Witness

Witness

Fall of 1995. Dull. Dark. Everlasting. I was careless. Not a worry in the world, yet I never felt a sense of complete and utter comfort. I always felt as if something was wrong. Almost like the feeling you get when you have to pop a bone that simply won’t pop no matter the amount of effort you put into forcing it to. Weird. Anyway, my fondest memory of childhood was the neighbor. I really didn’t see much of him except when he would go out and pick up his mail, when he was mowing his lawn, or when he would come out of the house every weekday as the sun was rising dressed in his high class suit to get in his high class car to go work at who knows where. Don’t judge me. My mom always had the windows open. I had no choice but to look. Well, when I was 11 years old he was brutally murdered in his home. How brutally? No one knows but the people who went in to investigate, but the news channel said it was “brutal,” so everyone just ran with it and thought the worse. Except me. I. Saw. Everything. Okay, okay, hold on. I get a little mixed up sometimes. The doctors say that it has to do with my “condition.” Whatever that means. Well, when I was 8 years old I killed the neighborhood cat. He was black, young, and beautiful. I would sit in my room with the open windows and watch it pass by virtually every day complaining for its need of food. One night I took a knife from the kitchen table, went out for some air, saw the cat and invited it over with a can of Vienna sausages. I can still smell that night. I can still feel how it would rub up against my legs while meowing. I picked him up acting as kind as I could to it. I petted it, baby talked it, and then I took the knife to its face. So messy. So inexperienced. Meh. In retrospect I don’t know why I didn’t hide it or bury it or whatever. I was a kid. I guess I never thought I would get blamed for it. I went to bed and slept as soundly as I ever had. Before we continue I would like to point out that I am a good person. Yes, because by now I know you’re probably thinking that I’m a crazy sociopath that will turn into a serial killer. Well, that’s not what happened… At this point the neighbor was still undergoing his fancy daily routine. To make a story short: my parents knew it was me. How do they always know every single damn thing? Jesus. They gave me a talking to. They were trying to be authoritative and parent like, but the entire time I could see that they feared me. I could see it in their eyes. They were scared shitless of me. What was the big deal? It’s a dead cat. Get. Over. It! Talk about priorities. They take me to a shrink then to doctor that diagnoses me with things I can’t pronounce, but my parents never looked at me the same. From that moment on I was a monster to them. An abomination. A reminder of their mistakes as parents. My father specifically changed. His eyes became deep, dark, empty yet full. Full of something I didn’t understand. I didn’t admit it to anyone then, but now that I’m in this room with you. What do I really have to lose? I enjoyed killing that cat. The blood was warm and the hanging lifeless cat made me feel a sense of power. I ended a life. How poetic. The sun rose and set many times. I began to really enjoy my alone time. Basically because I could sit and think of whatever it was that I thought about. It’s really amazing where your mind travels when it’s clear and allowed to wander any topic in existence. So there I was. A freak to my parents. Great. Quick question: Why is it so cold in here? Jeez. Is this the torture? Freeze me to death? “Continue,” she says. “The faster we finish the faster you get to go back your room.” Yeah, they want me in that room. Alone. She’s probably thinking: “Hurry and speak so that I can get back to my rich lady life and go get a far too expensive salad for lunch.” I’ll make her wait for that. I ended up staying in most of the summer. It was nice. I watched the cats, rabbits, and squirrels pass outside. The neighbor brought a new car home today. Must. Be. Nice. The yearning to rip their little heads off and hear their screams was slowly escaping me. I was good… for a while. Then it happened. The moment that changed it all, you see? Feel bad for me yet? One morning my father found a dead mouse under my dresser. It had had its tail, legs, and head torn off. Apparently it was spread about and labeled with needles on a whiteboard. How scientific. How beautiful. How not me. I should take credit for it. I mean, it was a gorgeous site to behold, but the truth is that I didn’t do it, but because of my previous mishap with the cat it was obviously blamed on me. Whatever. I didn’t care much. I explained that it hadn’t been me. After a few attempts in vain I took it. What could they do to me now? I was already a monster. I was already on meds. I was already alone. My great life as I knew it was gone the moment that knife broke skin, then bone, then brain. Poor bastard. As it would have it I was sent to a shrink. Again. “Do you enjoy it?” “What do you feel when you do it?” Blah, Blah, Blah. I was done with these people. I was fine. I was “cured,” but these people didn’t want to hear that. They had in their minds already what I was. They weren’t trying to help me, they were trying to make me confess I had killed the damn mouse. I know who did it? Everyone looked at me with disgust as I walked out of the shrink room. Except my dad. He had a slight curve at the end of his lip. A slight glow in his eye. My father became much nicer to me after that day. He would at least try to converse with me. He would dialogue with me over trivial things, but some interaction is better than none at all. He seemed to be beginning to understand what it was that I was going through. Interesting. He