Young and successful Edward Staulker, is an attorney with a very uneventful life.
He lost his faith in mankind many years ago-even as a child, he recognised the innate fakery borne by every Homo sapien and always resigned to a purer intercourse with...
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Edward's POV
It's 6 AM. At least that is what it says on the wall clock. For as long as I can remember, I always rouse from sleep by six in the morning; never later nor earlier, even in the slightest bit. I'm just wired like that.
The coppery lustre of the clock has faded, so has every other thing in this house; everything that shone brightly before, is now dull and dirtied with visible markings of age.
Before turning in yesterday, I wiped every inch of this place till it sparkled. A bit of an exaggeration but yes, I was quite devoted. I remember what initiated my cleaning frenzy: I found a dead bug on the bedside table; another inconvenience of dwelling so close to the forest if you add the yapping of dingoes at night, and more recently, the surprise visits from snakes.
The lot of us make for a community of strange bedfellows.
To the far left of my bed is the only window in the bedroom. I roll up the blinds and curtains, letting the sunshine bathe the room.
I breathe in and out repeatedly, feeling my skin tingle from the sudden blast of cool air. I love the forest. I believe there is a name for people like me. Dendrophiles.
I didn't always feel this way. There was a dark time in my life, when I regarded all the happiness around me with great scorn. It felt like everyone was living their best lives and only I was exempt from knowing such peace. It felt like I was the universe's plaything; a less-favoured puppet forced to observe from the sidelines as the universe toyed with its laughable existence.
But of course, change is inevitable; mine came when I least expected it. It started by my finding joy in little things, then it finally happened, an act of providence! I received the perfect gift: a second chance.
I haven't gotten a proper shave in some time now. I can feel the slight prick of my stubble when I stroke my jaw. As a child, I was made to get haircuts every weekend. It has become something of a custom to me.
Making my way down to the kitchen, my mission is to get coffee. My morning ritual involves sipping heavenly hot, black coffee while seated in the living room's couch, surrounded by the pitch blackness and graveyard quietness of the house. It's a self-contained apartment, a bit rundown and very different from what I'm used to, but I still manage anyway; these are living conditions to kill for.
Not that I had planned to, but I actually happened to kill the previous owner of the place.
He was a middle-aged man; early forties at most, with no family at all-at least, not any that I have come to know of. I saw him exit the hospital that night with bags I guessed were containing medications. He had a listless gait and he looked incredibly frail.
He caught my attention, so I escorted him home. The cold of autumn was strong that particular night - I was badly in need of shelter.
It was originally my intention to ask kindly, but the poor fool started screaming at the top of his voice.
