My Death, My Second Chance (Redone & Edited)

I guess my story began with my death... no, my death only led to my 'second chance'. My story, however, started long before that.

I guess I should explain a little about how I became what I am; a killer. I never knew my parents, I grew up in foster care. As I grew up, I was passed along from foster home to foster home; some good, some bad, and some hellish.

Abused from a young age, I became an introvert; preferring to seclude myself away from the world in books. Mysteries, suspense, sci-fi, fantasy, and horror novels.

I guess that's what started my fascination with the morbid and macabre.

When I turned sixteen, things... changed. Dark urges and murderous fantasies flitted through my mind with ever increasing frequency, and I starting to feel a dark burning rage- no hatred. A hatred towards people, towards myself, towards everything and everyone really.

It was with my latest and final foster family where things come to a final, murderous conclusion.

I won't go into details. Mainly because each time I think about it, I develop a 'murder boner', which absolutely horrifies me. It also repeatedly reminds me that I've long become a depraved, murderous monster.

The last thing I said to my foster dad- something that would become my signature, was something he'd say every night after he would beat me bloody…

GO... TO... SLEEP

My first murder, like so many others, set the tone for all my future murders. Over the next two years, I became the boogieman, the thing that goes bump in the night!

I became a motherfucking urban legend; The Sandman.

And along the way, somehow, I developed a fucking cult following!

Just goes to show that the good ol’ U.S of A is chock full of sick, deranged motherfuckers, kindred spirits, if you will.

Actually, no, that’s not right. There’s a major fucking difference between me and my “fans”.

I have the will and the means to do what I do.

They don’t.

At each murder scene the police found my signature, my calling card, as it were. Usually it would be on the wall above my victims, meticulously written in their blood.

GO... TO... SLEEP

Funny thing about that though, is that I myself, was “put to sleep” not by the police, not by a victim that got lucky in the initial fight to subdue them, but a child. A little boy, ten going on eleven, I think.

I had just finished off the parents and was about to help the children sleep; the boy, my killer, and two little girls. The trio fled into their parents room, no doubt to check and see if mommy and daddy dearest were still alive, while I was drinking a bottle of shitty beer. Little fuckers must’ve scrambled for the closet as soon as the heard me making my way back into the parent’s room.

I remember I would usually call out to the children, trying to coax them to coming out. That I only wanted to help them sleep. Not this time.

Before I could even open the closet door, I caught six 9mm rounds to the chest. The little boy found his fathers not-so-cleverly hidden 9mm semi-auto pistol, shot me through the thin plywood of the cheap hollow-core door.

Clever boy, I remember thinking as I stared dumbly at my bleeding wounds.

If it wasn't for the ghoulish circumstances, I would've found my delayed-reaction humorous.

I don't remember falling down, I don't remember the police, I certainly don't remember the EMT’s taking me away.

All I could think about was that little boy, that clever little boy and his sisters.

The children I orphaned without care.

Dying brings a surprisingly sharp sense of clarity and pulling one from the depths of a prolonged psychotic episode.

I remember being brought to an operation room; but my mind was too busy being horrified at my actions for the past two years.

Without the psychotic haze I was besieged by two years of guilt.

How many lives have I ended?

How many families have I destroyed?

How many children have I orphaned?

How many? How many?

Deep inside, I knew I'd never pay for my crimes, I would never see the inside of a court room. The little boy, that clever child, he ensured my death. Not a clean fast one, but a slow agonizing one.

I don't deserve a fast, clean death... not after all I've done.

In my last moments of life I thought of only two things; how I would give anything for a second chance, and of that boy. That clever, clever boy.

Kid deserves a fucking medal, a Presidential Medal of Freedom! Why? I’ll tell you why! Not only did he save his own life and god-knows how many more that night, he also freed me.

Freed me? From who? From myself, that’s who. Freed me from the fucking monster I’d become.

And so ended the Legend of the Sandman, put to sleep by one of his would-be victims.

Karma’s a bitch, huh?

Well, that’s how it was supposed to end, anyways. But, it appears that fate is either a sucker for redemption, or has a twisted sense of humor.

Why? Because instead of going to burn, I woke up in a world unlike any other.

Fuck me, right?

--->>>Jake<<<---

I'll be honest, I never expected to wake up again. And I expected my personal afterlife to be more... hellfire and brimstone in all honesty.

Instead I find myself in a dungeon straight out of medieval Europe.

Very disorientating, I admit, but a much better alternative to eternal burning and torment, right?

After looking around for a few moments, I looked down and started patting myself down. You know, I didn't think you'd keep your clothes in death.

