i don't think you can get away with it for long. just bury him here, vertically, 12 feet deep
Last login: Sat Nov 30 18:00:00 on ttys000
mai@216491 ~ %
00:00 Cecil Wary, Alan Feanch - Wild Red Poppy
03:06 Phil Moon - Ozone
05:33 Cymbals - Do You Believe In Magic?
08:39 Melting Holidays - Pavement
12:54 Fievel Is Glauque - Go Down Softly / The River
18:39 Rick Kiefer - Lush Life
22:53 Nelson Riddle - Rachel
25:42 Paul Williams - Wistful Dreams
27:18 Kerry Beaumont - Earthwatch
I killed a man on October 23rd near Berryman Trail in Missouri, just before sunset. I didn’t know him. He was alone, so I decided to do it to see what it would be like. I stabbed him once in the chest, then again when he tried to crawl away. I dragged his body about twenty yards off the trail and buried him near a fallen tree, covering him with dirt and leaves. No one saw me. No one heard him.
Fast forward a few months. I had moved to another state. I was paranoid that I would be interrogated by the authorities, but it never happened. It is shockingly easy to get away with murdering someone you have no relation to. The sun rises and sets, the moon waxes and wanes, and nobody suspects a thing. I had finally begun to relax. However, tonight was different. I felt so nervous that I could barely breathe.
My eyes locked onto the moonlit stairwell at the end of the hallway, and a ripple of unease prickled my neck. The shred of apprehension I had tried to ignore now dug its claws deeper into my heart. It wasn't unlike a devil waiting for an opportunity to spread its wings. If I showed any sign of weakness, it would devour me whole. Now is not the time to falter, I chided myself.
One foot came after the next, and I began my careful ascent up the wooden steps. Adorning the walls were picture frames containing photographs of past residents. The faces in the pictures smiled but were uniform in their lack of emotion. Their beady eyes resembled that of insects rather than humans. I tore my gaze away from the soulless grimaces and continued upwards.
I reached the second floor and quickly surveyed my surroundings. Shadows pooled in the corners, twisting and writhing in absolute stillness. No signs of life. No sound but my shallow breathing and heart beating. I shook my watch, and the cracked screen flickered to life. It was now a quarter past six in the morning. The sun would soon rise. I had to finish my work here quickly.
A tall wooden door on the left wall was slightly ajar. My gaze inevitably falls downward to see a pool of dark liquid seeping into the floorboards. An unmistakable metallic scent was in the air. Blood. The breath catches midway in my throat, and I abandon all sense of caution, dashing over and pushing the door open fully to reveal a scene straight from my nightmares.
_____. My beautiful _____. Mutilated beyond recognition. She looked more like a pile of meat on display at a butcher's stand than a human. I could only tell it was her from the white dress draped limply around what I presumed to be her torso, the one I had given her as a present for our anniversary, and now it was stained a red that was nearly black. The knife slipped from my trembling hand, clattering against the floor with a dull clang. I can't scream. I can't think. My legs buckled beneath me, and I collapsed to the ground with a thud. I am suddenly crying. I bring my hands to my face instinctively in an attempt to stop the relentless drops flooding from my eyes, and my vision turns red. The metallic scent becomes unbearable, and I realize my palms are dark crimson.
I think I killed her too. I can't remember why I killed her, and that scared me. In a daze, I get up and rush back to the stairs. The photographs come into focus. I now know why the faces on the walls seem vaguely familiar. The faces belong to me. Disgustingly blissful photos of me, myself, and _____.
I am not sure why her sudden departure from this world affected me so. I was a killer that played Death, so why would I not be taken from the same way I have taken from others? It's just hilarious that I was both the one who seized and the one who surrendered. Tears of laughter continued streaming from my eyes, and I mustered up the strength to finally whisper:
"saber is not best girl. there is no best girl. all stories should end in harem or loneliness."