Chapter One

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.