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Car Won't Start

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Note: This story is part of the 2015 Creepypasta Freestyle Competition.
For a full list of entries, see this category.

Subject: Car won't start



Every day in the wee hours of dawn, I follow my morning routine in a strict, mechanical fashion. I shuffle out of bed, go to the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, put on a pot of coffee, eat an apple, and then head off to my mundane job. Every day. Every morning. Today wasn't any different either.

It was a clear warm winter dawn, and I was drinking my cup of Joe while watching the morning news. The local news always annoyed me with its blunt yellow-journalism of the most inane things. Yet I watched it just to find out which routes were grid-locked because usually either some dumbass crashed his car or some unnecessary construction project was taking place. Luckily, my everyday routes were untouched by the rush hour havoc. I finished my coffee, picked up my suitcase, and headed out. It was 5 AM as I stepped outside in an unusually warm winter morning. The air was cool and the sky had the deepest blueish black.

"A great day for work... Dammit," I muttered to myself.

I always saw my job as mundane and boring despite it being unusual. I remember my young self being content and excited to go to work. I always loved seeing new people, solving new problems, and bringing in the big cash. I felt alive and thought I could do anything, but unfortunately my job has lost its luster during the years. Don't get me wrong, I'm good at what I do, and I still bring in the big cash from days of my prime, but I got older and became more discontent with what I do. Now here I am, a man in his forties, way past his prime. This job is the only thing I know.

I could go back to school, but I am not an exceptional student in any sort of sense, and I hate dealing with obnoxious people. That is probably way I got into this "career". I walked up to the car and stubbornly jammed my keys in the car door. My car was the luxurious type with a lustrous dark black car paint, and the expensive brand that indicates only the wealthiest could possibly own. I didn't really like it because it just wasn't my style, but it was essential for my work.

I got in the car and tried to start the ignition.

Nothing.

I tried to start again.

Nothing.

Well shit, I really needed to go to work today, despite my discontent with the occupation. Today, I needed to leave town to finish some business, and then notify my client of the job's completion, but the damn car wouldn't start and I couldn't afford to have it towed. Maybe I could just sit on it for one more day. Perhaps I could just pay some mechanic that wouldn't ask in any questions to work on my car; I needed a day off anyways.

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Shit, so much for my day off, because that sound came from the trunk. She must have awoken to my attempts to start the car. I couldn't have this and I didn't want the neighbors poking around. I couldn't put my car in the garage, because of all of that clutter from my job in years past. Luckily, it was still early in the morning, and most of the neighbors had yet to wake. I got out of the car and went to the trunk. I quickly opened it up revealing a bounded, disheveled woman in her mid-twenties. She was covered in blood because of the blows I had to give her in order to obtain her. She was a fighter, so I had her hands, legs, and mouth tightly bonded with duct tape. There was also a foul stench of excrement and urine. I saw the fear and desperation in her pretty dark-brown eyes as she struggled to break free, and I simply couldn't have that. Whatever the reason my client wanted her dead is nothing of my concern, and I lacked any sort empathy for the victim; it was just part of the job.

I grabbed her by her hair and dragged her into the house. Once again, no neighbors around during this time. I dragged her through the house and into the garage where I could properly clean up the mess I was going to make. The "clutter" I obtained over the years were the various torture devices which my rage-filled young self used in excess. They were mostly mementos and relics of the past, but I wasn't planning to use them on her because it just wasn't me anymore. This whole thing wasn't me any more. I had grown tired of needlessly killing people for my clients' vengeful lust. I had grown tired of laundering illegal money to keep doing what am doing. I had grown especially tired of dealing with the world's scummiest people.

I sat the beaten woman on a chair and restrained her to it. I setup a plastic tarp on the floor around her to make it easier to clean up. I pulled out my silencer and pointed it directly at her head. Maybe I didn't need to kill her now, but just keep her silent until I could get my car fixed. Or maybe I didn't need to kill her at all, but just dump her off somewhere else and tell my client to fuck off. Maybe... I just outgrew my vengeful, homicidal youth.

I looked into her eyes filled with fear and despair; seeing her desperation to live another day, and just maybe, I could grant her that. Well maybe I could just live a new, revitalized life without the burden of being a criminal. Maybe. Maybe someday. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger and her head spattered the crimson red over the white plastic tarp, because after all, it was the only thing I knew.



Written by Sloshedtrain 
Content is available under CC BY-SA

This pasta has received a rating of 6/10 or higher and has moved on to the finals of the 2015 freestyle pasta challenge.

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