So color me surprised to find out that I was still wearing my bloodstained hoodie, complete with six fresh bullet holes, my faded blue jeans, and worn sneakers.

Then I found something that really surprised me, well rather freaked me the fuck out truth be told.

My Ipod! How in God’s green earth did my Ipod wind up in my pocket? Why the fuck am I questioning this? I took six bullets to the chest! I should be dead! Yet I’m still alive, and in a dungeon, so…

I quickly dismissed the mystery and put some ear buds in, preferring not to ponder my situation to deeply. The only thing that lies that way is madness.

For whatever reason, the image of a tiny pink horse comes to mind. A tiny. Pink. Motherfucking. Horse.

Fucking weird that...

Instead, I powered on my Ipod, flicking through the numerous songs until I found my favorite;

“

Youtube Video

”

As I listened, I unintentionally started singing along, something that usually got me in no small amount of trouble, due to the fact that I simply could not carry a tune to save my life.

Of course, that didn’t bother the tall white horse standing in front of my cell. Why not?

"Why, hello there! I must say, you have a wonderful singing voice."

I guess that ponies are either tone-deaf, or I somehow gained an aptitude for singing when I rose from the dead!

I mean, why the fuck not? Despite the six 9mm slugs I ate, I’m still alive, and there’s a tall, white… wingycorn talking to me.

In English.

Why. The. Fuck. Not?

I’m totally unashamed to admit that I had a very minor freakout, but let’s be honest, who the fuck wouldn't? I mean, not only is there a goddamn wingycorn speaking to me, but I can clearly understand her (and with that feminine, motherly tone, it couldn't be anything but a female)!

It’s too bad, really. I’ve always wanted a legitimate reason to scream “English, muthafucka, do you SPEAK IT?” at someone. Some... pony? Fuck me.

Which brings me back to my current predicament. I'm no fucking Einstein, but I do know that I’m either: a), in a different dimension, or b) in a fucking coma.

I’m confident that it’s door number two, ‘cause I I'm hurting too goddamn much to be dead.

Which, once again, brings me to my current fucking predicament! I’m probably stuck in a land of talking horses!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.

Why. The. Fuck. Not.

Have you ever felt like the Powers-That-Be and that Existence itself are fucking with you?

"Uh... thanks?" Brilliant! Great fucking job at First Fucking Contact, dumbass! Well, I suppose it could be worse.

Hell, I could’ve said something unforgivably cliche like “Take me to your leader!”. If I knew then what I know now...

Of course, the horse giggled at me. She fucking giggled at me! Obviously, this bitch doesn’t know that I'm a legendary goddamn killer! You don't laugh at a legendary goddamn-

Did I really just take fucking pride in my killing skills?

That is just soooo fucking sad!

"Ahem... uh- I'm Jake and... uh... can you tell me where I am? Or why I'm not dead?"

Judging by her widening eyes, I think I surprised her, especially with my second question. Dunno why, it's a valid question! I caught six rounds to the chest and lost waaay too much blood to survive. Hell, the little bastard managed to put two rounds in my heart, which wasn’t too surprising, not at that range. Point is, not even the best of the best could have saved me by the time I reached the hospital!

So why am I here instead of burning in Hell? Oh, please tell me that Great White here isn’t gonna turn into some eldritch abomination made of teeth and tentacles! Please!

Honestly, though, I doubt it's divine providence. Two years of killing like a mad dog has no doubt put me on the Big Guy's shit list!

"Oh, where are my manners? I am Princess Celestia, co-ruler, with my sister Luna, of Equestria." She answered with a slight bow "And as to why you are not dead, it was foal’s play for the Royal Surgeon to extract the metal objects in your chest, and speed up your body’s natural healing process. Once we stabilized you, that is. You should consider yourself very lucky, young colt, for you were at death’s door when you were found by my guards.” She paused, looking at the dungeon with thinly veiled distaste. “I apologize for your current lodgings, by the way. I assure you, the only reason you're here instead of the infirmary is because my Royal Guard Captain was rather insistent that you be placed here, for our protection as well as yours."

Young colt? What the fuck is she- oh! I get it! She must not be very smart if she thinks I’m a fucking horse.

Sound like that captain is a smart horse thingy though, or smarter than Great White, at any rate. Though whether he insisted because he could tell I'm dangerous, or if it was a matter of paranoia or xenophobia is the question.

Probably the first one, though. My bloodstained clothes probably helped him arrive at that conclusion, heheh.

"You seem rather pleased... may I ask you why?" Celestia asked, narrowing her eyes into a suspicious half-glare.

