So I wrote a short story way back at the end of 2009. I haven’t read it since – til today. Of all the writing I’ve ever done it’s all been non-fiction. The following is the only piece of fiction I’ve ever finished. I uploaded it exactly as it was written then.
I’m not entirely sure why I did it. I know that I did. I stood over it, trying desperately to figure out why. I mean, I know why in the sense that I wanted it. But the why in the sense of the reason behind the desire eludes me. I suppose it doesn’t matter any more. He’s dead. I’m alive. There isn’t really much more to it.
The blood wasn’t telling me anything, either. It’s a shame, too, because fresh, warm blood is quite the beautiful sight. No film has ever gotten it quite right, I’m afraid. It’s too thin or too red or too bubbly. Never the right texture – does water have texture? – or the right shade of maroon burgundy red. Beautiful.
I must say, his body bled for some time. Probably explained by the fact that there’s a knife embedded in his chest. And a giant gash in his neck. And stab wounds in his stomach. Yep, bled for a long while. Might be done by now. Another shame: the carpet will be ruined. Perhaps the next tenant will appreciate the splatter pattern. No, it’s not ruined. Me and my friend here just did some redecorating. The carpet, the walls, the ceiling. It’s wonderful. Upon consideration, it’s quite a marvel of luck.
Humans never die in a romantic pose, either. This guy’s proof of that. Did he really have to look like that, like a crack addict mid-freakout, limbs akimbo and tongue hanging out? I don’t like it. It spoiled my enjoyment of the scene. I could’ve repositioned them, perhaps, but that would’ve disturbed the moment. I dunno, I did it ‘n all but changing the image just seemed… wrong. It’d be like burning a photo. We can’t have that. I mean, I don’t like it but this is the way it is. I can’t change that.
It’s amazing no one came knocking at the door. The screams were loud. Rather loud, in fact. Someone should’ve been banging on the door. “Are you alright in there? Should I call 911?” they should’ve been asking. But they did not. Oh well. The authorities were alerted soon enough. I can’t remember if I called them first or after. Doesn’t matter.
Oh, that’s right. I called after. There’s blood on my cell. On the buttons. It was just a waiting game at that point. It was a good thing, too. Otherwise I woulda had to go replace these clothes. My favorite pair of jeans, now these are ruined. My favorite t-shirt – done. But, like I said, they don’t need replacing. My shoes, either. Poor, poor shoes. Even that ivory liquid shows up on black leather. Neat stuff if you look at it objectively. Subjectively, it’s sorta irritating ‘cause I love these shoes.
The knife, however, that’s just a meaningless tool. It’s a catalyst, really. Hm, there’s a word you don’t get to use too often in conversation. Or ever. I do like that word. Pretty much anything with ‘lyst’ in it is aesthetically pleasing. Syllogism, I like that one, too. It’s fun to say. And symbiotic, my favorite word. Good thing I can’t get blood on it, that would not be nice. I should think that if symbiotic had blood on it, it would be a nasty thing.
I wonder if this guy’s friends are going to miss him. His wife? Kids? Parents? It probably doesn’t matter in an objective sense considering I can’t undo this. I don’t think that I’d want to even if I could. The act is just so definite, so final. Seems like being able to undo it would be like undoing gravity. Just doesn’t feel right. I like that. It’s simple and yet complex. I should try writing a book of aphorisms someday, just to see if I can. I bet that would be fun.
No, you know what? Come to think of it, the carpet is definitely ruined. He pissed himself. And then shit. Yeah, now calling the carpet guys is the only option. Stabbing him without his pants on, not the best call I’ve ever made. But he was coming out of the shower and I couldn’t wait any longer. They’ll understand, right? Seeing red, all that stuff. Blinding rage. It wasn’t a gay thing. I was just impatient. He was wearing boxers, that’s something at least.
What was the order? Slit his throat then rammed it in his chest and then his stomach? I think that was it. The throat was absolutely first. Maybe the stomach next. I don’t recall. He didn’t fall to the ground after his throat was opened up. I found that odd. The first stab didn’t take him down either. Tough sum’bitch. But that third wound. Yes! It was the chest third, ‘cause he was bent over holding his stomach – oddly enough, considering his neck was practically a firehose – so, yes, I jammed the knife into his chest as the final injury. Then he went down. Don’t know if I hit his heart, but I probably ripped something open beyond his skin. Lung maybe. I have no idea. I never was interested in anatomy.
