David Tagger

By Meaghan

NOTE TO READERS: as you're reading this, keep in mind that the David dude is the psychopath; not me.

CHAPTER ONE:

As I wildly stabbed him in the stomach, I smiled. I watched with pleasure as I saw his metallic red blood flow down to the cold, hard, unforgiving marble floor. All I could do was laugh, manically, as I saw him attempt to grasp a breath. His eyes grew wide, his pupils dilated as he began to fall to the ground for the last time. I felt a strange sensation come over me. It was a sense of satisfaction. I was happy with what I had become. I was a killer. All I did was grin as I saw the body sprawl out across the floor. He writhed in pain; I watched him die. I stabbed him in the throat. His blood splattered all over my hands, and all over my white T-shirt. He mouthed his last words to me "Help" and with that, I stabbed him again, this time in the head. He was dead. I pushed back my long black hair with bloody hands. I walked toward the door, glanced back at the corpse, smirked, and walked out the door to my apartment.

CHAPTER TWO:

I flopped down on my familiar beige sofa and relaxed. I flipped through the TV channels. I soon fell asleep.

Three hours later, I woke up to the sound of sirens. I ran to the window and glanced down from the 3rd story window. The red and blue lights were all too familiar to me. There were 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9...21 police cars parked around my apartment. I panicked. I couldn't take all those policemen out! For the first time in my life I was stuck...I had no plan. I tried to stay glued to the sofa; impossible. I grabbed the knife from the earlier kill. I could already hear the footsteps running up the stairs to my door. I sprinted into my bedroom, and --almost childishly-- hid in the closet. I heard a voice:

"OPEN UP POLICE!!!"

Followed by the sound of the door handle jingling, then, seconds later, the sound of wood splintering then, finally, the sound of the door breaking open. I could hear two police men come in my room. I could hear their voices. Each breath I took sounded like a bomb. One open the closet door, revealing-me.

I pulled out the knife and sliced one of the officers' stomachs. He doubled over in pain and screamed. I kicked the other cop in the teeth, and sliced his hand off, once again getting blood on my hand. My blood stained t-shirt had turned a foul brown and smelled of old blood. Ten cops rushed into my room, weapons were drawn. I ran to the other side of my room, threw the knife at the cops, and jumped out of the third story window. I hit the concrete. I was out.

CHAPTER THREE

I awoke the sound of an EKG machine beating steadily. Crap. The hospital. No way was I able to get out of this. Then again I WAS the person who could escape anything. I thought back to my past. My parents. They were abusive because of their own crappy childhood. They would hit me and scream that I'm worthless and that I'd never amount to anything. I put up with the physical and verbal abuse for seven years. My dad went hunting a lot. I found his rifle, and shot them both when I was eight. I spent 3 years in juvie for that. Never regretted it for an instant.

When I was fifteen I had my first girlfriend. She broke my heart. I loved her. The only person in my life who I though I could truly be with forever. I stabbed her in the heart when she was sleeping. After I did it, I cut my arm. I watched as my blood formed a perfect sphere and dropped to the ground.

By the time I was nineteen I had been in jail four times, attempted suicide twice times, and cut myself since I was ten. I've been checking into rehab for drug abuse. .

When I was 29 I had a relationship with this woman named Donna Trevor. We were together for six years. It was a long distance relationship, so it didn't turn out so well. I killed her when she was twenty seven. I killed her because she said that I got her pregnant, and that she had a son. I tried to find the son to kill him too, but I never found him.

The person who I killed at the beginning was my cousin. He was forty-two and I am thirty-two. My cousin's name was Carl and he too, abused me when I was a kid. He would hit me and kick me. He even locked me in the closet for three days without food or water. Nobody believed me though.

I sighed as I saw IV pumping fluid into my arm. I saw my leg was in a cast. I sighed as my arm hung limply by my arm, it was black and blue. All of a sudden the wooden doors to my room opened, and I saw a doctor along with two policemen in. One was armed with a tazer. I froze as I saw them walk slowly and cautiously near my bed. The unarmed cop started reading my Miranda rights. I ripped out the IV from my arm and stabbed the armed cop in the throat, and squeezed the IV bag, filling his veins with fluid. He screamed, and fell to the ground. The other cop attempted to call for back up, I twisted the vein in his neck, cutting off his blood flow. I ran out of the room as best I could with my lame leg, sparing the doctor.

When I went out of the hospital, there were police cars surrounding me, with a helicopter, and people with their weapons drawn. I surrendered.

CHAPTER FOUR:

I pleaded guilty to the court, but I wasn't put into jail. Instead, I was put in a mental institution, where I was treated with asperser's syndrome and Schizophrenia. I was there for thirteen years. Thirteen long years. I get released back into public; apparently, I was "cured." ha. Yeah right, did I mention that I stabbed my therapist and had to be put in a straightjacket?

I walked home. I walked up the now unfamiliar stairs and was greeted by a strange cat in my apartment. I also noticed that security cameras which were now in my house. I ran to my bathroom-the cat followed- and I checked to see if my drugs were there. They were. The cocaine, the meth, everything. Was cleverly hidden inside Tylenol bottles. But everything else was gone. I have no sharp objects. I decided I had nothing to live for. I would overdose on heroin and meth, and pass out. I wasn't about to live life like ant under a magnifying glass. It's like they were slowly burning off my antennas. I looked at myself in the mirror for the last time. I sighed, thoughts racing through my brain. I sat on the sofa and started. As the world began to slip, the last thing I did was hear my cat meow, and then everything went black.

CHAPTER FIVE:

I woke up - for the second time- to an Echocardiogram machine beeping, this time with a news crew behind me. I looked at my hands...wrinkled. I pulled out my breathing tube. Crap. I woke up. I blinked my eyes ONE time, and all of a sudden 400 microphones and cameras were in my face with a bunch of imcomprehendable voices asking me what happened. I was confused. I didn't recognize my own voice. All I said was "where am I?"

"You're 56 years old and have been in a coma for 22 years!!"

I was shocked. I attempted to pull out my IV and use it to my advantage, but I was too weak to even lift up my arm, due to the long Time I've been in the coma. The doctor told me that I would never be able to walk again and would have to attend therapy for the rest of my life, due to brain damage from being in a coma for so long.

Even after the 20 years I still knew that I wanted to die. I don't want to be a talking vegetable.

For the first time in my life: I cried. I cried for all the people I have killed, I cried for the people I have hurt, and I cried for myself. I had been in a coma for 20 years. The doctor had told me that happened due to an overdose of drugs. I needed redemption for all the things I've done.

Epilogue

David Tagger died on May 21 when he was 56 years old. The Hospital's security cameras caught him stabbing himself with a knife, and cutting his wrists. They said that he had blood-shot eyes as he stabbed himself in the stomach; he smiled as he watched his own blood drip to the floor. He managed to laugh as he gasped for his last breath. He stabbed himself in the neck with his IV needle and squeezed the bag. He had blood on his shirt and on his hands as he fell to the ground, for the last time. By the time the doctors had gotten there, he was dead.

In my self righteous suicide,

I cry when angels deserve to die