An evil  grin stretches across the face. I fidget with my hands, twirl my fingers and pace back and forth.

The thoughts in my skull knock constantly, each blurring my vision. All this free time to think has made me mad– or has it? I’ve never been the– fearless– type. I never try new things — I guess. A spider-like aura creeps across my back causing my eyes to twitch. Should I? Could I? No– wait; the real question is– would I attempt it. It is swimming around in my cruel, baffling head– is it even cruel? I don’t have any grudges or things to inherit from him. He has no riches, no fortune. So why in the world would I do it? What is going to come from it? Fear; excitement; that feeling when you are shaky and have a natural buzz–adrenaline! Oh sweet adrenaline. My tongue wets my dry lips. My guts turn inside out as a tingling wave of passion passes over me. His time is coming to an end but he’s my neighbor. I went to his barbeque that night in June– I don’t get out much. He hasn’t been the same since Mrs. Reed passed away– his wonderful Susie. Maybe he is so sad about that that I’d be giving him a favor: some sort of kind gesture–I am not sure if it is against the law to do what someone secretly wants. Something like— murder. Of course it is. What am I thinking? Well, what if they asked for it. I might be able to trick him into asking. No. I can’t do that. I peek over into the man’s bedroom. He tosses a flannel shirt to the side where I can’t see then sits on, what I’m assuming is his bed. He fiddles with something below him then I see a photo in his hand. Nothing I can make out though. He looked so sad. It is my thoughts acting up again. He is a happy old man– or is he? I decided to take Mr.Reed’s life. Not for money, but as a way to help him reunite with his wife, and be happy again. 

I spend the next weeks studying his daily life. His two kids are off in colleges hundreds of miles in each direction; he has never been pet friendly; and his Mrs is, well. . . He plays poker at sports bars and does some late Friday ‘bingo’ games. He is always home Monday and Tuesdays but he leaves for some sort of meetings on Wednesdays, so the day before would not be ideal– people would be wondering…worrying about him. Monday would be the best day to make my move– the paper comes on Sunday and trash day is Thursday so no one would get suspicious if they did not happen to see him out in his lawn for some reason. Yes, Monday is the day. He wakes at 5 a.m then takes off around noon for an hour, eats a meal at 4:30 in front of the tv, and goes to bed at 6ish. I figured I could Sneak in at 7 and get out shortly after; adding clean up time and possible routine change. I want it to be humane but a taunting voice tells me to make it gory. There is this knife, rusted and old, standing tall in his shiny living room– the smell like 50’s cologne and black leather. 

     A slow week ends and I go in for a practice run. A sliver in the back window is always left open along with his bedroom one due to Mr.Reed’s frequent overheating. I want to quit and take caution in this–thing I am doing– but I need to get in quick so I use the open window to my advantage. I know, I know… every criminal uses back doors and open windows but it’s the only way in. I softly set each foot on the carpet one at a time. I peer up at a picture on the wall of his now grown daughter and son hanging onto Mrs. Reed. I am sick. I am disgusted in my psychotic self. He has kids. Two great children. The worst part of it is, I know what I am planning so diligently, is wrong. I have a bit of acid reflux at the thought. I need help. I am one of those people who others see on the television that people look at in horror. I shake my head and keep on pushing out the conscience that was fading into nothingness. The dagger hanging on the living room wall catches my attention and the temptations quiver through the veins. I could tell it was old because of the mentioned rust and obvious dullness of its blade. I sneak up a creaky staircase, slowly inching my way up to a closed door at 9:01pm where a clock hung over a bathroom frame; the ticking soothing my nerves. I wait for several minutes before brushing the tips of my fingers on the silver knob. Pull back and redo the motion in a way I thought was more quiet. Once a hold of the whole handle I open patiently waiting 30 seconds after each nudge. My face appeared into the pitch black room where I could barely see the lump of Reed under his thin white sheets. I shuffle over to where the man lay, draw my pinky down his wrinkled face. I retire when he huffs and walks calmly out the door as I come in. He never even knew I was standing so close. So close that his heartbeat rattled my eardrum. 

I repeated the same procedure the next 2 weeks when I finally worked up enough dark courage to do it. I could murder old man Reed. I stepped in more cautiously and aware than any night before. Oh, me and my ever so clever ways. My creepy– my irrational– creation. I pick up the dagger and feel it’s cold copper on my skin and the weight of it fits me like it was a missing part of my hand. I creep up to the top of the staircase taking longer than ever. The ticking of the wooden clock seemed more intense and my palms sweat in my gloves. I open the door with no noise at all and watch his tiny movements intently. I turn on the lights but dimly:  just enough to see the gray in his hair. I breathed out as the tip of the weapon pokes his chest; one red drop emerges from the wound. My left hand holds the base of the grip with my fingers on my right knuckles. With the extra force I sink the rest of the blade into the body; having to add pressure due to the dullness. He shot up, with fear in eyes yelping in agony, as he pounded on his chest. 

