The daughter of a Quaker went missing and when she was discovered the slit in her throat turned out to be the least damage done to her. Her killer, who name shall not be noted, could not bear the guilt and the horror that he had set. In the year to the day of her death, he walked into a police station and gave himself up and though he asked for execution the judge gave him life and the killer was sent off to Sing Sing to serve his sentence. Seventeen long years went by and the killer found religion and was sincere about it. He had changed and if he had ever been a psychopath, he was not one anymore. This story isn’t about him. Many more years went by and the authorities finally realized that it wasn’t a scam, that he did truly mean it, that he had truly repented and they decided to set him free. And he found himself a place to stay and he determined to live a simple, joyous life in the years now left to him. A simple, joyous life was not what was left to him. This went on for eleven fucking years till finally the killer went mad. And one winter night, while recalling a catholic tract he read that stated that the only people guaranteed a place in hell were not murderers, were not rapist but were those who had died at their own hands. The killer accepted such an idea as beautiful, for he knew that at least in hell the Quaker would not be there. So he cut his own throat open and the last thing that the killer ever saw was the old man take out a cut throat razor of his own, put it to his throat, and slice.