By: B.R. CLARK.
Today is the day. The day. I think to myself as I lay in bed. I'd probably been awake maybe half an hour to forty minutes. Falling asleep the night before had been almost impossible, but I didn't want to spend today, of all days, drowsy and slow. Early dawn gray light slowly crept across my room, revealing the outlines and shapes of what little furniture I owned. Stretching in bed I finally sat up, throwing the covers off of me and got out of bed. Without turning any lights on I tiptoed around the room making food and getting dressed. Outside my window it was still dark enough to see the freshly decorated streets. Tinsel, holly and lights adorned the road. Christmas time was here again.
Not to sound like a Grinch but I hate Christmas. I didn't used to. When I was little I loved the weeks leading up to Christmas. The warm bubble in my chest, the way the lights sparkled and the toys chimed. Every chocolate was a delicious treat, every drink warm and comforting. I used to lie for hours by the tree, playing with the little toy train that went around and around and around, tooting its little train horn for its little plastic passengers. It was a magical, special, almost mythical time of the year. And then, it was fucking ruined for me, by a cruel little man with cruel intentions. Now the sight of the lights brings pain to my chest where the happy warm bubble used to be.
After I finished eating a cold can of spaghetti and meatballs, two apples and a small carton of milk, I checked the time on my phone. 6:00 am. Still, plenty of time. I grabbed all the garbage from around my tiny studio apartment and started throwing things away. Little by little I cleaned the room until nothing remained but my bag full of clothes, money and necessities. The door to my apartment creaked a little as I opened it and walked down the hallway to the trash chute. Swiftly I shoved all the bags down it and returned to my room. Still, I turned no lights on. I never did, not once since I moved in. Sitting on the edge of my bed I sat looking blankly looking out the window. 6:45 am.
Getting up I doubled checked my apartment to make sure I had cleaned every trace of me I could reasonably find. When I was done, I dropped my rental keys onto the table, opened the window and climbed out onto the fire escape. It was cold out, but in my warm jacket, scarf and gloves I would be fine. Closing the window behind me, I sat down on the fire escape with my legs crossed and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it I stared across the cheerfully lit up road to where his apartment was and scowled. I knew he wouldn't be up for another fifteen minutes still, and he wouldn't leave his apartment for another hour minimum. Sam Johnson was after all a creature of habit.
Almost fifteen minutes to the second later I watched as the light in the window of the third story across from me suddenly flicked on. I could see the silhouette of a man moving to and fro in his much nicer apartment. After a few minutes of this the curtains parted and a man of around thirty stood at his window with a cup of coffee. He had dark curly chestnut hair that was cut in a sleek fashion. Sam Johnson was extremely fashionable, handsome, and going to die today. For a few he gazed out of his window with, what I could see from here, was a very sleepy expression. Then he turned and walked away from the window. As the sun rose slowly behind the clouds in the sky, it cast almost no light across the two buildings. It looked like it was going to be a cold, miserable day. At least, for some.
While I waited, I checked all my supplies again. Counted to make sure I had enough money for when it was over and then stuffed everything back into my bag. I had been watching Sam for months and months now. Followed him from time to time, stolen his schedule, that had been quite difficult, there was very little I did not know about Sam Johnson. I knew he liked his coffee black, that he was ocd about his morning routine, how many times a day he called his mother. Everything. Finally, I saw his light flip off. I lit another cigarette. He always like to talk to his door man. And then there he was.
