I had sworn to myself that I was going to kill him.
I do not know what it was about him, but I hated that man with a passion. Even now I have no clue what it was that drove me to loathe him so. I’ve spent time with people far worse, far more irritating, than him, but I’ve never hated anyone as much as I hated him. I do not know how we became “friends”. I think that he must have been a friend of a friend of mine who was invited into our little circle, and remained there even as the others fell away. Or perhaps I pushed them away- I don’t know. All I know is that they disappeared, but he remained.
The worst thing was that he still treated me as a friend. He spoke highly of me, very highly of me- I couldn’t understand why. I never outright said anything to his face that would tell him- I didn’t have the courage too- but I could have sworn that whenever I saw him my face was overcome by hatred and misery. Eventually I stopped seeing my friends out of fear that he would be there, stopped going out in public at any time but night. He still called me, occasionally, asking if I would like to visit his house, or if I would mind if I came over. I refused every time, always coming up with some sort of excuse. He must have thought I was a busy man, though in reality I did nothing. I sat at home, occasionally found a job and worked for a week before quitting, sleeping very little and eating even less. I laid on my barren floor and fantasized over my single dream: killing him.
I think that is what kept me going- the belief that one day, that man would be dead. What few purchases I made, other than enough rice and beans to keep me going, were dedicated towards furthering that goal. I had it all planned perfectly. I had bought a cheap carpet and kept it rolled up, in my kitchen cabinet (which was otherwise empty). I had bought several trash bags, which I didn’t use for anything other than preparation for that day. Most importantly, I had bought a knife.
I was never going to go through with it, I promise, even though I fully intended to. Why would I? I would not have been able to stand inviting him over for the deed. I did not recognize it at the time, but I was incapable of it. I could not have tracked him down, made eye contact, invited him over, and then not canceled immediately. It was never going to happen, and that’s why when the first few thoughts came I didn’t worry about them. It was as absurd as going to the moon.
No. I never would have asked him.
Instead, he asked me. He happened to see me in a store and cornered me before I knew what was happening. Stupefied with fear, I found myself agreeing thoughtlessly to his request to eat dinner at my house. As soon as he walked away and thanked me, I cursed the both of us; him for being him, and myself for being so stupid. The fool! Of course, he, too, had made a grave error- he had no suspicions of my planning the act. He was walking right into my trap. I think that’s what consoled me for those few days before I did it; I would have to see him once more, but never again.
The day before he came I fell into a fever, a deep fever, as I was so completely overcome with dread. I simply collapsed onto the floor and remained there, when I should have been preparing. I nearly panicked when I realized what I had done- I have no watch or clock in the house, since I do not need one, but I could tell that I must have been asleep for several hours. I immediately cursed myself and sprang to action. I rapidly moved the carpet out from under my bed- where it had lain in hiding- and spread it over my floor. If I spilled blood (which I almost certainly would) it would all fall on the carpet, which no-one would know I had; I could then throw it away, removing the bloodstains in a non-suspicious way. Satisfied with my work, I stood still for a moment to admire my plan, before I realized that I had not plugged in my fridge. I did not ever have any perishable food, so I had no reason to have it running- but it would be paramount for my plan. It would take about a day for it to get properly cold- I should have plugged it in the day before, or even a couple months before, to allay suspicions over electric bills- but I did not really need what would be going in there to remain unspoiled. As long as it did not start to truly rot, everything would be fine.
I spent the rest of that time planning out the event in my head. My hands gradually started gripping the knife harder and harder, fingers curling and uncurling, palms getting sweaty and warm. I started to feel feverish– my sickness was returning. I felt like I needed to lie down, but I could not let myself do that. I steadied myself and leaned against the wall– not the best position to be when it happened, but it was all that I could do to not collapse. My vision swam, and it was as I was about to faint that I realized that my guest was standing in front of me.
He had, evidently, invited himself in– just like him, too. I straightened and gaped, embarrassed to be caught almost sleeping. My hands trembled– he did not seem to notice that they were holding a knife. I stepped towards him. He just stood there, with that same stupid, pitying look that he always had. I took another step. He still did not look at my hand, or the knife, but only continued to stare piercingly at my face. I looked away even as I took the final step. With a wild, choked cry I swung the knife. I didn’t know if it had hit, didn’t care– I just needed it to be over.
When I woke up we were both sprawled upon the floor. Thankfully, he had fallen away from me– I had not a speck of blood on me or my clothes- only the knife and carpet were stained crimson by the murder. Just to make sure, however, I immediately took off my shirt and pants to check for bloodstains. I checked them thoroughly (didn’t put them back on, because I wanted them to remain clean while I worked on the next step) and started working on the task at hand– disposing of the corpse. I had it all planned in advance; I would cut off each little part and put it in a trash bag, storing pieces in my fridge and going out of the city to dispose of them one by one.
I was soon faced with an obstacle, however– humans are hard to cut up. They have many bones, and lots of connective tissue. I had not researched this part- I had simply assumed that he would be easy enough to split apart with a machete. This was not entirely true, and I ended up spending much longer on the task than I would have liked. I still finished before anyone knocked to come in, which was the important thing. I would not have liked to be caught half-naked struggling to peel a corpse apart. For some reason the embarrassing aspect of it bothered me more than the actual risk of going to jail or receiving the death sentence, or any kind of moral guilt. Just imagine! It would be in all the papers, and people would ask me about it.
