I was in the shower when it occurred to me.

I should kill someone.

I was scrubbing myself clean and when the water dripped onto the floor, I saw a flash of a past life where someone died. Or maybe it was a movie. Or maybe it was all orchestrated in my head.

Was I fantasizing over something forever and not really realizing it was real? And possible?

Why was I in the shower?

I looked down to see the blood go down the drain.

Oh wait. I did kill someone.

I should start recording this stuff so I actually remember what happened.

I examine my fingernails and realize I should have done a better job. I go underneath the shower head again and dig under my fingernails again, blood red seeping out.

How many times do I have to kill to remember I killed?

I finish up and go to the bound journal on my cluttered desk. Paperclips are sticking out the side of the page as I find the dog ear I marked for myself.

It reads,

“Hello,

You’ll forget again so I’m reminding you.

You killed someone today.

It doesn’t matter who. It doesn’t matter how.

It’s done.

No matter what anyone says, you’re innocent.

You are completely innocent.

INNOCENT

YOU ARE INNOCE-“

The pen scribbles of the page then and the writing is undecipherable.

I sit down on the bed and it creaks loudly. I trace over the writing and its many indentations. This person was very angry.

I was very angry.

I was this person.

The room around me is cluttered. I wonder where the murder weapon is. How did I do it? Did I strangle him or her? Was it stabbing? Did I make this person suffer? Was it in an alley way? Was this person young? Old? Was I wearing a mask? Where are my clothes?

I suddenly stop.

Where are my clothes?

I turn to the laundry bag and I start rummaging through it furiously. Flinging clothes left and right as I search through them.

I pick out a plaid shirt from the bag, covered red. I shakily lift it to my nose and smell it.

The odor of paint is strong and tickles my nose. I raise my head to the white canvas painted red. There’s paint on the floor and paint tracks of my footsteps to the bathroom.

Did I kill someone today?

My journal says I did. So I must have.

But did I?

I pick up the canvas and throw it in the trash. It’s useless for painting now anyways. The red has seeped in and drenched it.

What did I want to paint? The canvas must have been out for some reason. I pick up the journal again and flip through it to find red paint on one of the pages. There is undecipherable writing again and then one word written with what appears to be a finger.

“Innocent”

I close it shut. I put it back in its hiding place, wedged between the bookshelf and the bed. Past me was careless, leaving it out in the open.

This book convicts me of so many murders. Murders I don’t even remember.

I grab my phone on the look for my next victim. How do I find my victims, you ask?

Yes, I know you’re there. Snooping through my life. You don’t like me. I killed so many people. “He’s pretending” is what you’re now thinking. No, I can’t read your mind. I can just predict what you’re going to say. It takes practice.

I am not evil. You may already have your preconceived notions about me so I don’t want to waste my time trying to convince you otherwise. I am just stating what I believe. You’ll see.

I scroll through my phone and click on the fire icon. A face appears on my screen, the light glaring in the dimly lit room. His name, appears at the bottom and below that the description written is “crazy for chipotle yooooo”. I swipe left. Another face appears, with a wide smile. I swipe left again. A popup startles me. I matched with someone. I realize I swiped right. I guess this person is going to be my new victim.

I click on her profile and look below the name.

Now, you’ll see my process. You see, unlike other killers, I don’t discriminate. Any age is fine and any gender is fine (considering gender is a construct either way). And when things don’t go according to plan, I just go with the flow. I’m completely harmless you see? I didn’t suddenly get angry and throw my phone against the wall. Though I really wanted too. I really really wanted too.

I shake my head and observe the location. Pretty close by. Perfect, I think. Maybe this time I’ll be able to remember it. If I did remember, would I stop killing? I don’t know. And to be honest, it doesn’t even matter.

I start texting her. She replies with a

“youre superrrrrrrrrr cute”

She’s obviously drunk. I look at her profile again. Under description it says “sophomore year is gonna be litttttt” with a fire emoji. No one will miss her.

