Number Seventeen by Sierra Wiegman (2010)
“Walk down the stairs. Open the door. Say hello to the visitor. Tell them that they must leave because you are with a client. Close the door. Walk back up the stairs.” These were the exact directions given by Rachel’s captive.
“Why do I have to answer the door at all?!” she shot back to him, spraying him in the face with her spit.
He slapped her and replied in a hoarse voice, “If you don’t they will know something is wrong, so go!” He kicked her and pushed her towards the stairs.
Rachel walked down the stairs, opened the door, and saw the visitor. “Call nine-one-one. Call the police. Do something! He’s got me trapped,” she half-yelled half-sobbed at her mother.
“What? Who? What is he name? Who is he?” Rachel’s mother questioned frantically.
“His na-,” Rachel spat blood onto her mother’s perfectly style hair and doubled over on the ground.
The last thing Rachel’s mother saw before the gun’s barrel was pointed towards her was her daughter’s dead body, and her assassin’s eyes, one sea-foam green and one dark brown, become wide with pleasure.
The assassin looked around and listened very carefully. His left ear rose, ever so slightly, listening keenly for the sound he was sure was coming. There it was the sound of sirens starting up.
Quickly he whipped out two sharpies one dark brown and one sea-foam green. On the back of the neck of Rachel he drew an open eye, sea-foam green in color. For the mother he did the same, except with the brown sharpie.
Then, he raised his ear again, stuffed the sharpies in his pocket and ran off into the darkness, his black skinny jeans, red converse, and white t-shirt making him blend in with everyone one else so that he looked like the normal sixteen year old that he wasn’t.
When he got to an old, worn out shack, overrun with vines he stopped running. He glanced around and ducked into the doorway.
The inside of the shack wasn’t much better than the outside. A rotting couch sat in one corner, facing a slightly cracked television. In another corner a microwave oven, covered with grime, and a refrigerator with a stick, black liquid on the handle sat under a flickering, naked blub. All in all it wasn’t a pleasant place to spend a Saturday evening, but it was what this boy called home.
He walked over to the television, clicked it on and plopped on the couch making it moan in disagreement. Through the speakers on the television came the sounds of blaring sirens and a news caster giving a report.
“…two found dead. It is thought to be the work of the eye-witness assassin. This is because of his distinct making of an eye on the back of the victims’ necks. Police have been trying to catch this man for over a year now with the case cold. These murders have brought his count up to number sixteen. This is Jessica Cameron reporting from-“
He switched off the television and reclined back into the couch. It let out a terrible groan and the eye-witness assassin smiled.
*4 months later*
“So its blue eyes this month, is it? Why won’t you take out those stupid contacts and let me see your real eye color?” Gina pleaded.
“No, I already told you, No!” he grumbled back, frustrated.
“Well, if you didn’t remember today is your seventeen birthday. So, I was thinking that we should do something special tonight, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes lit up. “Why certainly, that would be great. Maybe, just maybe I will show you my eyes.”
Gina walked off, down the sidewalk, pleased with herself. Peter watched to make sure that she had turned the corner and then he ran from the front of the convenience store he had promised to meet his girlfriend, Gina, at just an hour before.
When he got to the shack he went over to his old couch, now barely holding together, and removed the couch cushions. An old rusty bar lay there, when pulled it should have brought out a mattress, complete with pillows and sheets, but when Peter pulled it the bed only came up a quarter of the way. He stuffed his hand in the opening and groped around for a moment. When his hand was pulled away it came out with a shining, black pistol, last used four months earlier.
He went over to his miniature refrigerator and pushed it out of the way to reveal a long, navy-blue trench coat with very deep pockets. He took it out and through it on. In the right pocket he stored the pistol. Then he sat down on his protesting couch and waited.
At five thirty in the afternoon he was at Gina’s front door
“Hey! Come in,” Gina said when she saw Peter.
“Um, thanks,” He replied.
“So what’s with the coat?”
“Just an old coat I keep around. Can we go into the kitchen and maybe have a drink or two?”
“My parents would kill me if they found out, but since they’re not here I would be absolutely delighted to oblige.”
They walked through the popping parlor and the luxurious library to reach the kitchen. There the vodka and whiskey were broken out and the cocktails were made. Peter had ten drinks while Gina only had two.
“So did you want to show me your eyes now?” Gina asked, hoping Peter was too drunk to care now.
“Okey justa gimme a shecon.” Peter staggered off into the bathroom.
There he removed his contacts revealing his true eye-color. One eye was sea-foam green and the other was dark brown. He reached his hand down into his left pocket. There sat two sharpies matching the color of his eyes. He would have to decide which one to use now as there was only one this time.
“Number sheventeen,” he mumbled to himself, “one for eash of my yearsh here.”
Then he reached down into his right pocket checking to make sure the pistol was still there. He stumbled out of the bathroom with his eyes closed.
“What are you doing?” Gina laughed.
“I am goshing to tell yoush someshing very important. Curioshity killed the cat. Your curioshity about my eyesh is goshing to kill yoush.”
When Peter opened his eyes and pulled the gun Gina put the pieces of the puzzle together, but had little time to react before the shot rang out. Blood spattered everywhere. A thud rang out as knees hit the floor and a body doubled over.
This murder brought the final count for the eye-witness assassin. Number seventeen was a drunk, a drunk holding a backwards gun. Number seventeen was Peter, the eye-witness assassin himself.
Southampton Intermediate, Grade 8