Darkside55
The Freeman
- Joined
- Jun 12, 2009
- Messages
- 12,083
- Reaction score
- 90
I've seen a lot of deaths in my life. A dead body, with no emotion attached to it, no longer shocks me. What surprises me though is the weight. I have never had to lift a body before.
I'm in no hurry. I've a corner house, with nothing but street beyond my backyard; I've laid him against the wooden boards of my fence so that he cannot be seen by passers-by, nor my next-door neighbors. I left him out there by the shallow hole I've started to dig. I'm not worried about anyone seeing him. I had to take a break, though.
I'd thought about it beforehand. Planned the whole thing out. Not seriously, at first; it formed as rumblings in my head, little bits and pieces, smart ideas, ways I could pull it off. Sometimes something would click so perfectly into place I'd say aloud, "Yeah, that's it. That's how I could do it." And I wouldn't think of it again until the next time I heard the rumblings of another idea, another piece.
He was my neighbor. Lived in the house across the street. We had been, for several months, on amicable terms. It is funny to think about now that I would often greet him in the fashion neighbors do: the wave as you pass each other in your cars, the smile and hello when you go outside to get the mail from the big metal box on the street corner. Idle chit-chat standing out on the sidewalk. We had been what you could call friendly acquaintances.
Until he decided to take advantage of my good nature.
I'm not a man prone to violence. I'm even less prone to vengeance, but I believe there are some things you just do not do. Some things are yours, things no other man has a right to. Some actions are unforgivable, and you must respond in kind.
The real problem started about a month ago, after I called him on it. I'd known for awhile, but had never brought it up. I wanted to be sure, really sure. And when I found out, I asked him about it, and he denied it. Feigned ignorance. I whittled him down, and he kept giving me the dumb routine, until I called him on it, told him I knew. And he stood there, stock still, blank fucking look on his face, jaw open, his mouth catching flies. And then he started giving me excuses. He could've apologized. He could've admitted it. To try and rationalize it though, that's what really got me. I almost slugged him right then and there, but I swallowed it. I don't even know why; maybe it was because we were out in the public, as public as a residential street is. So I just said to him, "You know what? Forget it." And I walked back to my house, shut the door, and the rumblings started. What I could do, what I should do.
It was smart, too. I waited on purpose. I spent the past few weeks going about my normal routine, the only change being that I avoided him. More specifically, I avoided anything more than those car waves and the greets at the mailbox, although a little more frosty than usual. I skipped the chit-chat. And it isn't because I didn't have anything to say to him--I could have railed at him for hours. No, the important thing was that nobody else on the street saw me talking to him any more than one would usually speak to their neighbor. Important that nobody saw me arguing with him in the slightest. That way when the police begin their investigation, as they inevitably will, no one will be able to say, "Darkside saw him last." "Darkside talked to him often." "He and Darkside had a row the other day." Last week I avoided him entirely. I haven't even checked my mail. I'll do it tomorrow.
Last night, I waited. I waited until all the lights in his house clicked off, until the white glow of the TV in his living room went black. I waited until I was sure he was asleep, and then I got dressed: gloves, thin for dexterity but enough to cover my prints. Put a beanie over my hair. Tucked my pants legs into my boots, and made sure my gloves were well over my sleeves. Left my collar unfolded to cover my neck, zipped my jacket all the way up. I've watched enough Law and Order and Court TV to know better than to leave even the slightest trace of DNA. They can get you on hair folicles and flakes of skin.
So I waited. Then I crept inside through the back, open as it is in this weather save for an easily removed screen, into the bedroom. And then I used the same shovel I'm using to dig this hole. Then I dragged him back to my house, in through the little swinging door at the front of my fence, across dirt. Easy to just hose down all the blood and tracks. Didn't expect the bastard to be so damn heavy, though. He wasn't even fat.
"Why's he telling us this?" you might be wondering. Consider it my confession. I was never likely to speak of it (I can keep a very good secret), but just in case the compulsion ever hit me, here it is, in a place it can do no harm. Because for all you know, I'm kidding. And what would you do anyway? Who would you report it to? You don't even know my real name, and California's a big state. Who's going to believe someone who says they committed a crime on the internet anyway? Everyone knows everything you read on the internet is bullshit.
I think my arms are almost ready to start again. I won't take another break until I'm finished. I'll put him in the hole, cover him, take a shower, go in to work as usual. Sleep when I get home. No one will probably think to look for him until a week or two. Meanwhile I'll go about my normal routine, and then when I'm questioned, I'll be the one feigning ignorance.