was the only one. On this day the neighbor went out. He had a pretty lady on his arm and they giggled a fake giggle. The allusion of happiness. Good for them. Sleepless nights ensued and on the 7^th night of insomnia I decided to go and see just how smug the neighbor spend his nights. I wanted to see what his house was like. I wanted to see what he slept on. I wanted to see where he showered. That fake life he had. I wanted to see it firsthand. So, I got up, walked outside, and went through his back yard. Of course. Why wasn’t I surprised? Moan here, moan there. He was fucking someone. Always with someone. Companionship. I peeked through the window and there they were. She laid on the bed stomach down and ass up. He was on her riding her like a race horse. His face: ecstatic, her’s: blank. He pulled out of her. No condom and came on her back. He then collapsed next to her and fell asleep as she looked at him hopelessly. I was unseen. It wasn’t erotic. I wasn’t aroused. What a shame. “Can I get a soda please? Thanks.” A few days went. A few nights. Well, on one particular night I was a little turned on. Yeah, don’t look at me with those wide eyes and open mouth. You’re probably turned on now. You probably fucked last night. I bet you think you’re better than me because you’re sitting there and me here. But thanks for the soda. Ass. Mind puke on mind. The horror. I walked down the stairs. Slowly. Quietly. Didn’t want to wake the parents. They thought I was crazy enough already. I reached the door and it was unlocked. Peculiar. I reached the window of the neighbor’s house and the lights were out. I walked and reached what appeared to be the dining room. Fucking rich people. There he was. Eating. Laughing. Steak. Wine. Pretty lady in a red dress seated opposite of him. I! Was! So! Jealous! Why did he have that life? What a perfect life. Fake, you see, but gorgeous. And here I am. A freak. A minute changed my life. An action. It’s amazing how much of my life has been determined by the death of a cat and the subsequent events. Choices, huh? After dinner he took her to his bedroom and they went at it. Different girl. I almost pulled my dick out to play with myself, but I heard a ruffling in the bushes behind me. I felt fear. I felt alive. I ran. What the hell was that? I didn’t know. I know now. The following day my father looked at me with a slight grin on his face. He had seen me leave. He knew what I was up to those nights I went out. He let me. He didn’t mention it to mother. I became addicted to the neighbor. I would watch him every night while he ate. Slept. Fucked. Mowed the lawn. Washed his car. He had the life I wanted. If I didn’t have and could never have it, hell, why not live it through him, right? Voyeur you see? And this is it. This is why I’m here. You won’t believe me and I’m okay with that. I’m happy here. You feed me, give me a place to sleep; what more can I ask for? This is the best life I can have. Out there I wouldn’t fit in. This is my home. These are my kind of people even though I didn’t do what you guys think I did. In my troubled and drugged mind I see these people here as sane. At least they aren’t faking a life they don’t have. They simply are who they are. They are them. But as I’ve said, I didn’t do it. Or did I? I can never remember correctly. It’s the drugs. On this night I watched him like every other night. He was alone on this night. He was in his pajamas. He was eating alone, sleeping alone. He was so alone. Like me and for the first time I related to him. While he walked to his room though I saw a man in a mask in the dining room. I freaked. I grabbed my bag of chips and moved closer to the window. What is that? Who is that? He slowly followed him into the room. I wanted to go help him, and I should’ve. He was my life. He was the life I also would never have. I was jealous of him. So I smiled and watched. Watched as the man in the black mask came up behind him. Saw them struggle. Saw the masked man run the knife through the neighbors face. My body shivered. God. Blood. All. Over. Saw him tie him up as he put a needle into his arm. Saw the neighbor pass out. Saw as the masked man struggle to cut every single one of my neighbor’s fingers followed by he shoving them down the neighbors’ mouth. I smiled. It was beautiful. It was a crime scene. It was scientific. So not me. It was my life leaving me in the most gorgeous way imaginable. I watched him tear his stomach open and the neighbor’s guts, or whatever they were, I don’t know about anatomy, come spilling out. I step back. Still it looked gross. It was the most grotesque and most glorious thing I had ever seen, and this coming from a kid that stabbed a damn cat in the face. Finally he tore off the big toe and put it in a plastic bag. Then: I was there. Standing next to the mystery figure. I had blood on me. The masked man looked down at me with a look in his eyes that suggested that he was smiling behind that mask. I recognized the look. Then I was looking at him through my window with my chips at hand. The dead masterpiece laid out next to him. Then again I was standing next to them man. I looked out the window to see myself staring out of my bedroom window at me and the masked man. Was I there? Was I watching at a distance? Did I help? Was I the man in the black mask? I don’t know. I remember it differently every time. Maybe if you don’t med me up for a day I can be more clear. But you don’t want me to be clear. It was me and I’m thrilled. It was a stranger. It was my father… It’s visiting hours. My father walks in with a smile on his face. That look. I recognize it. Its unfamiliarly familiar. I had never wanted to choke the life out of someone. Oh, my god. It WAS me. I’m done. Take me to my room.