The Seventh Day of Karmas
I had to lay low for a few days. I was out of ideas and the media was hot on my trail. I wallowed in my depression until I decided that Christmas Day would be my grand finale, after all, when better to highlight the sin of greed? I wanted to play Santa and leave gifts all over town. I had made the front page of the newspaper and I was dubbed the Inferno Killer, which was actually kind of cool. I had hoped to be associated with Christmas in some way, but killers can’t be choosers, well, yes, they can. But you understand.
At midnight between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I packed up a sack full of needles and goodies and got into my snowmobile sleigh and headed off to all the naughty grown-ups’ houses. Drugging them in their sleep was easy, it as sneaking into their houses without waking them up that was hard. But I did it, and once they were out, each got dragged out to their lawns where I stabbed them through their greedy little hearts with an icicle I plucked from their roofs. Once they were dead, I sat them up, covered them in tinsel and lights, and drug all the gifts they purchased outside and surrounded my victim with them.
I managed to get four “trees” up before the morning. It felt good, I felt accomplished, I was proud. That was my sin. But I didn’t want to stop either. I was at the top of my game. I was as famous as all those I had looked up to my whole life. I had a moniker. I had so many more ideas, a new year was fast approaching; I had 365 resolutions, ways to better myself, to improve. The seven deadly sins were fine for Christmas but I wasn’t done.
I wanted more. I lusted for blood. I went back to my office, and I filled my bags with drugs, grabbed scalpels, needles, and syringes until I could take on no more. When I walked out, I left my old life of healing and followed a new path of taking. I became both the sin and the punishment. I became death.