Again - James Patrick March

Clarity

"No. I refuse to believe you." I disagreed with Mr. March. He sighed and stood up. My eyes followed his every movement. I watched as he made himself a drink. 

Mr. March downed the whole glass of brown liquid and licked his lips. He made his way back to his armchair. Once he was settled in, he began to speak, "Darling, don't deny to yourself what you know to be true. You know, deep down inside of you, that you will undoubtedly fall and do the worst thing you could possibly imagine. You will murder someone, Cassandra."  I shuddered at what he said. 

"Who would I even kill?" I asked him laughing. Mr. March crossed his legs and wiggled his eyebrows. I gave him a weird look in return.

"Kill someone staying at the hotel. That would surely get you into the swing of things." He replied in a lively tone. My jaw dropped immediately. That's when it dawned on me.  

"You. You're the guy in the funny mask that murdered the woman in here." This man sitting in front of me killed the woman. I watched him do it. The fact that I have now come to this realization after two encounters with him is embarrassing, to say the least.

"Oh darling, I'm glad you have some clarity." he responded, with a slight smirk plastered across his face. 

I stared deep into his dark, almost black, eyes in astonishment. I was speaking to a cold-blooded killer. Mr. March was waiting for me to say something, but I couldn't piece anything together. The amount of thoughts flowing through my brain was unthinkable. Instead of doing anything, I did what I do best. I stood up out of my chair and left his hotel room. 

"Cassandra!" I heard Mr. March call after me as I walked out. I didn't turn back. I headed straight into my hotel room and locked the door behind me.

As I furthered into the room I saw Sally peering over my father's bed. I walked up next to her to see what she was looking at. The view on the bed was something I never thought I'd ever see. I clasped my hand to my mouth and stepped back. Tears streamed down my face and I shook my head. Sally turned around and began laughing. Her cackle sent shivers down my spine. 

I looked down and in her hand was a knife covered in my father's blood. On the bed was my father, stone cold dead. Sally dropped the knife on the ground and walked out of the room. No words were exchanged between us. She killed my father. I fell to the floor and picked up the knife that she used to do the deed. I held it in my hands and stared at it intently. I stood back up, with the knife still in my hand, and sat on the couch with it. I held it inches from my face, analyzing it with the fresh blood still dripping down it. My father's blood was now running down my hand.

I watched as Mr. March entered my hotel room and look at my father's corpse. He turned again and looked at me with his eyebrows scrunched together. He came toward me and patted my back awkwardly as I continued to watch the blood drip slowly off of the knife. 

"Why-why do you kill people?" I asked him. 

"Because I enjoy it, darling," Mr. March simply answered. The way he responded was almost like I asked a dumb question.

I sat on the couch with Mr. March for around an hour in silence. I would occasionally look up and see my father's cold, lifeless body. Honestly, it was almost normal having it there as if he was just drunk and asleep. He wasn't though. This was real life and he was dead on that bed. I was finally sick of looking at him and abruptly stood up and asked, "What do we do with him now, then?"

Mr. March stood up and followed me toward the bed. He whistled a small tune as he followed me and Ms. Ever's burst into the hotel room.

"Oh dear what a beautiful mess!" She exclaimed once she was next to us in front of the bed, "You two go on, I'll gladly dispose of the body. This will be cleaned up in a jiffy!"

I was led out of the hotel room. Once again, I found myself inside of room 64. I took my usual chair and so did Mr. March. This was becoming a regular thing but I wasn't sure if I liked it.

"Ahh, dear Cassandra, I am truly sorry about the death of your father." Mr March stated in an unconvincing tone.

"No you aren't. Don't lie to me," I spat at him, "you kill people all the time. I bet you were excited to see his dead body lying on the bed."  Mr. March was silent. Probably because I was right. 

All I could feel was anger. My dad didn't deserve to die. He wasn't the greatest at being a father to me, but at least he tried. Now that he was dead, I would have to stay with my mom. I didn't want to leave the hotel, though. I was pulled to this dark place as if it was a piece of metal and I was a magnet. Or maybe I was pulled to Mr. March. 

The idea of murder is sickening to just about anyone in the world, but why is it not to me? Or even him? I'm ashamed to say I'm as excited over the idea of ending a person's life as the same way a little kid gets excited over going to the zoo. I shouldn't feel this way. It's wrong, but I can't help it.