IAN BASSETT | 1

—well-fed devils behave better than famished saints.

unknown

The man is bleeding from a cut through his eyebrow. The blood drips into his dark eyes.

The woman is crying. The tears cascade down her cheeks.

They kneel before me, bound and gagged.

In hindsight, as a young man set out to conquer the world, I should have stopped, should have taken just one fucking second to think about the consequences of my actions.

Would doing so have stopped me from making the choices I have? If I had known this is where I would end up, would I have reconsidered? In all honesty, probably not.

I was young and foolish, so cocksure when it came to my dreams.

Peering down at the couple, I expect to feel something—anything for what I am about to do.

A father should feel something when he is about to murder his son.

Life has taken so much from me. It has given in equal measures though.

For every moment in my life coated in utter grief, there is another moment wrapped in profound joy. The scale is balanced. Some would say it is unfair for a man such as myself to know pain and pleasure in such a uniform way. They believe men like me should suffer endlessly.

I have no opinion one way or another. People experience grief. joy, pain, pleasure no matter who they are, where they come from, or the choices they make. The human experience may vary from person to person but at the end of the day, we are all more alike than different.

We come into this world screaming. We spend our whole lives screaming, even if we are all screaming for different reasons. In the end, after a lifetime of screaming, we die the same way.

My day will come sooner rather than later, I know. I will die eventually as all men must die.

Samir Bassett will die today—here and now.

The only real question is how will he die.

My gaze slides away from Samir and lands on Oskar.

He’s always been a small boy. He looks smaller now, huddled on the sofa with tears seeping from his eyes and snot running from his nose. One eye is swollen shut. His lip is split. There is a bruise forming on his jaw—dark purple and ugly. It is imperative he sees a doctor. First, Samir—

Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the garrote and unwind it before settling my gaze on Indre. I know Samir was not her first choice. She married him because business demanded it. They discovered love though, settled into a happy and monogamous relationship. I watched over them as they built a life together. They gave me a grandson—Oskar.

Indre watches me, her eyes wide and wet as I step behind her. She turns her head as she begins to shake, begins to shuffle away on her knees but there is no escaping this. Samir screams behind his gag, lunging for his wife, falling to the floor when my foot connects with his shoulder. He watches, blood staining his flesh as I wind the wire around Indre’s thin neck and pull.

She trashes, bucking against my hold, sounds of panic and pain vibrating her throat but she is not the first woman I have killed. Her death is slow as blood seeps along the wire edge. I enjoy the minutes, meeting her gaze to watch as it grows dim. The life in her flicked and died before I unwind the wire and let her fall to the floor feet away from the man she loved who loved her.

He is not long for this world now. His time is at hand.

Tucking the garrote away, I drop to one knee beside my son. Reaching out, I push my fingers through his hair. His cheeks are wet with tears and blood as he peers up at me silently pleading. There is nothing he can say that will prolong his life, prevent me from ending it.

Do not mistake me.

I love Samir. I always have. He has failed me more often than not but failure is to be expected.

As my son, his failure was tolerated—allowed in many ways. I made excuses for him because he is my son, the blood of my blood. He has not been just my son in a very long time though. Samir is also a father. I expected him to be a good one—to love his child, to cherish him, to protect him as I have done for Samir, himself. He failed in that regard and it is not a failure I can excuse.

Skimming my finger along his jaw, I lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead.

Standing up, I look down at my son. A man steps forward, jerks Samir to his knees.

I had wanted his death to be slow. I had wanted him to suffer.

He is my son though and I cannot bring myself to do such a thing to him.

Holding my hand out, I wait. It is only a moment before a gun is placed in my palm. The weight is familiar. I have held many guns, used them for many reasons.

Raising the weapon, I level it on my own child.

The loud pop of the weapon echoes in the silence.

Samir jerks back and slams into the ground as blood trickles from the wound between his eyes.

Dead. He is dead.

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