Write a short story about a kidnapping from the point of view of the kidnapper

`` You're making me do this.'' 
 
 Blurred by summer heat in this lonely concrete desert of a parking lot I see someone approaching from the corner of my eye. A man, and youthful, judging by his gate. As the curtains of the heat haze open and his form takes shape I behold just so a boy, not eighteen yet, of slender build. 
 
 Reaching into my cart I grasp a bag of ice, one of three, and noisily, with much ado and show of torment that some might think would befit my years, heave it into the opened trunk. The modified late 50s Cadillac that has served me as a hearse for three decades now, like myself and the role I play, is symbol to so many. Not seen for who I am but what I do some craft me in their minds of fears of death to come, while some craft me of a loss they've already faced. Most do not see me at all if they can avoid it. Of those that do most soon forget, no doubt by their own desire. Not knowing what this boy might see in me I lay my hands upon my face wearily. The ghost of cold feels good before it fades. 
 
 It used to be that my heart would race from the tension of the task at hand, but if time had not tempered that, in days like this the sun would have burned away all my fear anyways, leaving only focus in its wake. Lowering my hands and turning to the almost man passing a thought shoots through me, come and gone before it's held, on how in a lake of fire only the essentials of a man is left while all else fades to ash. 
 
 I do n't have to ask. He approaches me. With a cheerful voice he asks if I he can assist, and I turn towards him, a fragile look on my face that by design turns slowly to gratitude. I thank him deferentially. My words ring true because they are. I have no malice in my heart for this child of God. 
 
 Seeing him now in full I feel suddenly apart. It's not his tight black jeans on those lanky, long legs worn in this unforgiving summer, or the large skull upon two crossed guitars grinning in my face that adorns his black shirt, level with his chest, which furrow my brows as I step back to give him space. Neither is it his his nails. They are painted, and painted black as well. The world has changed, I know. Much seems strange, and maybe it means nothing, but the cross he wears upside down for all to see fills me with sense of doubt. Maybe my Samaritan is n't true and lost already to sins that make him useless for my purpose. 
 
 I watch him pile the ice and push it back. Pointing at his cross I remark in a tone that does n't hint at the bewilderment I feel that it must be a truth after all that one should not judge a book by its cover. As he stands taller than I ever was he laughs and clutches at the cross with ringed fingers. My own hands slip into my pockets. 
 
 It's not what you think, he says smiling, and looking down he starts to say something else, no doubt wanting to stop me from rewarding his charity with cash, but his short testament is good enough for me. 
 
 The smile still steady on my face with trained dexterity I pull a stun gun out of my left pocket faster than most eyes can see readily, and press the trigger. His jaw clenches as the wired darts penetrate his flesh and shoot electricity through his body, stunning him mid speech. Like all before him he stiffens as his muscles now obey me, and falls helplessly to the ground. The last noise he hears is a metal click as inertia fully extends and locks the telescopic baton I am swinging downwards at his head with my mighty right in place. 
 
 I may approach my seventh decade, but I'm far from fragile. 
 
 I do n't enjoy this. I mean that. I honestly have no malice in my heart for him, or any of his predecessors. Like for those before, what mercy I allow myself for the lambs that I collect is limited to a momentarily hope that I may have cracked his skull by accident, killing him in doing so. He is tall, but he is lean, and light enough. He still breathes as he bleeds, laying still, unconscious. 
 
 I allow my gaze to wander, confirming what I knew. There were no witnesses. The lot is mostly empty, and no cars parked nearby. The boy himself had come by foot, and would have left by the same route, predictably passing this isolated spot hard to see in this heat, in this haze, from any angle. 
 
 My face now stone with purpose I heave him up into the back of the hearse, by the armpits first, then by the waist, pushing with aged but trusty muscles still as strong as they ever were, pushing him forward, and then closing the trunk once done. 
 
 They do n't see me for who I am, but what I do. If they saw what it was I did away from prying eyes they would n't think me a symbol for death, but a monster, and they would be just as mistaken as they were before. Like this boy, I am a victim here. 
 
 My gaze turns upward, and the bright light of the sunlit sky pains me. I close my eyes, and pray. 
 
 `` You're making me do this''. Embers of something light up in a dark place within me. 
 
 `` Your kingdom come. Your will be done. All you have to do is have me stopped. You know what happens next. How many times can you bear it? How many more times, Lord? Why have you abandoned us?'' 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 `` Will you abandon him, too? I will take this soul of yours to the other one. I will hurt them both. I will hurt them bad. And when I have filled their hearts with fear, and hate, I will offer each a choice. To hurt each other, or I will bring pain to both twice as bad. I will fill them with hate for each other, with fear of each other, until one out of his own free will in hatred kill the other in ways that as of yet seem unimaginable to them. I will destroy their innocence, my Lord, beyond repair. By force I will drag the souls, the souls that could be yours, beyond redemption!'' 
 
 My face creases into a myriad of wrinkles, comfortable and well worn ones, an expression of ancient anger, then shifts again, into something else. 
 
 `` They all break. When one kills the other, when one more soul is lost to you forever, it will be your doing. You will be the one to have abandoned him like all the others... like you have me. I know you could stop me if you chose to. If you cared about your children. I will not stop, heavenly father! I will never stop. Not unless you make me. I beg you, once more, please... dear Lord, please... stop me.'' 
 
 My only answer was a darkness that fell over my eyes as they adjusted finally to the light, and silence. 
 
 * ( this is the first thing I have written in a decade. Please, tear me a new one. Criticism is very welcome. Is my writing style difficult to read? It feels natural to me, but... I dunno. Tell me what you think ) *
