Water Balloons
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
A tub of brightly colored water balloons, shimmering, slightly translucent in the afternoon sun. That was the last thing that she saw before the .308 caliber bullet tore through the back of her skull, killing her instantly. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. This was the trademark of a serial sniper that ran loose, terrorizing the multi-state area, leaving tubs of water balloons for his victims to find right before he shot them without warning. No one could figure out the reason for the water balloons, or the reason a person would be picking off random targets in such a manner.
My mother had been mentally ill for years before her sudden death. Perhaps her death at the hands of the sniper had been mercy, preventing us from having to watch as she wasted away over time, refusing to care for her body. More likely it had been a random chance that brought her outside the house that day to investigate the mysterious white laundry tub of water balloons placed on the sidewalk. I'll never know what her final thoughts were as she approached the tub. I wonder if she even heard the sharp crack of the gunshot before it shattered her consciousness for all time.
These morbid thoughts come to me as I work, holding the scope of my rifle steady, controlling my breath, forcing my concentration onto the target below. Instead of killing random civilians like the balloon sniper, I kill bad people for a living. When the police have a hostage standoff or another situation that they don't feel prepared to handle, they call me. I intervene, usually with deadly force. It's my job to surprise evildoers with an unexpected bullet to the head.
This time it's a middle-aged man, bald, filled with rage, waving a gun. He's demanding unreasonable things, too far away for me to hear what he's saying. Odds are good that he uses drugs, probably cocaine or meth, but he's not going to live long enough for me to ask him about his bad habits. As he waves the revolver in the air again, I hold my breath and squeeze the trigger.
The gun bucks against my shoulder, I lose sight of his face as the scope shifts. Quickly refocusing, I look upon my handiwork with a strange satisfaction. The man is now slumped against the counter of the diner he was robbing. Civilians are fleeing the glass door, afraid that they're going to be my next target. It's strange to me that they think of me in the same way they think of the balloon sniper. I don't kill the innocent, only the guilty.
After the scene has been closed, I walk down to the diner and look at my kill up close. The man hasn't moved from the position he landed in when my bullet ended his life. His head is surreal lolled back, exposing the scruff around his white neck. Part of his skull is missing, painting the countertop and wall with bits of blood and brain matter. I nod to myself in satisfaction, it had been an instant kill.
Leaning down, I open his jacket, feeling around inside until I find a ring of keys. Pulling the ring free of his body, I examine it for a second before settling on a black leather tag hanging off the end of it. With a few easy maneuvers, I pull the tag off the keyring, sticking it into my pant's pocket.
It will go nicely with my other souvenirs.
I collect a single object from each kill that I make. You could call them trophies, but I like to call them my souvenirs. Each one reminds me of the person I killed to obtain the object. There's been so many of them over the years that I lost count but I can recall each one in detail when I see their souvenir. I guess it's similar to the balloon sniper's behavior in a way, except that he leaves a lure and I collect prizes from my kills. I don't tell anyone that I do this. I don't want to get in trouble, and I don't want people to view me as some twisted serial killer.
Fingering the leather tag in my pocket, I turn to leave. No one questions me, no one tries to stop me. They know that I belong here, the same way this dead man does. One cannot exist without the other.
Driving home my mind drifts. How many years can I kill for? How many years has the balloon sniper killed for? Will we ever meet?
Almost as if in answer, I catch sight of a white tub set out on the sidewalk as I drive down a residential street.
I know what to do.
I slow the car, acting as if I'm there for another reason, trying to get a better look. Sure enough, inside are colored water balloons, glistening in the setting sun. Cautiously, I scan the area from my car, looking for vantage points. The street turns upwards into a hill, leading to more quiet houses. I pull my car up the hill, out of eyesight and I open the trunk to my car, taking out my rifle case. Casually, I walk down the street, heading back the direction I came. I find a suitable bush to hide near. It's on the corner of an empty lot that overlooks the tub still sitting there at the base of the hill.
Carefully, I open the case and remove my rifle. Pushing out the bipod, I take aim, watching the area around the tub, waiting for the balloon sniper to make his move. Someone will come by, I know he'll take the shot, when he does, I'll take mine.
No more balloon sniper.
I feel the damp earth below my stomach, anticipation makes it hard for me to hold still. Any minute now.
The sun sets, turning into twilight as I watch the tub through my scope. Still no victims to shoot. I just have to stay patient. He'll be here when they come, that I know. My focus is now completely consumed by the tub's surroundings. I watch the other vantage points I've found, no movement whatsoever.
Then I hear it, a single footstep in the grass behind my position. I freeze in terror, has a neighbor found me, mistaking me for the balloon sniper? Before I have the time to turn over and try to give a half-assed explanation for having a gun trained on a tub of water balloons a deep male voice speaks to me.
"Hello, son, I've been waiting for you…"