The Bloody Valentine (Old)

Reflections

September 12, 2004.

The lights have been out for days now. I don't bother turning them on anymore. The darkness has a welcoming that I will never see in the light anymore. My face has been tainted with the tone of a killer, I cannot stand to look at myself anymore. I've ruined the rest of my life, everything I do will remind me of this. I am no longer John the person, but I am now John the killer; an empty shell with no aspirations. I might as well lay in this bed until I starve myself to death. At least then I'll have redemption.

The funeral was nice. The church was packed full of people. It just goes to show you what happens when you try to please everybody, they ignore you until you die. After you die, they feel too guilty to miss it. It makes them feel better knowing they shed those fake tears for you. If you asked them one thing about yourself before you poked the goose, they'd draw a blank. But you die and they just have to tell your family what a "nice" person you were.

I haven't had an urge since the murder. Was my father the cause of the urges? That cannot be it. I've had these urges for other people too. Is it that I haven't seen anybody since the murder? That has to be it. I know I'll never act on them again. After feeling the devastation of acting on them, I know I can control them. But what if I can't? What if I become a serial killer or something? These questions cannot be asked, I won't let them.

There's a knock at the door. How long has the person behind it been knocking? I better get it. I struggle to get up, but finally land my feet on the ground. I pass by my parents' room on the way, I look in the opposite direction. When I open the door I'm greeted by Detective Marshall. He gracefully enters the house and enters the kitchen. I follow him. He turns around and looks at me. "Something on your mind detective? I don't imagine you're here just to look at me," I say arrogantly.
He starts, "You're good. You're really good. You almost had me convinced. But there's one flaw in your story. You see, you claim he hit you from behind and knocked you out, yet you gave us a description of him."
"What are getting at?"
"I know you did it." He pauses, "Look here John. You can either co-operate with us and get a few years max, or you can do this the hard way and get life. It's your decision."
"My father has been killed and you come here with these accusations? Get the fuck out of my house!" I cry.

He leaves, but his presence lingers on. His words come crashing down on me, like a skyscraper after the demolition begins. I cannot get away with it. They're going to find out the truth. Shit! What can I do? There's nothing I can do. I'll spend the rest of my days in prison. That is, unless I confess; but then they'd all know the truth. Nobody is to know the truth, especially not Mary. I walk over to the sofa and crash. I lay there until I doze off.

I'm having that nightmare again, it's the same one I've had every night since the murder. His words rip through my dormant body like a hammer on glass, "I mean, Jesus John, you're just wasting away and you don't care." I can hear myself breathing, but it's amplified. I walk up behind him, but the colours are meshing together. I hit him, CLANK! I awake, full of sweat. The doorbell rings. I swear if it's another casserole I'll kill the deliverer. I get up to go answer the door, but glance at the television on my way. I just stare it. My reflection is nowhere to be seen, I see the reflection of my mutilated father staring back. I realise that I've been torturing myself, but why? I can get myself out of this situation, it just requires a little imagination. I'll have to devise a plan later.

Before I open the door I put on my sad face. I open the door and see Ashlee standing in the doorway; her hands are empty, okay she lives. "How'd you find my house?" I ask before she can get a word out. "Oh Mary told me." She pauses, "Can I come in?" I respond, "Sure." She enters and I lead her past the soaked sofa and into the kitchen, we sit. I attempt to be funny, "If you're here for the sex orgy you're late." She is not impressed. "Can we be serious for a minute?" She asks.

Our eyes meet and her blue eyes put me in a trance. I cannot her a word she's saying, but she sure is beautiful. She has long, blonde hair; big blue eyes; and the most flawless face I have ever seen. "John? Hello? Are you even listening to me?" She says as I snap out of the trance. I pronounce my recent thoughts to her, "My God, you're so beautiful." She squirms as she goes as red as blood. "I...I...I have to go. You're making me feel uncomfortable." She says. She gets up and leaves. On her way out she passes a mirror and I see a large smile on her face. I'm making a mistake. If I close the deal Mary will be just that much further from me.

That was easy, maybe too easy; something that came naturally to my father. That's when it hits me: I've become my father. I tried so hard not to become a workaholic like my mother that I've been rear ended by my father's charisma. This could work to my advantage with the murder.

I get up but I get a head rush and become very dizzy. I sit back down, but my head starts to pound. I fall to the ground, holding my head. I open my mouth and attempt to scream, but nothing comes out. Then, all of a sudden, it stops. What's wrong with me? Why do I constantly get these, these things! As I try to find the solution I fall asleep.

September 14, 2004.

I awake to the sound of a door slamming. My mother has finally emerged from her isolated room I can only hope. How long have I been sleeping? I can see that a spider has taken the liberty of using my right leg as a base for its web. I get up and rub my leg, the spider falls upon the floor. It hurries towards the wall, I have scared it. It's not that I hate spiders, I just don't like the webs. If I could be any creature other than a human I'd be a spider. Spiders can do almost anything they want, they can even kill, and they never have to worry about detectives or mothers.

My mother enters the kitchen. "Oh great you're up!" She says. She is either angry or drunk, maybe both; either way I'm going to get an earful. "Who's Ashlee?" She asks, but before I can answer she continues, "Don't answer that, I don't want to know. Just do me one favour, avoid her. Any girl who comes around here so soon after your father dies is no good, especially when they look like that!" I was waiting for that finish. Anytime she sees any girl that is even remotely pretty she uses that any girl that looks like that is no good line. "But--" I blurt out before being interrupted.
"Oh so it was you? Have you no respect for your father?"
"So I'm supposed to just stop living my life because he did? I'm gonna live my life the way I want to and there's nothing you can do about it!"

I storm off. She says something but I tune her out. She is drunk, that's why she isn't thinking straight. She always tries to tell me how to live my life, like it will kill me if I think for myself for once. Well, it won't kill me, but it killed my father. She's to blame, if she had let me live I would have never had those urges. I should not dwell on this, it isn't helping.

I automatically take down all of the pictures of Mary from my wall and place them in a drawer. It's funny how we never listen to people when they're alive but when they die we do whatever they asked of us. I never used to think much of it but now that I have experienced it, its just odd. I would have never thought of taking these pictures down before, but now I do not see a need for them. They remind of a more innocent time I suppose, so taking them down will make me feel better. Or will it? Not seeing Mary staring back at me hundreds of times will be depressing.

I stare at the wall and feel a bag of mixed emotions. A part of me feels as empty as before, but a part of me feels ease. I am at ease knowing that I will get away with the murder, and that things seem to be going great for me now. Nothing can phase me now, I'm happy. For the first time in I don't know how long, I'm happy. All it took to become happy was a murder and a confession, but I'm happy. I had forgotten what happiness feels like, but now I do not want to let it go.

I lay down on my bed with a large smile on my face. The smile, and my happiness fades. I still have no idea how I'm going to get away with the murder. I'm the only suspect, and my story is flawed. Shit! I'm done for! I have to think of something great, something that will take their attention off of me and onto somebody else. What could I possibly do?