Merry Christmas, asshole, shouldn't have lied.
Should have just returned my goddamn lawnmower.
I'm in no hurry. I've a corner house, with nothing but street beyond my backyard; I've laid him against the wooden boards of my fence so that he cannot be seen by passers-by, nor my next-door neighbors. I left him out there by the shallow hole I've started to dig. I'm not worried about anyone seeing him. I had to take a break, though.
I'd thought about it beforehand. Planned the whole thing out. Not seriously, at first; it formed as rumblings in my head, little bits and pieces, smart ideas, ways I could pull it off. Sometimes something would click so perfectly into place I'd say aloud, "Yeah, that's it. That's how I could do it." And I wouldn't think of it again until the next time I heard the rumblings of another idea, another piece.
He was my neighbor. Lived in the house across the street. We had been, for several months, on amicable terms. It is funny to think about now that I would often greet him in the fashion neighbors do: the wave as you pass each other in your cars, the smile and hello when you go outside to get the mail from the big metal box on the street corner. Idle chit-chat standing out on the sidewalk. We had been what you could call friendly acquaintances.
Until he decided to take advantage of my good nature.
I'm not a man prone to violence. I'm even less prone to vengeance, but I believe there are some things you just do not do. Some things are yours, things no other man has a right to. Some actions are unforgivable, and you must respond in kind.
The real problem started about a month ago, after I called him on it. I'd known for awhile, but had never brought it up. I wanted to be sure, really sure. And when I found out, I asked him about it, and he denied it. Feigned ignorance. I whittled him down, and he kept giving me the dumb routine, until I called him on it, told him I knew. And he stood there, stock still, blank fucking look on his face, jaw open, his mouth catching flies. And then he started giving me excuses. He could've apologized. He could've admitted it. To try and rationalize it though, that's what really got me. I almost slugged him right then and there, but I swallowed it. I don't even know why; maybe it was because we were out in the public, as public as a residential street is. So I just said to him, "You know what? Forget it." And I walked back to my house, shut the door, and the rumblings started. What I could do, what I should do.
It was smart, too. I waited on purpose. I spent the past few weeks going about my normal routine, the only change being that I avoided him. More specifically, I avoided anything more than those car waves and the greets at the mailbox, although a little more frosty than usual. I skipped the chit-chat. And it isn't because I didn't have anything to say to him--I could have railed at him for hours. No, the important thing was that nobody else on the street saw me talking to him any more than one would usually speak to their neighbor. Important that nobody saw me arguing with him in the slightest. That way when the police begin their investigation, as they inevitably will, no one will be able to say, "Darkside saw him last." "Darkside talked to him often." "He and Darkside had a row the other day." Last week I avoided him entirely. I haven't even checked my mail. I'll do it tomorrow.
Last night, I waited. I waited until all the lights in his house clicked off, until the white glow of the TV in his living room went black. I waited until I was sure he was asleep, and then I got dressed: gloves, thin for dexterity but enough to cover my prints. Put a beanie over my hair. Tucked my pants legs into my boots, and made sure my gloves were well over my sleeves. Left my collar unfolded to cover my neck, zipped my jacket all the way up. I've watched enough Law and Order and Court TV to know better than to leave even the slightest trace of DNA. They can get you on hair folicles and flakes of skin.
So I waited. Then I crept inside through the back, open as it is in this weather save for an easily removed screen, into the bedroom. And then I used the same shovel I'm using to dig this hole. Then I dragged him back to my house, in through the little swinging door at the front of my fence, across dirt. Easy to just hose down all the blood and tracks. Didn't expect the bastard to be so damn heavy, though. He wasn't even fat.
"Why's he telling us this?" you might be wondering. Consider it my confession. I was never likely to speak of it (I can keep a very good secret), but just in case the compulsion ever hit me, here it is, in a place it can do no harm. Because for all you know, I'm kidding. And what would you do anyway? Who would you report it to? You don't even know my real name, and California's a big state. Who's going to believe someone who says they committed a crime on the internet anyway? Everyone knows everything you read on the internet is bullshit.
I think my arms are almost ready to start again. I won't take another break until I'm finished. I'll put him in the hole, cover him, take a shower, go in to work as usual. Sleep when I get home. No one will probably think to look for him until a week or two. Meanwhile I'll go about my normal routine, and then when I'm questioned, I'll be the one feigning ignorance.
Merry Christmas, asshole, shouldn't have lied.
Should have just returned my goddamn lawnmower.
