Page 36 of Depraved Truths

After exiting my car, I glance around cautiously, an eerie feeling gnawing at me. Something feels off today. It could be because this isn’t my normal routine. I usually scope out a target more thoroughly before going after them, but today, I feel like I have constant eyes on me. I hated lying to Eli earlier. It didn’t sit well with me, and the guilt has been gnawing at my stomach. And it’s not like I could explain this. My hobby? He wouldn’t understand. He may have killed people before on orders from his commanding officers, but I’m sure he doesn’t go around killing random people, even if they really fucking deserve it.

Like Ronald Tweed here. The man sealed his own fate and should have never laid a hand on that innocent child. He never should have restrained him. And the fact that he filmed and posted it on social media? That says it all. He feels no remorse. The file Bryce sent showed even more evidence that this monster must die. Three years ago, his grandmother was found in the home they shared, suffering from severe malnutrition, bedsores, and near death. He was her guardian. He was supposed to care forher—ensure all her needs were met—but he let her rot. If not for a family friend stopping by randomly, she would have died. Now, she lives in a nursing home, and he hasn’t visited her once. I might be a killer, but I’ll never understand these monsters.

Ronald’s whereabouts were easy to confirm. He’s been holed up at home since his suspension, only venturing out to see his lawyer. He’s ordered all meals and groceries to be delivered. It’s unlikely he’s even ventured out to check the mail.

I follow the trail through the woods, and his house comes into view. The quaint two-story home is painted a faded blue, and the yard is overgrown. Clearly, he neglects everything in his life. I pull out my Glock, bypass the front porch, and head to the back entrance. No security cameras. Not that I’m worried. I’ve altered my appearance. I’m not counting on a man I’ve never met to know who I am.

The clouds are thickening, darkening. Rain’s coming. Perfect. It’ll fit into my plans. Staying in the shadows, I move quietly until I reach his back door. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and try the handle. Unlocked. He might as well be inviting me in. Rolling my eyes, I open the door and survey my surroundings. The house is a mess—clutter everywhere. A few dishes sit unwashed in the sink, clothes are piled up on the sofa, and a fine layer of dust covers the surface of the furniture. The first floor is clear. In the distance, I hear moans. I pause, reassess, and realize the sounds are coming from his computer or television.

Slowly, I make my way up the stairs to a cracked door on the right. I see Ronald—a short, wiry man with mousy hair and glasses, jacking off in front of a laptop. Gross. I have the worst timing. But he doesn’t deserve a good time. So, this ends now.

“Put your dick down, pervert.”

His eyes widen in shock as he jumps nearly two feet into the air. “What the hell? Who are you? How did you get in here?”

I raise my Glock toward his head. “Did you not hear me? Put that thing away,” I say, disgust radiating off me. “We’ll get to the details soon enough.”

He tucks himself back into his pants, pulls the zipper up, and lifts his trembling hands. “I don’t want any trouble. What do you want?”

I raise an eyebrow. “What do you think I want, Ronald?”

“I–I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I say, mocking him. “Well, you’re about to find out.”

He looks wary as I usher him down the stairs and out the back door. “To the dock. Now.”

He glances back at me, fear in his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I walk him up onto the aging deck overlooking the lake. I don’t understand why he has a boat dock—he doesn’t look like someone who knows how to use it. The deck and stairs have aged, but the metal railings are sturdy.

I pull out my bag of tools. “Grab the plastic tarp and lay it on the deck.”

The alarm on his face is almost comical, but he obeys. Dread and fear radiate off him.

“Now, grab the rope and put it around your neck.”

“No, please don’t do this,” he sobs, tears and snot running down his face. “Please, I’m begging you.”

“Do it. Or I’ll shoot you dead in the face.” My patience is beginning to wear thin.

Slowly, he places the noose around his neck, and I direct him to tie the other end to the railing just under the deck. He follows my instructions, scooting back as far from the edge as he can, sobbing into his arms like a child.

I grab the syringe I’ve prepared and inject it into his neck. A cry escapes his lips.

“So, you like to hurt children and little old ladies?” I sneer. “You’re about to experience what it’s like to be helpless. To have no control over your own body.” My hand clenches around the empty syringe as I stare down at him. “Did you think about that when you tied up that child? When you neglected your grandmother? Your own flesh and blood?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Any minute now, you’ll feel what it’s like to be paralyzed, unable to move.”

His eyes nearly pop out of his head as the neuromuscular-blocking agent takes effect. The paralysis sets in quickly, and though he can feel pain, he can no longer move voluntarily. His attempts to speak are futile. The drug’s effects are temporary—only lasting a few minutes—and it won’t leave any trace in his blood once it wears off.

At that very moment, the rain starts pouring.

I tower over him, peering into his panicked eyes as his face turns a sickly blue, his breath shallow. “This is better than what you deserve. What you deserve is to rot in hell.”

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