The Memoirs of a Murderer
The truth of life is that no one is going to survive. Sure, maybe Harrison Ford survived his plane crash, but he will die. Yeah, your train didn’t crash on the way to work today, but what about tomorrow? How do you know that you won’t accidentally be exposed to a carcinogen today? Harry Potter almost got killed by Voldemort in almost every book, but he’ll still die. We’re all going to die. Yes, it will be sad, but everyone is going to die eventually.
Fortunately for me, when people’s clocks run out, sometimes I’m holding the only lethal thing in the vicinity. Usually that thing is a rope or a nice thick wire. But enough with my narrative, you came to hear a story, so I’ll pick up from the beginning of the end:
“Breaking News: a new suspect has emerged in the Jackson Murders. Police say their attention has switched to Samantha Lewis, a junior at Jackson High School…” I tuned out the TV while I focused on the crisis at hand.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I quickly wiped my hands on whatever was nearest to me, which happened to be my jeans. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and answered it, “Hi, Daria.”
“Hey, do you have any idea why the entire Jackson Police Force is in front of your house?” Daria asked.
I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm and confused, “I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe you should go and ask.”
“Okay, Sam, I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Got it. I’m sort of busy right now, so I have to go,” I hung up the phone and replaced it in my pocket. Back to business. I looked at the floor. There was blood everywhere, all over the floor, all over the body, and all over me. I searched my latest victim’s kitchen for paper towels to clean up my mess.
Why does this guy have so many different types of tea? No wonder he lives alone. Funny what occurs to you as you’re cleaning up a murder.
So, the police were at my house. Undoubtedly, they had an arrest warrant. It took them six victims to figure out that I was the murderer. This time, I had to change from strangulation to stabbing because they had caught on to my modus operandi. I had underestimated the amount of blood there is when you stab someone. It just goes spurting everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
Once I finished cleaning up my crime scene, I ran. I got as far away from that place as I could. I couldn’t go home. The police were there and I was suspiciously covered in someone else’s blood. I wouldn’t be able to take public transportation out of town looking like this. I needed clothes, but there was no way I could get them. Well, there was one way. Luckily, his house was only a few blocks away.
Ten minutes later, I was throwing pebbles at my boyfriend’s second-story window. He opened it, “Samantha? Is that you? It’s two in the morning!”
I climbed up the tree that was luckily right outside his window and he pulled me inside. He switched on his bedroom light.
“Are you covered in blood?!”
“No, I was painting,” I replied sarcastically, “Remember that time that we went hiking and I brought extra clothes?”
“Yeah? I think they’re in my closet.”
“Can you look? I really need to change.”
“Sam, whose blood is that?”
“Come on, Luke, I can answer questions in a minute. Please just get me clothes.”
Luke grabbed my clothes and I changed. While I did, Luke interrogated me. If I told him the truth, he would let me go. I was his girlfriend. He wouldn’t betray my trust, and if he did it would be the last thing he would do.
“Sam. Explain. Now.”
“I suppose there’s no use not telling you,” I began, “I am a murderer. Seven victims. Six strangled, one stabbed. I hadn’t counted on that much blood. Thanks for helping me.”
“No problem, Sam. Anything for my girlfriend.”
I tied a clean pair of sneakers over my new clean socks. I turned to leave out the window, but Luke grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t even think about moving another inch,” another voice said behind me.
I turned slowly. The door was wide open, and Luke’s dad stood there with a gun aimed at my chest.
“I didn’t know you had a gun, Mr. Stevens.”
“Second amendment. Good thing too, eh?”
“Yeah, very good thing,” Luke agreed, “I texted my dad while you weren’t looking and told him what was going on. He called the police, they’re on the way.”
I heard sirens down the street. It’s all over, it’s done. I am going to prison, whether I like it or not, there’s nothing else to do. Luke let go of my wrist and I sank to my knees. Luke stepped quickly away from me and his dad kept the gun trained on me.
“Luke go let the cops in. I don’t want them breaking down my door. I love that door.”
Luke let the police in through the front door and they ran upstairs. One of them literally patted Mr. Stevens on the back, “Excellent job. I’m glad some people still believe in the second amendment.”
One of the police officers put me in handcuffs and they led me downstairs and out of the house. It was a slow-motion moment.
My life is over. My straight As, all my extracurricular stuff, none of that matters anymore. Good, who cares anyway? None of that matters when we die.
“We’re taking you back to the police station, Samantha. They can decide what to do with you there.”
Prison. I know that I’m going to prison. I confessed to Luke, I actually told him that I’d done it. Prison. I’ll get beaten up, I’ll get raped, I’ll be a sitting duck in prison. My only hope was escape, but that didn’t really seem possible.
Luckily, I had a paperclip in my back pocket. In a few seconds, I had popped the latch on the handcuffs. I grabbed the gun of the officer who was leading me and grabbed him to use as a human shield. I backed myself against the car. How to get out of this situation?
The other cops had pulled their guns and were looking for a shot. It didn’t seem like there was a way out of this for either side.
I shifted slightly, accidentally allowing the prime target, my heart, to be exposed for a second.
I heard a gunshot. The bullet ripped through the air and pierced my flesh. I knew instantly that it was fatal, but also that it was going to take me some time to die. The moron couldn’t even shoot straight. I crumpled to the ground, where I lay on my back.
The one who shot me ran over and checked my pulse.
“She’s still alive!” he shouted, “Call an ambulance!”
“They’ll never make it in time,” I moaned, but my voice was weak, “It’s your own damn fault for not shooting straight. Have you ever been shot? It really hurts.”
“I can imagine,” the cop responded, “Sorry for shooting you. There were other options.”
Leave me alone! Can’t he see I’m trying to die in peace?
The officer walked away to give a statement or whatever. As they set up crime scene tape all around the area and talked through their walkie-talkies, I lay dying alone on the ground. Better that way. I didn’t care for compassion from these people, or anyone, for that matter. I was a psychopath, after all, feelings don’t matter to people like me.
For my victims, there would be sympathy and comfort at the funerals. The eulogies would talk about how great their lives were and how beautifully they touched everyone’s hearts. How sappy. How dumb. I hope my funeral isn’t like that. Better yet, no funeral at all.
In the end, Dumbledore was wrong. To the well-organized mind, death is not the next great adventure, although dying certainly is. Death is just sweet release from the torture of the world’s idiocy. I’m glad to see it go, and I’m sure as hell it’s glad to see me go.
As my vision dimmed and the pain mounted, I watched my clock tick down my last few seconds of life and I realized that my memoirs probably could have become famous if I’d bothered to write them. Ah, well, too late now.