I was losing the case. The villain was going to escape justice and there was nothing I could do legally to punish him. The best lawyers were on my side, yet no matter what side they attacked, his lawyers were evidently better.
I cannot truly blame my attorneys, but I could hate them all the same. They were expensive and the expense was for naught. There was no evidence that he killed my brother, no evidence except my story. So, without anything further to discuss, the "not guilty"s resounded throughout the courtroom and many a dirty look was given to me for wasting precious time.
I was angry at the world and world was quite clearly angry with me. I was a madman as far as the jury was concerned, and for all they knew, I killed my own brother to frame the accused. Maybe I did, for as much as I hated everyone then, that hate was dwarfed by the malice I held for that man.
I certainly remember my brother's murder, but perhaps they are right. I have been told that I am not in perfect mental health.
Not by a doctor mind you. Mostly it's my family tells me I'm mad, but my sanity is checked by everyone I come into contact with. The worst part is I have come to believe them. Although I don't notice anything strange about my behavior, everyone points out anything irrational I do. It is because of this, among other factors, that I am the only one who knows the truth.
After the joke of a case was adjourned, I felt no guilt putting the miserable jury through more misery, only anger at the misery they caused me. I drove to my apartment, stringing curses together under my breath, almost in an effort to forget what made me so mad.
Then I remembered my brother, and the hate poured back into me. There was not that much love between me and my brother, he at least tried to ignore whatever mental problem I apparently had. I tired to recall moments we shared, but they were few and far between. I would never get to make new ones anymore.
This was working to a degree and I was on the verge of tears, not violence by the time I pulled into the parking lot. Without a word I walked in the door to wait at the elevator. But the wait was much shorter than I was used to.
I soon figured out why. After quickly glancing at an out of place bucket inside the elevator I focused my attention to the killer. I do not know his name, for I spent much of the court case letting my hatred for him boil. His name was said, but I did not hear, whatever his name was, I remember I hated it. I was about to punch him square in the face because I remembered there were no cameras in my apartment's elevator.
He had something different in mind. As soon as the doors closed, I saw a flash of metal before his violent motion. He twisted me around, bringing the knife to my neck and clamping his free hand on my mouth.
I sat terrified, staring at the elevator door, hoping anyone would walk in. The doors remained shut and I knew I was going to die. But the steel hesitated as he whispered to me, "I'm sorry, but I can't leave witnesses." Those were the only words I got before the end, and with that, he slashed before any shock could truly kick in. I died quietly, and was dead well before the knife exited my skin.
