[Marky]

Another short story. Not meaning to depress someone...
And try to find the sollution to the anagram.

The bloody mess you find in this room, used to be a man. I stabbed him. Three hundred and four times.
I stabbed him to death.
And it’s not my fault. It’s his own fault.
You probably think it’s disgusting I wrote my confession on the walls with the blood of my victim. But it is not my fault.
I can’t help myself, and I’m not to blame. He’s to blame.

Dwight P. O’Hara was an enormous man. He was 6 feet 7 and weighed a solid 257 pounds. Despite this gigantic stature he was a true athlete.
You remember the slaughter in the South Phoenix Baptist Church? Fifty-eight people got killed with a penknife.
That was him.
Later the police found the clothes the killer was wearing during the slaughtering; there wasn’t a square inch left that wasn’t drenched with blood.
He got nicknamed Mr. Massacre in the papers.

A man got killed in a dark alley in Phoenix, Arizona; he died because he was hit with bricks. The police found several broken bricks next to the corpse. They broke because of the collisions with the man. Too many hits on a hard target and a brick breaks. O’Hara would simply grab a new brick and continue his revolting job.
The man killed was never identified. The bricks were smashed with an enormous power and so often on the head that even his dental records couldn’t help the police with the identification.
You ever eaten haggis, Officer Mac Pharson of the Phoenix Police Department would ask a journalist, imagine that with blood. Lots of blood.
No, even more blood, he would add, when the journalist walked away with a white face.
Soon pictures of the crime scene ended up on the Internet.
An employee of the Phoenix Baptist Hospital reported several people choked on their own puke and fainted behind their computer screens showing the pictures of the mutilated corpse.
The detectives were surprised with how much anger a man could kill someone.
Some people speculated about the killing, being done by a mutant. But it wasn’t, it was O’Hara.
He got nicknamed The Beast in the papers.

Later that year the Chelster Orphan House in Phoenix was burned to the ground. No one survived. Seventy-two children and seven employees got burned alive. A wave of disgust went through whole the country.
That was O’Hara too.
He got nicknamed Heartless Haggard in the papers.

Finally O’Hara was caught though. While he was drowning a women in the Agua Fria River. The police shot him three times. By the time he released the grip on the woman, it was too late. She was already dead. O’Hara would have laughed when he got arrested and yelled, too late, too late, over and over again.
Of course, Dwight P. O’Hara got the death penalty, and the people of Phoenix could sleep safely again.
Knowing his real name now, the papers changed Haggard into O’Hara. The headlines shouted, Heartless O’Hara Finally To Hell.
So they thought.

I was driving my motor bike on a sunny summer evening. I got hit by a car. An alcoholic. Drunk behind the wheel.
I can’t remember anything, but waking up in a hospital bed.
It seemed I got myself a donor heart.

Because of the lack of donor hearts, the governor from Arizona made a law that stated condemned prisoners’ organs be donated to people in need, earlier that year.
Even though a wave of criticism followed, the law made it. During a press conference that followed governor Robert S. Rehl asked the press, what could go wrong.
Of course, none could answer him. There was only some criticism from an ethic point of view. Is it moral to give a man the heart of a psychopath, a journalist asked. Rehl countered this with, is it moral to let a man die when we have perfect hearts available.

O’Hara.
There are at least twelve more murders. But I have banned them from my mind.
They are too brutal.
Too gross.
Too stomach-turning.
Thinking about them and I start trembling, unable to write my confession.
You probably ask how I know it was O’Hara all the time. He never confessed to the police he was responsible for the murders. The court convicted him for some of these cases anyway. Others are still unsolved.
Then how can I be so sure, you ask.
I see the murders. In my dreams. Visions.
My heart shows me. His heart shows me.
Just as his heart gives me that hunger. That unsatisfying hunger… to kill.

Today, it is exactly three hundred and four days ago that I got O’Hara’s heart. It took me three hundred and four days of planning.
Three hundred and four days for my revenge.
I stabbed governor Rehl three hundred and four times. One stab for every day. One stab for every day I lived in hell.
O’Hara was The Beast, so they say. Rehl was one too. Or worse. He ruined my life, and turned me into The New Beast.
Now, he’s dead. Got what he deserved.
You know what Rehl’s second name is?
It is Simon.
The Beast. It was a nickname for the psychopath mass murderer Dwight P. O’Hara.
And Robert Simon Rehl… it’s just an anagram for his own nickname.

[Chyld]

Kick me if I'm wrong, but wasn't this the one you entered for that Haunted competition? How'd that do?

[Marky]

That is correct, you should check my blog more often, Chyldio...

Unfortunately I didn't win that contest. For the Haunted Winner click here!

[SimeSublime]

Dammit, the anagram elludes me. The story was quite true to what(little)I know of your style, though I guessed who the victim was before the end.
As for constructive critisism, the word 'puke' seemed really out of place. Vomit strikes me as fitting better.

[Marky]

Why can't people solve anagram nowdays?

The answer was: horrible monster.

[SimeSublime]

Well, with 15 letters theres 15! different possiblities. Sure, most of them are jibberish, but it's still a lot to sort through.

[Marky]

Quitter!