Chapter Two

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.