Of course, I’m not judging her for her lifestyle. “You’re not one to judge are you?” is what you’re thinking. But you’re lying. Because you’re judging as well. You’re looking at her profile picture and thinking “she’s a ditzy blonde”. But you won’t say it out loud. You will never say it out loud. Only I will. I’m considered rude and egotistic because I have the courage to say what everyone else is thinking. So don’t judge me for judging her. Never judge me.

I look down at the phone again and there’s 2 more notifications.

“Heyyyyyyyy youre like rihgt here.”

“commeeee oevrrrr”

“********************

****************

*************”

I didn’t blur that out for you. I just don’t remember. It just registers and I go there. But even I don’t know what that place is. “You’re lying” you think again. My condition is unique. And for that reason, I believe I’m innocent. Who knows if I even committed these crimes? Random disappearances happen all the time. I could be innocent. No, I am innocent.

I shrug on my jacket and open the door. My journal is still wedged in between the bookshelf and the bed. The red canvas lies lopsided in the trash can. There’s a messy pile of clothes by the laundry bag. There’s red acrylic paint on the floor with footprint marks. I’ll need to clean that soon. What did I want to paint?

I lock the door and place the keys in my right pocket, remembering the time I panicked outside of my house. Never again. I am prepared this time. Pain courses through my body and I look down at my stomach. There’s no wound there and the memory of my injury fades away.

I clutch my keys for comfort and walk down the stairs, into the snow covered landscape.

I was in the shower when it occurred to me.

I should kill someo-

Oh. You’re still here. I should look at the floor of the bathroom? Oh. Okay. I guess I already killed someone. Explains why I’m in the shower. You didn’t see anything did you? I didn’t either. I really didn’t. I don’t remember anything. Why do I keep doing this? Well the answer leading psychologists provide is that it fulfills some carnal need and desire in me. I just think I need to kill. That’s all. You don’t need to know why.

I towel off and exit the bathroom. The canvas lies in the trash can. My journal is safely wedged between the bed and bookshelf. There is a pile of clothes on the floor. My coat is hanging over the chair. I reach into the right pocket and I find my keys. Everything is just as I left it. If I ever did leave it.

Where are my clothes?

I look at the pile and into the laundry basket. There are no new additions. I don’t know where my clothes are.

I pick up my journal from between the bookshelf and the bed. There’s a new note with another dog ear.

It reads

“Hello,

You killed someone.

But at the same time, you didn’t

You are innocent.

It had to happen.

Do you understand? Because you’re innocent

YOU ARE COMPLETELY INN-“

The sentence becomes undecipherable after that again.

I flip through the rest of the pages. There seems to be no other writing. I remember the blood red innocent painted on one of the pages and I flip to that. It’s still there, taking up all the space in the page. I wonder why I didn’t write anything else.

I close it shut and wedge it between the bookshelf and the bed. I lie on the bed and let the sunshine wash over me. It was a late night for me.

The phone vibrates next to me. I take it and view the notifications. It’s a message from a match of mine on tinder. I switch my phone off and place it away. I’m suddenly too tired to kill someone now.

You think I’ll be able to find out who I killed if I look at my tinder? No chance of it. My past self is efficient and precise. The contact and messages are already deleted. Everything is already taken care of. All I need to do is find a new person to kill. You think its exhausting? Yes, to a certain extent, it is. I don’t mind.

There’s a knock on my door and I jolt upright. I give my room the once over again. The red canvas, the journal, the pile of clothes, the clean floor.

Where’s the pool of paint?

And my footsteps?

When did I clean it?

I shake my head and move towards the door. There’s another knock and I open the door.

In front of me stands my neighbor. He’s dressed in a t shirt which has a cliché motivational quote on it. He enters the room even though I didn’t invite him in. I feel my hands clench into fists and hide them behind my back. He continues observing the room and motions to the trash can

“I take it your art project failed?”

I look at him then. He looks exhausted and his eyes are red. Blood red.

“What do you know about my art project?”

“Only what you told me.” He continues moving around the room again. Thoughts are rushing through my head as he steps over and over, through my room. What is he looking for? Is he even looking for something? Why would I even talk to him?

