From Heartache to Heir

PART 1

Jennifer glared down at her victim, her eyes hollow and evil, "Mr. Jackson, you are being executed for the kidnapping and murders of Janet Doughtry, seven years old, Erica McDaniels, five years old, and Jonathan Williams, four years old."

With each name, Jennifer slowly and deliberately pulled a picture from her hoodie pocket. Each picture correlated to the victim that was previously named. The youth and exuberance in each photograph was heartwarming. The smiles, the joy, the futures, all of it compiled into one heaping stinking tower of soul devouring misery.

Mr. Jackson did attempt to whimsically rebut the accusations. The guilt was smeared all over his chubby face. A single tear snaked down his cheek as his neck craned to peer up at Jennifer.

There was nothing he could do to dissuade her, no amount of money, (and he had millions), nothing could save him from the reaper. It was all over, life as he knew it, over in the blink of an eye. Death comes so easy to those that need it, at least when petite dark-haired Jennifer had determined you deserved it.

Before lunging the steel serrated blade into Mr. Jackson's throat, "Oh, I almost forgot, Merry Christmas."

With that, the blade slid in and out of his jugular with ease, equivalent to picking up a paperclip. As the fountain of blood lit the room, Jennifer's cell phone rang, sending out the faintest of sequenced beeps. What a way to ruin a moment.

Careful to shield the Samsung from the slowing spray of crimson, Jennifer glanced down at the screen. 'Mom'. Every Saturday Jennifer's Mom called her and spoke of missing her and how things used to be when her 'baby girl' was home. These conversations always irked Jennifer, an itch you cannot reach type of irritation. Jennifer loved her Mother, but she had turned the page on that chapter of her life and was operating in a totally different book than the rest of the family.

She had not hit a bone on the way in or out of Mr. Jackson's neck. Her craft was nearly perfected. The eighth kill of her young vigilante sacrificing of the evil had gone terrific. Nothing more could be done without breaking the pattern except the addition of a postcard with a panned-out view of the Golden Gate Bridge, fog shrouding it from clear view.

On the back of the card, 'You're Welcome' was scribbled in black sharpie. Jennifer even added a cute 'J' at the end just to make sure the local police knew it was her.

‘The Christmas Darling’

Eight years ago, Jennifer, our Christmas Darling, moved from Hampton, Virginia to San Francisco, California. She loathed her family with a passion, the type of loathing one would feel towards someone that had done terrible inexplicable things to them. This wasn't the case, but the harboring of this loathing was still instilled inside of our Darling's heart.

The move was planned since she was sixteen. The day she turned eighteen, Jennifer had all her belongings shipped to a rundown apartment in the lower San Fran area. She had already secured the place with a crotchety old man that seemed to not care less about renting the empty space. She then went straight to the Norfolk airport and used her one-way ticket to expedite her travels. No intention of ever returning, no need to subject herself to her family ever again. She was done with them.

Often, she would think back to her childhood and attempt to peg down a moment that created all this hatred for her family, yet she was unable to find any memories of any negative events. Even when digging deep, the area was not particularly unacceptable. It felt like home. Small and welcoming but in her youth, Jennifer just could not shake the burning desire to leave and be free. Hampton was a city by definition but nothing like an actual gung-ho running a million miles a minute city.

Back to the current situation, Mom calling and this Jackson character gruesomely gushing blood on the floor of a shut-down Wal-Mart. Mr. Damon Jackson was tried and acquitted of all charges for the sadistic deeds he performed on those three children. He had a fantastic lawyer, one that really gave his clients the defense they paid for, hence an acquittal on a technicality.

Damon was released all because of his common last name. It is ludacris that one's last name and the commonality of it could lead a jury down the yellow brick road to finding a person not guilty of all charges even when there were four separate witnesses testifying against the accused. That is what you pay these guys for, I guess.

During the trial, Damon's lawyer continually called him by varying his defendant's last name by the slightest of letters. When any witness came up to testify, they were so flustered and anxious that they too agreed Damon Jackson's last name was Mackson or Ackson, therefore causing the entire testimony to be thrown out.

The proceedings really were a farce. Money buys you innocence. Money allows you to operate at a different level, one that most folks cannot even fathom. Put some thought into it and think of all the rich people you have seen get these magnanimous trials filled to the brim with evidence, yet they are freed and allowed to live a normal life while their victims rot in the ground.

With the slightest of a lean, the child murderer took his last breath as Jennifer placed her signature postcard ever so gently on his deflated chest. The blood had pooled eloquently allowing the postcard to stick as if it were sitting on a pile of super glue. Jennifer's gloves stuck to it like a magnet, causing a brief frustration but overall, the satisfaction of removing a person of this magnitude from the face of the Earth was orgasmic.

Swiping her phone to clear the notifications, Jennifer made a call through a series of towers which provided her the anonymity she needed.

With a monotone concise voice, a female sleepily mumbled, "911, what is the location of your emergency?"

This part always made Jennifer's blood rush, an overflow of adrenaline and fear, "Good evening. At four seventeen Ballantine road you will find a newly deceased male. He has been stabbed in the jugular with no hopes of resuscitation."

"Ma'am, I need a few more details please," Jennifer could tell the operator was motioning to someone in the room; the inflection in her voice was bouncing back and forth, "Where exactly is the victim? How do you know he is deceased?"

With little regard for the ensuing blue and red lights, "Damon Jackson was his name. He murdered three children. You know who this is, and you also know the police will not find me. They are over eight minutes out, at best."

Sirens could be heard even so slightly; the night's air carried the sounds for miles.

A sound of defeat entered the operator's voice and smothered the phone, "What else can I do for you ma'am? How long ago did this happen?"

Jennifer chuckled, "You're just doing your job. I appreciate you and what you do for this city. It is important you find him tonight; I need the murder to be fresh and clear to all of you. His heart stopped beating ninety seconds ago. Merry Christmas from the Christmas Darling."

Before a response could be received the phone was disconnected and one final glance was taken of the kidnapping murderer of the small and innocent. It was time to leave, embark on the journey home and reflect on another successful mission accomplished.

The drive was relatively short and uneventful. Behind the wheel of her nondescript Ford Focus, grey and dull, our Christmas Darling navigated herself to the front entrance of that overpriced apartment she rented out through the internet when she was preparing to detach herself from the family unit and live on her own in solitude.

Her car was well maintained and spotless on the inside. Jennifer did all the maintenance herself using YouTube videos and common sense to detect and repair any issues that arose. She kept the outside of the car as unappealing as possible, not only to deter thieves but also to aid in the blending in of the surrounding area after stalking, capturing, and eliminating her prey. The Ford never entered the shop in whole. If Jennifer needed something done, tires for example, she would remove all four wheels and deliver them via Uber to the nearest shop.

Jennifer climbed the brick stairs, hard and abrasive, to the front door of her complex. It was a shared hallway with the typical clustered mailbox and indoor-outdoor carpeting, a vomit green with a dash of pepper strewn about. She lived in one of the two upper units which allotted her the freedom from vacuum cleaners or rambunctious children waddling about in the middle of the night.

With a jiggle and an artistic wave of the wrist she was in, no need for the creepy handyman to come look at the lock, it was more of an achievement to enter each time as her movements had to adjust with the slow deterioration of the internals.

Home at last. A successful mission deserved a tall glass of Pinot Noir, which Jennifer had prepped on ice with a crystal glass covered by a large cloth napkin.

Her finest napkin, finest glass, finest wine, it was a well-deserved celebration of finery.

The Christmas Darling had struck again and delivered the Devil a new monster to add to his ever-growing horde.