“I don’t know what clothes to wear,” I think aloud as I prepare for my night. This has become a weekly comment. Every Friday night I ask myself this question, even though I already know the answer. Through the week I look forward to asking myself this question. I tolerate the little things day to day that make me want to scream.
I get dressed in all white, and sit down at my computer. I open Google Maps and decide on the best route into the next state. Once I’ve settled on a route, I grab my hatchet and head out the door. I whistle as I stroll down the hallway.
“8, room 8, room 8… ah, here it is,” I mutter to myself.
I take a small tool out of my pocket and unlock the door to apartment number eight, which was conveniently right across the hall from my room. I walk in and wait for the family of three to come home. I know they’ll be here soon because I’ve been watching them for two weeks. This is around the time they come home every Friday after a night of family fun.
I lock the door and enter the youngest daughter’s room. I wait behind her full-length mirror, which I know she’ll check almost as soon as she gets home.
I hear the keys in the lock. My blood buzzes through my veins excitedly, but I have to remain silent and hidden.
“Thanks for dinner, dad,” the girl sighs.
“Yeah,” her father sighs back. Then there is the sound of a pill bottle being opened and something (probably liquor) being poured into a plastic cup.
The girl’s life is miserable, I know, but she is beyond unworthy of even this life. Her older sister’s footsteps accompany hers to her room. I nearly scream as I see them enter.
“I had fun,” the older one says with a smile.
The two girls talk about the night, then talk about school and the problems they face in life. Depressing music plays in the background, and fills the room when the older sister leaves, closing the door behind her.
The young girl turns to her dresser and finds some razor blades. I smile when I see them. She walks over to the mirror, and, after staring at herself, she slides the blade across her wrist. She’s looking down at the blood when I step out from behind the mirror. A quick swing to the throat renders her unable to scream. She falls back onto her bed, stunned.
“You don’t have to tease yourself with suicide anymore,” I inform her, “stop being such a wimp.”
Blood splatters all over the walls as I help her fulfill her intended mission. If she really wanted to kill herself, why would she wait so long? The soft mattress beneath her body mutes the sounds of the hatchet giving her blood more places to escape from. I don’t like people who play with suicide. They need to just get it over with and stop wasting space. If they’re weak enough to want to kill themselves and actually use self-mutilation to get into it, then they have no place on my planet.
So the blood’s all over the room, and all over my white clothes. Why would I wear white? Well, I don’t want to hide what I’ve done. I’m not ashamed of it. I’m proud of myself for ridding this world of wasted space one body at a time.
I throw her phone at the mirror, and stand behind the door to wait for the concerned older sister. The shattered glass is quickly followed by a knock on the door. After hearing no answer, the older sister enters the room. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are wide. She freezes in the doorway for a second, before rushing to her sister to try to do something, anything, to keep her. I sneak out behind her and walk towards the front door. I have to stop when I see him.
Their father is sitting in the kitchen, drinking and staring at nothing. He doesn’t look startled to see me. He probably has no idea where he is right now. He’s just another waste of space. People like him, and people like his daughter, give me purpose.
It doesn’t take long to kill him, and the older girl has begun screaming. I dip my hand into a gash on his arm, and write on the wall. I leave the older girl a message.
I know she’s strong. I cannot wait around to see how she takes the message. I have more appointments to make.
It’s dark outside now, so I can walk out in the open. I don’t notice every cry for help, but after spending a week in a city, I get to see a lot of them. It pains me to see people become famous for bearing the scars of their own weakness. If I could, I would take down every last one of them.
You should show me your wrists. Show me your arms and legs. Tell me if you get drunk or high to make the world around you vanish. You know as well as I do that you keep your death on a leash and fool yourself with the illusion that it won’t claim you. If you don’t kill yourself, just know there are people like me watching out for you. When you’re so wrapped up in your own world that you fail to notice anything but yourself, we’ll get you.