What did I tell him? I can’t ask him that. He’ll start to suspect things. And suspicion leads to disaster. I feel a sudden pain in my stomach and hunch over. He looks up with a questioning look, less concerned more intrusive “Anything wrong?”

I look up again into the blood red eyes. “Nothing” I say as the memory fades. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm? Oh just really wanted to see your art project. Also rent is due” He turns his pockets inside out. “I paid the landlord for you but you owe me buddy”

For some godforsaken reason, he thinks I’m his friend and does these weird favors that I don’t even ask him to do. Half the time I wonder if he makes these up. Robbing me, the innocent, of my hard earned money. How do I make money? You’ll see soon enough. It’s a pathetic job but it is necessary for me to maintain this semblance of a house. I don’t rob the people I kill. I don’t kill for money even though I’m strapped for cash. I-

“Hey” fingers snap in front of my face and my neighbor’s face appears in view. “Um you kind of spaced out for a bit.” He turns his pockets back in and puts his hands inside. “I need you to pay me back.”

“Wait” I rummage through my things careful to cover his view of my bookshelf. I take out my wallet and pay him. “That’s it, right?”

He’s still standing and counting the change with his fingers while his eyes roam the room. What is he searching for? Why does he keep looking around my room?

“Yep, that’s it. Hey, if you’re free, do you want to come over to my author signing? I just need some company cause fans are just so annoying.”

Yes. He’s a writer. I have an author who writes motivational books and then wears shirts with said motivational quotes that he writes in his motivational books. This is a person who I live with. These people exis-

“You spaced out again” He’s all up in my face now. I back away and he stands there staring at me, observing, analyzing. It’s like he’s trying to figure me out as a character so he can pin me in one of his books. Help me. Cure me.

“I’m not free today. I have to work cause I missed one of my shifts yesterday. But, I hope the signing goes well.” I shrug and say. “By the way, what happened to your eyes?”

“Oh these?” He gestures to them “I don’t know, just stayed up late to do some stuff and ended up not sleeping at all” He yawns wide “But yeah, I hope the signing goes well too so I can be done with this for a while.”

He continues standing. He’s still observing. How much more small talk can I even do?

“Um so I need to leave for work now so uh” my eyes unconsciously motion towards to the doorway.

“Yeah sure enjoy work” He doesn’t catch my hint but proceeds to leave anyways. He stops at the doorway and turns around “By the way, if you need some more paint, I have some colors in my room so go ahead and help yourself to them. Key is under the mattress” he winks and leaves.

Why does he think I want to paint so bad? Does he really think this art project is that important? Did I think this art project was that important?

I look at the messy canvas in the trash, then pick it up and place it in the corner of the room. There’s something about it that’s bothering me. I don’t know if it’s the intense shade of red or the fact that the soaked up canvas is sun dry already. I look at it for a few minutes and then lay back on the bed again. I breathe in for a few minutes, relaxing now that I’m alone. The sun is hot now and the heat envelopes me as I lay there staring at the ceiling.

An alarm jolts me upright, ringing in my ears and I’ve realized it’s the alarm I usually put to get ready for work.

I get up slowly and stretch my hands up high. The alarm rings dimly in the background and I reach over to stop it. This is getting tiring.

I’m not going to stop just because it interferes with my work. This is what gives me life. Unlike you, who searches for meaning in the monotony of a well scheduled day. I live like this to bring myself happiness. To bring meaning. To understand what I’m missing. Because I just never remember. And I want to know why. I will do whatever it takes to know why.

I put on my work clothes and head out. My coat is on the chair and I take the keys from them. The journal is hidden. The canvas is at the corner. Everything is as it should be.

I look to the side and see my neighbor’s doormat. Curiosity overwhelms me and I lift it. Just like he said, his key is underneath.

I pick it up and look at the door. Look at the key. Look at the door. Look at the key. Look at the door.

Look at the key.

The key is getting smaller. It’s the size of my pinky.

Look at the door.

The door is bigger. It’s getting so big. Its above me, taunting me, threatening me.

I drop the key and run away.

I don’t want to know what is behind his door.