After I finished hacking apart his remains, I placed the pieces in the trash bags, and waited for as much of the blood to drain out into the bag as possible. Once I had placed every piece into a trash bag, I rolled up the carpet, carried it out into the hallway of the apartment complex, and tossed it into the dumpster behind the apartment. No blood could be seen when it was rolled up, and the dumpster would be taken care of tomorrow, so there was little to worry about there. Somebody might be able to review the footage from the security cameras– but then what? That would hardly be evidence. Once the carpet was taken care of, I went back inside and dumped the blood that had pooled in the bottom of each bag into the sink, and ran some water to wash it all down. I then carefully tied each bag closed, and then pulled and tied shut a second trash bag over the first layer, so that if one layer got pierced it would not leak blood everywhere. I then placed each piece in my (rather spacious, especially when completely empty) refrigerator.
I had just finished when the doorbell rang.
I nearly dropped dead then and there– who could it possibly be? I had not scheduled to meet anyone tonight– I had made sure to pay rent– surely it couldn’t be the police? No, surely not? They were hardly omniscient, and it’s not like he would have been missing for that long, or had a family that would notice he was gone. I realized that I was still mostly unclothed, and rushed to pull them on from their little pile in the corner.
The knocking was louder. I rushed over to open the door; I think my fly was still open.
It was him. It was the same man that I had killed not two hours earlier.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, although he said it mildly, as if he had not missed his appointment by much, as if he had not missed the scene of his own death.
I gazed at him vacantly. I simply could not understand what was happening.
He must have taken my shock and horror for embarrassment, which is fair, seeing as for me they are all similar feelings that produce similar reactions. He completely misidentified the source, however; looking beyond my panicked face, he saw the completely bare room behind me and must have identified that as the source of my anguish, for his face became wracked with that pitying, oh-so-compassionate expression which I hate so much. Upon seeing this, I drew up to my full height in indignation (as I usually slouch; I hate myself for my slouching, and I slouch whenever I am full of self-loathing). I brought up my hand to wave my fist in his face, or perform some other kind of impulsive, stupid, and risky action, but I realized to my horror that I was still holding the knife– and it dripped with blood.
I almost dropped it; I could hear him cooing pathetically over the state of my living quarters while I stared at the weapon in my hands.
I could not understand– why had I not washed it? Why had I not put it away? Why had I not thrown it away with the carpet? I wondered if I had subconsciously kept it in preparation, to deal with whatever specter or revenant this was, somehow foreseeing his return. But how?
He turned to me; I held it behind me, clasped in both hands, a mostly natural-looking position to stand in. I waddled forwards in the same pose, which looked much less natural. It was very possible that he had not seen the knife; he was not the observant type. I hated that about him, but I would have to rely on it until I could hide the knife somewhere.
He said something about how he didn’t know that I lived like this, said something about being “sorry”. He was more right to apologize than he knew. Other than that, I had neither the inclination nor ability to listen further; my vision was swimming again.
I leaned against a wall to steady myself; I searched for something to rest my eyes on, closing and opening them intermittently, until my eyes locked on to a horrifying sight; the ceiling was covered with blood. I could not understand! Had I splashed it upon there while I butchered him, or had his arteries gushed in that fatal slice? I didn’t know, couldn’t even understand how he even had that much blood! I had poured more than a gallon of it down the sink; how could there be any left? I tried to focus on my frenzied and stupid calculations like they would change anything, until I realized that I was staring at the ceiling and that my “friend” was staring at me. With a flash, I realized that he would very likely look up at the blood-covered ceiling if I continued to stare at it– or had he already seen it, and was he merely mocking me?. Instead, I diverted my gaze downwards; that was where I had cleaned. I could have sworn that I saw some blood drip from the ceiling onto it, but he did not notice; he noticed nothing except my odd behavior. Oh, how I hated that he noticed it! I hated how he focused on nothing but me when he was talking to me; it made me feel vulnerable, under observation.
I stayed like that for a good few minutes, knowing that it only made me look stranger and stranger, but still unwilling and unable to lift my gaze to make eye contact. I only looked up when I heard him stop talking and start walking into the kitchen.
He was going to open the refrigerator. I nearly screamed, but instead I ran over to stand beside him as he slowly opened the door.
He slumped visibly, and let out a long, sad sigh.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
What?
“You’ve got nothing in your fridge!,” he exclaimed. I peered around him.
His corpse-pieces were in their black trash-bags, as it should be; not too suspicious, but not necessarily incriminating–
Except for the leak in one at the very top, shoved roughly against a light and leaking a thin dribble of blood down the side of the fridge. As I watched, it seemed to get thicker and more crimson by the second. And somehow, somehow, I knew that he was mocking me. Yes, he must be mocking me! He knows what it is and he’s mocking me! He’s going to make eye contact with me any moment and say that he’s very sorry for kidding around with me, old chum, you know, but “you’ve done a bad thing and chopped me up into little pieces and hidden me in the fridge, and we can’t have that, buddy.” I shuddered, and turned to him as he closed the door to the fridge.
“And you still invited me over? I’m sorry that I was so insistent on it- look, why don’t we go out to eat somewhere?”
“What? I just k– No, no, no thanks. I’m feeling a bit… nauseous. Yes. But if you want to go out and eat alone, you can,” I responded, quivering, finishing my sentence with a magnanimous gesture.
“No, you need to get some food in you, real food, here, I’ll get– what do you like to eat?” “I don’t like to eat anything,” I said, shoving past him, knife forgotten and thus fully visible, though neither of us seemed to notice or care. “Goodbye. I need… to leave.” I shut my apartment door behind me and rushed to the stairwell before he could get out; I slowly and silently walked up the stairs until I heard him running, knowing that he would likely go down to look for me, not up. People really are stupid sometimes, especially him.
I steeled my nerves.
There was only one solution to this problem. There was only one thing that could be done. I would never let this happen again. Do you understand me? Do you? No more living alone in my hole quivering in fear, no more fear, no more frenzied rushing about.
I would make sure that it did not happen again, his rise from the dead.
The second time I killed him, it was where everyone could see.