I put away my Ipod and thought about the best way to answer Celestia's question. Sure, I could lie, but something's telling me that would be a bad fucking idea. I could tell her the truth in good faith, and simply pray to anything listening that she wouldn't have me executed. But then again she might be moved by my desire for a second chance. What to do, what to do?

Oh, to hell with it. Honestly, what do I have to lose?

"Well... ya see Princess... it's a rather long, morbid, and horrific story." Please don't kill me! Please don't kill me!

And so I told her a tale of an abused boy who would become the legendary killer, The Sandman. Everything from the very first murder, to the following two years (I glossed over them but I did make it clear that it only got worse), to my final pair of murders, and slowly dying at the hands of that clever little boy.

I told her everything, the crushing guilt that threatened to consume me when my psychotic haze faded enough for coherent thought, and what were meant to be my last living thoughts.

My desire for an undeserved second chance.

Celestia tried to keep a stoic expression on her face as she listened to the entirety of my gory, somber tale. The occasionally wince at a particularly horrific detail was expected, but her eyes were what truly gave her away. She was horrified, a natural reaction, but she also appeared to be… deeply saddened? Cry me a fucking river, lady.

I made my fucking bed, and I was willing to sleeping in it, even if it was six fucking feet under.

There was no doubt though that she realized the killings wouldn't have happened if the foster care system was more vigilant, if they screened foster families more thoroughly. I could just simply lay blame on the foster care system... but that would be a lie.

Well... a half-lie really.

"I will not lie to you, Jake, if what you have told me is true, then you have committed countless atrocities, Jake. Atrocities that I'm not sure could ever be forgiven, nor am I sure that they should be forgiven." Tell me something I don’t fucking know! "However, the fact that you genuinely feel remorse, and weren't in complete control of your actions is the only reason you are still within Equestrian borders."

Is it possible to be relieved and terrified at the same time? Should it be possible?

“It is a personal belief of mine that everyone has a bit of good in them, no matter how evil they seem. My sister and I will discuss this. I shall return tomorrow to inform you of our discussion."

With that Celestia left me all by my lonesome in my cell. I let out a heavy sigh as I listened to her hoofsteps fade away, and started thinking, a bad habit of mine that I really need to kick.

But let’s be honest, what are the chances of a ruler allowing a monster to roam free amongst her subjects? Even if the monster wishes to redeem himself? Honestly, death would've been preferable, as waiting is a torture rivaling what I put my last victims through.

Who would've thought the 'Pure and Divine" Celestia could be so cruel and sadistic?

Ah, a mare after my own black heart!

--->>>Celestia<<<---

Celestia meandered into the throne-room she shared with Luna and plopped down onto her throne, so deep in thought she didn't hear her sister Luna trying to catch her attention.

That problem was resolved when Luna bopped Celestia on the nose, sleepily giggling all the while.

"Tia, why have you awoken me so early?" The Princess of the Night said with a yawn "Surely whatever it is could have waited for a few more hours?"

Celestia didn't reply right away, opting instead to observe her younger sister. It had only been six months ago that Luna- or rather, Nightmare Moon, had broken free of her imprisonment in the moon, and expelled from Luna’s mind by the Elements of Harmony.

While Luna was back to her pre-Nightmare self, she was still a thousand years behind on- well, everything. So during the last six months, Luna had been giving her all to adapt to this new world. It was rather endearing, how hard she tried to memorize everything she possibly could.

It reminded Celestia of a certain lavender unicorn that she mentored.

All her free hours, which were many since Luna didn't revive the Lunar court, were spent studying a thousand years worth of history, economics, customs and traditions.

One thing Celestia positively adored was Luna’s incessant chatter with her Lunar guard to help 'modernize' her speech.

"Bless those Lunar guard cause Lulu can be quite the chatterbox!" Celestia thought fondly.

Pulling herself out of her musings, Celestia motioned for her sister to listen.

"Luna, when you are doing your rounds in the Dreamlands, I wish for you to pay particular attention to the dreams of our guest. He has told me... many disturbing things, but he expresses regret over his actions, and wishes for a second chance. I want to know if he truly desires a second chance, and wishes to make amends for the atrocities he has committed."

Luna frowned and nodded at the request. While unusual, it wouldn't be the first, nor the last time Luna had to suss out the true character of another.

"It will be done, Tia." Luna said with a mock bow "Now, can I please go back to sleep?"

From the highest tower to the deepest dungeon, Celestia's laughter echoed throughout the castle, causing many ponies to wonder just what tickled Celestia's funny bone, before dismissing it and resuming their routines.

Business as usual at Canterlot Castle, right?

Jake simply wondered if Celestia was on drugs, and if she had any to spare?