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| CRIMINALLY INSANE |
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| How many times have I seen pysychiatrists? How many times have they deemed me hopeless? Mad? Criminally insane? Vicious? Ill? These terms repeat in my mind like broken records, forever coming back to me and telling me the thoughts these people have, thinking that they know everything because they went to a school. I know that I am not mad. I know that I am not criminally insane. I know that I am not vicious, or ill, or hopeless, or any of those things. I never have been, and I never will. It is just that when you spend enough time with a person, you begin to notice small things about them. Tiny little things, things that you wouldn’t realize without a keen eye and observant tendencies. Such things would include the way that the person laughs. Mr. Edwards laughed. It was an obnoxious, pompous laugh, one that you might expect to hear from a horse or a donkey. Or maybe it is the way they eat. Mrs. Baughenmeier would eat very quickly, very sloppily. She was considerably overweight, yet always acted like a supermodel, strutting down the halls as a real model might a runway. Mr. Kurtz, however, had a most unusual trait, a physical trait not had by many... That trait was that of his lower lip, which always pressed slightly outwards. My cubicle was directly across from that of Mr. Kurtz. His odd little smile always seemed to smile at me. Everytime I looked up from the computer, the terrible smile. Everytime I turn around to file something in a cabinet, the smile. Everyday for six years now, that evil smile . I could no longer take the green eye and finally decided to do something about it, just as I had Mr. Edwards and Mrs. Baughenmeier. I set about the first portion of my task on the Eighteenth of September. The weather had begun to turn bitter, straying away from the warm summer that had seemed to last so long. The children had started school, and on my way to the office each day, I saw their cheerful faces in the yellow busses. I believe that it was the children that made me think the most. They would be in school, learning their algebra equations, studying for tests, memorizing terms, filling in blanks. I, however, would be concentrating on ending a man’s life. Along with the children and the weather, there were the mosquitoes, always coming out at dusk to bite at the families dining outdoors. Stocks rose. Stocks fell. Books were written, movies produced. Music was released. These things taking place in September were not of any importance to me. I had one goal, and that goal was to be free of the green eye, glaring at me from deep within its socket. As I have stated before, I took the first step towards my goal on the Eighteenth. Late at night, I slipped out my apartment and into the streets illuminated by the eery glow of street lamps. I carried a knife with me. I walked the six blocks to the office building, which I knew was still open, for the lights on some floors were still on. I opened the heavy door and walked down the hall, with its pink marble floors. I took pleasure in pressing the elevator’s call button and watching the digital display of levels descend until it reached the number One, knowing that it brought me closer to my goal. Stepping inside the elevator, I pressed the plastic button the bore the number Eleven. The elevator rose and I felt the familiar feeling of the air flowing downwards, trying to drag me with it. The elevator’s doors opened and I was greeted by a darkened white wall. I stepped out of the elevator and flipped the switch, brightening the carpeted hallway. Walking down the hallway and passing the empty water cooler, I reached the room in which the cubicles were contained. I walked past the partitioned spaces that held computers with black-screened monitors, electrical lights that were not lit, and closed file cabinets. Finally reaching the office of the C.E.O, Mr. Roland, I withdrew the knife. I pressed the slight curve at the tip into the keyhole and turned it slowly. It seemed that the cold blade would spin around for hours. However, in a manner of seconds, the door was unlocked and I was able to let myself in. After flipping the light switch and letting my eyes adjust to the sudden brightness of the room, I made my way to the large metal file cabinet. I picked the lock of the cabinet marked “Employee Records” and withdrew the file bearing the name of Mr. Kenneth Kurtz. Upon finding his adress I copied it onto a small piece of white paper. I shut and locked the cabinet, as well as the door, making sure to turn the light off as well. When I returned home, I placed the knife back in the night table next to my bed and hung my coat in the dark closet, feeling happy that I would soon be rid of the terrible little smile. The second, and more important, part of my task was that of killing Mr. Kurtz. That part fell on the evening of September Twentieth. I recall staying awake into the midnight hours, waiting for the right moment. I read a book as the hours dripped into one another, sthe clock’s hands slowly drawing nearer to three A.M. Finally, the hour struck, and I decided it was time to go. I retrieved the knife from the night table and slipped out the door. The cool night air greeted me as I stepped out and walked down the street. After walking past the darkened windows of closed bakeries, thrift stores, restaurants, music shops, and other places of business, I came to the neighborhood in which Mr.Kurtz resided. It was a small neighborhood with small brick houses. The trees had just begun to lose their leaves and their branches were blowing in the night wind like arms reaching out. Mr. Kurtz’ house was found with no difficulty, for it was the first house on the street. The door was locked, not surprisingly, so I went around the house to a basement window and broke it. I slid into the cellar and pulled the metal chain hanging from the ceiling, brightening the room. I walked over to the stairs on the cold concrete and ascended them slowly, careful not to make any noise. The door was slightly ajar and I swung it open quickly to avoid creeking. He had left the light in the kitchen on, to my advantage. I walked to the left of the basement door to the staircase. The blue carpet was also my advantage, as he would not hear the tapping of my shoes. His bedroom was the first room at the end of the stairs. I walked through the open door and found him sleeping in his bed, in the center of the room. I walked cautiously over to the bed, watching his chest rise and fall. I took the knife from its carrying pouch and positioned it above his chest. He inhaled and exhaled a few more times. I could not stand the crooked little smile anymore, and so I plunged the knife deep into his chest. Oh, it was terribly exhilirating! The sickening crack of his ribs only made it better! The stench of death filled my nostrils and I took in the sweet aroma of victory! I was finally rid of that vile smirk. Savoring my victory, I crept back down the stairs to the kitchen, where I retrieved a large black plastic bag. The living room was directly across from the kitchen, and upon noticing the logs places in the fireplace, I had a better idea. I replaced the plastic bag, and head back up the stairs. The body was just as it had been a minute earlier, but now it had a knife through its chest and the blood had started to drain and soak into the white sheets. I removed the knife from his bloody chest and took hold of his ankles. I pulled him out of his room and onto the steps. With each descending step, his head made a dull “thump,” which only seemed to enhance my feelings of triumph. I dragged him into the living room and let him bleed on the Oriental rug. I found a package of matches next to the fireplace. A match was removed and lit. I placed it in the center of the logs. The fire grew slowly at first, but began to spread to each log. Mr. Kurtz body was still bleeding, but that would not affect what I was to do next. First of all, I had to rid myself of the smile, which was still plastered on his face. I lifted his head into the fire, and it burned slowly. His features were blackened and charred. The smirk was gone forever. Once his head had burned away, I stuffed most of his torso into the flames. His lower torso burned away slowly and I stuffed his legs and feet into the deathly heat. The last thing to do was to burn the evidence. I threw the knife into the fire to let its wooden handle burn off. I slipped out of the house with the satisfaction that the town would smell the stench of death coming from Mr. Kurtz’ chimney. |
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