     “No,” his dry lips pleaded.

     I suck the blade in deeper. “I’m helping you, Reed. Just let me help you,” I explained, peering into his almost lifeless eyes. 

     His heart beat runs cold. His breath dries just like his unmoisturized arms. I killed a man. I. . .killed a man. Not just a man but my neighbor. I killed old man Reed. No more Mr. Reed. He is gone. I take out the murder tool; clotted blood flooding the handle and dripping onto my yellow gloves.  

How? Why? I did that–no. I wasn’t me. I shiver at the sight of his lifeless body. Feet trembling as I turn and bag the blade. I take off down the stairs and slide out the window, close it behind me and sneak into my home. I pause– Wait! The dagger! What do I do with the dagger? I quickly rip up a floor board and drop the plastic bag in. I lay the broken board down and screw it back. I sit in my dark bedroom and think about what has happened. I laugh some sort of an evil laugh–one that serial killers sound like. So clever yet so taunting. I am a genius. This is not what mother meant when she told me to “ Go out. Do new things. It is good for you.” No, not even close to what she meant. A deep emotion settles over me. It scares me how calm I have become in only a few moments of lonesomeness.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I wasn’t tired. I was so energetic, as ok d man Reed takes his forever nap just next door. No one will ever know who caused it. They will think a hated man took that life– not a worried neighbor that is one of Reed’s closest friends. I can play that part– being a friend. A close one– right? Yes.
His heartbeat plays on a repeat track in my mind. The sudden end in his chest movement. It has been three nights since the incident, and the police have to be coming by soon. I was correct. They had those “Crime scene investigation in progress” strips all over the taratory. Flashing blue and red lights and loud sirens lined up around the block. After some cars pull out and put off searching for tomorrow, a heavy knock sound from my door. Pound! Band! Band! It was followed by a man’s voice, “It is the police department. Please open up. We have questions about the death of Mr. Reed.” I stumble. They are coming. No. I did not leave a single piece of evidence leading to me. I am clear– they just want to see if I saw any surprises at the old man’s home. No, no, no! I messed up. I should run. They know everything and I may be weak under the spell of the intense good cop, bad cop act. It’s smarter to take off. I have places to go where they won’t find me. Skip town, leave the country– easy peasy. I play each option over and over. 

    Instinct tells me to dart out of this place and live my life hidden from the law. Sanity rips at me to confess my sins– prison food can’t be all that bad. I’ll some people; Criminals and no good dirt bags. That’s what I am. Run! No, stay! Bouncing through the house are two choices. The air is infected by knocking. I feel my heart beating, no pounding in my ribcage; vibrating my bones. It can’t be my heart. I am a hollow, heartless being. I should stay. I shouldn’t– I will die behind bars. I can’t deal with cramped, cement cells. It would be my fault though. Standing frozen, I let the weight of my actions rest upon my shoulders. 

    I decide to surrender my sins, and take responsibleility for my murder. I sigh before opening the door, and look at the police officers. One was tall with a thick, brown mustang that grew into his sideburns and down to his chin. The other was short, balding head, and thin chin hairs. 

    “Yes? Sorry mister.” 

     “We wanted to question you,” spoke the shorter man. “Mr. Reed has been found dead, in his bed. A dagger wound in his chest. Have you seen or heard anything supiouse around here lately?”

     The tall one clicked a pen, licked his thumb, and opened a notepad. The look he wore as he wanted for me to speak, was like a laser beam drilling holes into my eyes.

     Beads of sweat poured off of my forehead. “Um,” I muttered, searching my brain for an explanation. When I couldn’t come up with one, I sprung forward and started running towards the edge of my yard. 

      It didn’t take long for the officers to pile on top of me. The tall one brought me to the ground, then shoved my face into the dirt. “You are under arrest,” he said, like I didn’t already know. 

     As I felt the cold cuffs squeeze around my wrist, I wondered what I could say in court to save me. It was no use. They wouldn’t believe that I just wanted to help the poor old man, aching for his wife. 

     It wasn’t until I was sitting in the backseat of a cop car, leaning my head on the window, that I realized the true nature of my mistake. Reed didn’t want to die. He had children. . .grandchildren. He wanted to go peacefully, not by the hand of some deranged neighbor, claiming he ‘wanted to help.’ I scoffed. . .  I didn’t want to help. There was no excuse for what I did. Watching the cars crush by in a flurry of color, I muttered, “I am sorry Mr. Reed.”