Kuna, Idaho

A story about a murder. Written while listening to Minus The Bear and Neutral Milk Hotel

The silence was louder than an atomic bomb being dropped in his backyard. The snow hadn’t stopped falling all night, it came down in waves like a cascading wall of pure white that had been obstructing his view of the rest of the world. He had left the shed door open last night, within all the chaos of the world a simple task such as that can simply slip one’s mind. With the endeavours he had to endure, the prospect of a “normal” life seemed like nothing more than a distant, fading memory. Nothing would ever be the same after this, nothing would ever go back to the way it was. He had to accept that, he had to make do with whatever path he would walk down next. In a matter of minutes, the entire of course of his history would shift on its axis, pointing now to a void of uncertainty that would frighten anybody who thinks rationally. How could he possibly explain this? He had to go back to the very beginning, the moment this cavalcade of madness in his life had started.

The train left Wisconsin at nine o’clock sharp on Sunday. They were on route to Boise, it might take a day or two to get there. The killer had no fear, only time. Time, time, seemingly endless time. He had killed before, and he would certainly do it again. He travelled all over the map, from Tallahassee to Omaha, Norfolk to Flagstaff, looking for souls to claim. Observing, analyzing, recognizing behavioural patterns, identifying just the right ways to trick people. They were all so vacuous, all beneath him, the killer believed he sat on a throne above everyone else. His bloodlust would be satiated, he didn’t care how it would be done. Perhaps he didn’t know yet if he would even find a victim, but he didn’t care, he would find a way. The train had crossed the border into Iowa now, the killer fixed his gaze upon the endless corn fields and silos outside. It had been cloudy in Madison as he sat alone in the crowded station, but now the sky was starting to clear into a pale blue. It was relatively cold this time of year, cloudless skies were an uncommon sight, the killer took pleasure in this sight, he knew it may be the last pleasant day he would see. The killer slept, even in his subconscious the desire to take a life still lingered. Iowa turned into Nebraska, Nebraska into Wyoming, before they finally crossed the border into Idaho early Tuesday morning. It was pitch black out when they arrived in Boise, snow coated the fresh earth of the valley, suburban houses sat in silence. The killer stepped off the train, nobody would ever know his true intentions, he found a nearby motel and booked a room for the night, the following day he would commence his vocation.

His house in Kuna sat amongst the trees. The fireplace had been dead for an hour, he had to light it manually. He didn’t always like the snowfall, but he felt the pros outweighed the cons in his new neighbourhood. He had come from Georgia originally, he was so used to the blistering heat and the burning yellow sun upon his pale skin that the transition to his new surroundings seemed almost surreal at first. He claimed to have left the peach state for work, but he never had much bearings there in the first place. He wasn’t satisfied, and he needed to get out. He was settling in Kuna just fine, and was optimistic about the future. He could settle down here amongst the farms and suburban towns, he could finally build himself a life that he would be happy with. That’s what he thought at first, but things don’t always go the way you want them to.

The killer decided that picking someone off in Boise itself would be too risky, he had never taken a life in this part of the country before, he wasn’t completely sure how their authorities would behave, it was smarter to find a smaller congregation of plebeians to select from. His tactics had succeeded in the past, he always knew just the right locations to hide a body: crevices, forests, rivers, swamps. Nobody had ever discovered his work, and he didn’t expect that to change. He could carry out this vocation for the rest of his life, and nobody would ever find out. He was smarter than them, smarter than all of them, whenever he walked past somebody on the sidewalk he knew they were beneath him, he knew they didn’t matter, nothing would really change if they left this mortal plain. It was frigid out, but he needed to walk. He couldn’t risk his temper giving out and causing him to do something that would get him caught. Layers of clothing beneath his jacket, he left Boise and ventured towards the first town that caught his eye, Kuna. He could sense something about this town, he couldn’t quite explain it, but then again, could he explain any of this? By late afternoon he stepped across the cracked sidewalks in this melancholy suburbia. He picked out a colonial house in a slightly more isolated part of town, he found it unusual that a structure as old as this hadn’t yet been replaced, but he didn’t care, that would make his job easier, fewer signs to tell that somebody may be missing. The killer found a perch in the woods around the house, and began waiting, biding his time for the perfect moment.

It was around seven that evening when he noticed something unusual outside his window. The most recent flurry of snow had stopped falling a few minutes prior, and he could barely make out a dark figure in the bush next to his home. He initially thought little of it, it could have easily have been a small animal or an object that had simply been discarded in the woods. He stepped back into the kitchen and continued going about his humdrum routine. Others may find this type of existence soul-crushing, but he didn’t mind, he quite enjoyed the simplicity of it all. He gazed out of the window again a few minutes later, the figure was gone. Thoughts began to race through his head. What if this was something worse than he initially figured? What if he was in danger? He considered the possibility that he could have simply been going mad, but he didn’t want to take any chance. Before he left Georgia, he bought a rifle for hunting, he thought that was all he would ever use it for. He kept in in a safe in his basement, hadn’t touched it since the move. One box of shells sat collecting dust on the worn out wooden shelf, it wouldn’t be much, but he figured it would be just enough. By the time he climbed up the stairs back to the main floor, he noticed the window had been smashed. He turned around to find a heavily-clothed figure staring back at him. He didn’t feel the weapon go off, it must have just been instinctual, but in a moment the figure lay on the ground, blood pooling around it. He knew he’d made a mistake, and he was trying to think of how he could fix it.

He knew he couldn’t fix it. This was it. This was the end of the rest of his life, they would find out what he had done, and he would be locked up. Discarded like a reject from society. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He had to leave, there was no other way. He didn’t know how he would do it, but he had to get out. He sat down on his couch, attempting to consider whatever other options he may have. The silence was deafening, it was as though the world itself were punishing him. He sat alone in this wooden colonial house in Kuna, Idaho. This may be the last thing he would ever see, he wasn’t sure. He would have to decide his fate right in this moment, but he didn’t have the strength to do it. This was the moment his future began or ended, and the silence was louder than an atomic bomb being dropped in his backyard.