I know no one going to see this or care but I can't get this idea out of MY HEAD
/
I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like something came over me, and it happened too fast. I swear, it was an accident. I didn't mean to do it. My finger slipped, that's all I can say, but then... it felt right? And if it felt right then that meant it wasn't that bad, it was what I was meant to do, right?
Right.
That's what I told myself, over, and over, and over again, as my body count rose to the double digits as my name was stamped across the newspapers and the news stations.
The Companion Killer.
Hate to say I was proud of it. Well, that's a lie. I loved it. I did, truly.
But then, this wave of boredom hit me, like what I was doing was too stereotypical. I didn't want to be that guy. I wanted to be an original. So that was what was gonna happen.
I found this house at 11 p.m., I remember distinctly. I put my black hood up and trotted to the back of the house. I peeked in through a random pane of a window. The TV was on. Someone was home. One chair. One plate. One cup. One everything.
Home alone.
A shadow was cast in the doorway of the room, I crept back, sitting on the ball of my feet I watched as a man walked into his living room, black hair swooped in the front and hair down the back of his neck that stopped at his shoulder blades. Glasses sat upon the bridge of his nose, his plaid pajama pants and slippers adorning his feet. His skin was pale and white, smooth, his whole body looking freshly washed. No shirt sitting on his torso, my breath hitched and I watched him sit on the couch and turn the news channel on.
He was watching me.
The news reporters talked about me.
The man sat up and took a drink from the glass on the coffee table in front of him.
I crept forward, my breath hitting the window pane and leaving it cloudy.
I had to get into the house.
I stood up and walked to a door in the back of the house, I pushed open the screen door and tried the-
