm about to do it. He screams for help. I silence his hypocrisy…

People hurt children. I kill people. Class dismissed.

Now, I'll tell you a story. Josh, Twenty-eight. Raped and killed a young boy. Josh wore the boy's blue hoodie as memorabilia. Someone followed Josh home. Waited for him inside. Bright flashes. Split with an axe.

Dogs barking. red and blue lights. They're never far behind me.

I don't like bloodying badges. Lets call it a conflict of policy.

I hear the crackle of radios, then the boots.

I press a button. The house strobes in synchronization with the whistle. Cops vomit. Dogs piss. By the time their vision clears I'm gone—deep into the veins of the city.

Alleys stretch like arteries, pumping garbage. Rodents can't conceptualize dignity. They just smell the grease. Neon seizures, the bugs are a feeding frenzy around them. Every flicker—another innocent victim, thousands by the second.

Pages peel, names of the deceased scatter. I leave a warning, not a trail. Disgrace humanity and your name shows up. I hear it written, I cross it off. Rip out the pages, wear them like armor.

Tonight started with Josh.

More To follow.

The city writes the names for me—I'm just the editor.

pressing on.

Gutters spit rain, black as oil. A newspaper slaps against my boot. Headline screams about a mayoral race, smiling faces promising change. Same faces shaking hands with wolves after the cameras turn.

They just wear suits instead of sheepskin.

Their victims get to vote before they scream.

Sirens fade behind me. Helicopters still circling above.

Won’t find me. Not tonight.

I pass a playground. Rusted swings creak without wind. Graffiti scrawled across the slide—cartoons with knives, dead-eyed stick figures. Kids still come here, but their laughter only belongs to them halfway.

The other half belongs to shadows. To hands waiting. To the fangs recording from windows.

I sit on the bench. Pages fall around me, sticking to the mud. I open the ledger.

Names, crimes and addresses, they skitter across the parchment like roaches. Each one a pest unaware, I know what they’ve done.

I know where they sleep.

I drag the pen.

Ink digs a trench through a name.

Kent. High school teacher, forty-six. Thinks it's okay to hide cameras in student locker rooms. I snap the ledger shut.

The cul-de-sac is well lit when I arrive. Every lawn, trimmed to the same length. The kind of street where nothing bad ever happens because nothing is ever reported.

Second floor, blue glow of a screen. I press a button. The house goes dark. Cell phones deactivate. I'm through the window before the moonlight. He's in bed asleep, his wife next to him. Her name, unwritten in the ledger…

Digression.

Now, I'll tell you a story. Kent, Forty-six. Married, has three children. A psychopath playing father. He's scared awake by a shotgun racking. An axe hits his chest. Bright flash. Head scatters. Wife screams, reaches for a bedside pistol. She wakes up with a tourniquet instead of a hand. I don't like bloodying the innocent… Let's call it loyalty to a fault.