Go Ahead, Shoot

Chapter Three

A week had passed, the acts of insomnia seemed to have left, or atleast not appeared often for the week.

Alfred lay on his bed, his conscience filled with guilt. He burnt the bloody clothes, the bodies, but had his 'collection' of meat chunks. He had nothing to do with the muscle and meat, but kept them until they started to smell.

"Man," Alfred muttered to himself, a pain in his chest as he stared at the ceiling. "Matt could turn me in, I could be found any moment... This was a terrible, terrible chance."

He sighed, putting a weak hand to his forehead. He arched his neck far enough to see a picture on the wall. Matthieu, two other people, a man and a woman, and him stood together, smiling as they stood in front of a glacier. His parents; they had died in a car crash when he and his brother were younger. "I'm so sorry," He told them, getting up from the bed, and walked over to the picture.

The small frame made it easy for him to pick up. "What am I going to do?"

A small voice suddenly peeped, saying "You could always kill him." Alfred shook his head sharply, frowning. The American thought for a moment, but ended it with a shake of his head.

He went to the livingroom, and onto the couch. The news brought him something unexpected, though, when he flicked to that channel.

"There has been a reported homicide, however, it is unclear if it was actually a suicide," The news reporter said, a slight breeze murdering the shape of her hair as she spoke. "The victim's identity is unknown, and it is possible that there is a murderer on the loose."

The camera focused on the house. It looked familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He stood up, finally realizing. His head was shaking viciously and vigorously. "Fucking--no, it can't be, not him," He got up, pacing around the livingroom, repeating the statement.

He grabbed his phone, dialing his brother's number. The phone rang, but hung up. He tried again a few more times. That was the problem.

He was the remaining person in his lineage.

Matthieu wasn't married, nor did he have kids, and who would want kids from someone like Alfred?

"B-but... Who?" was the remaining question that remained unsolved. There was a possible murderer on the streets, but there was also the chance of it being a suicide.

He'd have to find out before anything, he had to keep both things in mind.

The news reported coughed, bringing his mind back to the television with an angry expression. "I have been informed that there was a letter at the crime scene," Alfred paused, swallowing hard. He shook his head again, then turned off the T.V. before he could hear anything else.

"Jesus," He whispered to himself, choking on air and sadness. "I'll kill whoever killed him."

He could feel the voice inside of his head, pressing down on his skull and heart when it spoke. "Now he's out of the picture," It hissed, eerily. "No more worry."

One thing he hated about the voice, it was his. Nobody else's, but his. It made it heavy on his conscience.

Everything fell in slow motion, he couldn't think straight.

"But, you need to slow down with the whole 'kill the murderer'," The voice murmured, sending chills down his spine. "'Cause, it's never gonna happen."