Seemed like there should’ve been some music playing. The silence sounded weird. Something should’ve been filling the aural void. “Let It Be”? No, too cliché, too obvious. “I Stab People?” No, didn’t want people knowing I listen to them. Something ironic, possibly. Jeff’s version of “Hallelujah?” Too indie. Zooey Deschanel isn’t starring in this. “Free Bird?” Too… Monty Python. “Back Stabbers”? Too Pynchon. I instead decided to go grab my iPod put it on shuffle, let it decide for me. Then I thought I’d just go with “Ride of the Valkyries.” At least they’ll think I got taste that way. I mean, I do but I want them knowing I do. And, this way the press won’t go after some current pop star just because his or her song was playing when five-oh came to the door.
How fucking dumb is that anyway? Just because two know-nothing fuck-ups listen to Manson, he’s the reason – the sole reason at that – they mowed down classmates? Fuck that. I hid my copy of “Grand Theft Auto,” too. Didn’t want Rock Star sued, either. They make great product after great product. Be a shame if suddenly they went bankrupt because of one decision made by one person completely unconnected to the company.
OK, I just needed to do it. It’s as simple as that. There isn’t a real reason qua reason why I needed to do it. You could list the usual ones: loud music wakes me up, that haircut, whatever. But none of that is an actual, legit reason why I did it. I just didn’t find his existence to be relevant to the rest of reality. He didn’t deserve to exist any longer. Borrowed time. That seems fair.
Jealousy? No, I guess not. I had just as good a job. The family? Nah, I didn’t want any of that. Less expenses. I just wanted to slightly alter reality. Ya know, change one part, a coupl’a particles in the universe. People reason this way all the time. The difference is that I chose to act. I’m better than everyone else because I’m honest. I don’t wish, I do. I don’t know if I was better than him, though. So many ways to measure that. Seems like a lotta work. Stabbing is easy. That’s a great band name, a death metal band I bet. Ladies and gentlemen, here to play their new hit single, “I Like Knives,” Stabbing Is Easy. Crowd goes wild. Sure, why not?
Eventually I’m gonna have to explain this to someone. That’s gonna be some work. I can’t even explain it to myself. Well, at least thoroughly or with any kind of authentic rationale. Maybe that will come to me one day.
Maybe if I had stared at those eyes, those (quite literally) dead eyes for just a little longer. They’re not quite blue-green but damn close. Most women have probably said something akin to “Those are pretty eyes.” I wonder if he liked hearing that. Men don’t often hear “pretty” directed at them. Usually, when they hear it, it’s leaving them and going towards someone else.
I should post a Twitter update. No one will be able to beat my tweet. “Killed a guy, stood over the body. lol.” Beats the shit outta your “goin clubbin wit da girlz.” Not a single word spelled right. And that person has more followers. Christ. Hopefully that changes. I should tell Alex to attach a photo from the paper to the tweet. That would be the ultimate.
No, that’s really more of a Facebook thing. I could have an entire album devoted to it. The pics of the body, the arrest, the trial, everything. Title it “My first murder.” Awesome. Ought’a get a dozen more friends. I should be writing all of this down. These thoughts are fleeting and need to be saved somewhere beyond my brain. Maybe add some videos to Youtube. That might garner a few more subscriptions. That’s what it’s all about after all. It’s a numbers game. The binary code keeps track of the number of friends. Is that ironic or not? I can’t tell.
That is, digital friends. Certainly not real friends. Given the average Facebook user, how many of said user’s friends have they met in real life? Fifty percent? Seventy-five? Not all of them. I doubt anyone on Facebook has actually met every single friend they have. Same goes for MySpace. In fact, I bet the percentage is less for MySpace. Way less. Like, it’d be comparing a puddle to the Pacific.
I have four hundred seventy-one friends on Facebook. I’d bet the average to be around one-fifty or two. That’s twice the average. I’m ahead of the curve. Well, the arbitrary curve set by me. But it’s probably right. Or close, anyhow.
Real life friends, though? I dunno, ten maybe. Of them, maybe two can truly stand my presence. I’d say that any given month I probably socialize for a good three to four hours face to face. Five to six on an abnormal thirty-day stretch. Rest of the time is spent feeling disgust for the human race. I think it’s most likely based on the fact that I don’t consider myself human. Sub-human or meta-human, whatever. I don’t care either way, just as long as I’m not lumped in with Homo sapiens. I’m not like them, never will be.
I guess that’s the answer to your question. To my question.
“So you killed him?” the detective inquired.
I wanted a human connection.