Jagged

I eat my cereal in a hurry, careful not to spill any milk. I had slept in: my baby brother had kept us up half the night crying and wailing. The news on the TV was no longer new. Jagged the serial killer was still on the loose somewhere in Maryland. Jagged got his name from the way he killed: jagged cuts of a knife along each of the victims' limbs. However, he was a quick killer: there was always evidence that the throat was cut first, quickly. He just liked to give his dead victims more cuts. He was described to have sandy brown hair and blue eyes, just like almost anyone in our city. My entire neighborhood was under watch: we all had sandy brown hair and blue eyes. All of us. It was freaky to everyone and the perfect place for Jagged to hide, in the entire world's opinion.

I wave goodbye to my mother, holding my brother. "Don't forget your lunch, Carly."

"I won't, Mom."

My dad had already left for work, so there was just a note on the counter wishing me luck at school. This was mostly just academic luck - my parents were very particular about my grades. Their logic: if you don't get A's you shouldn't even be going. However, the "you shouldn't even be going" part is not even an option, so I don't get that.

First period: Algebra. Very boring - we're studying triangles.

Second period: Art. We had a day for sketching. The only sound to be heard was the scratching of pencils and the conversation of the kids who just took it because they needed an elective. I just drew a line of seahorses. To me, they looked like deformed hummingbirds, but they were good enough for the teacher.

Third period: Biology. The composition of cells.

Fourth period: Psychology. We learned about people's tendency to connect irrelevant facts to come to conclusions that might not be true. It was a useful tendency when we were still hunter-gatherers. We're not still hunter-gatherers.

Fifth period: English. To Kill a Mockingbird. I didn't pay attention

Sixth period: Physical Education (P.E.). BAM! I got hit in the head with a frisbee and sent home.

My dad picked me up from school. Miserable me, holding an ice pack to my head.

"Who hit you?"

"I dunno." "What did he look like?"

"He had sandy brown hair and blue eyes," I mutter sarcastically.

He sighs, exasperated.

We stop by the icecream shop.

It's a small icecream shop, but it has so many flavors: rocky road, strawberry, cookie dough, vanilla, mint chocolate chip, everything. It just doesn't have chocolate icecream.

He gives me double scoop Rocky Road, with the familiar "don't tell mom". As usual, I say nothing - no promises.

We come home to find we had a new neighbor. He looked like all of us, so he would fit in well. I watched him carry a couch, a TV, and a small suitcase from the moving truck.

That can't be all that he has, I thought to myself, going to help. It wasn't.

Mr. Jones studies my ice pack for a few seconds. He points and says: "What happened to your head?"

"I got hit in the head with a frisbee."

He doesn't reply, he just smiles at me and brings in one of his three suitcases.

The new neighbor had three clear suitcases, all full with pairs of shoes. Nothing else: just shoes and socks stuffed in to wear with the shoes. He introduced himself as Mr. Jones, with a smile, and went in.

"Who was that?" My father asked, looking out.

"Mr. Jones, the new neighbor."

"Interesting." He went back inside. He was a lawyer: a boring lawyer, only concerned with the facts. My entire family was boring, in my opinion.

The next few weeks went by without many events. Mr. Jones came outside every day at six o'clock a.m. to water a tree, to smile at me leaving for school, and to go back inside. The house's windows were always closed. The tree had never needed watering, but apparently Mr. Jones found it necessary to water it.

One dreary Tuesday I come home to find that my home wasn't just a home anymore. It was a crime scene. My baby brother had been brutally murdered, with Jagged's signature knife marks. I saw Mr. Jones being dragged out of his house, cameras surrounding him. "Jagged, the famous serial killer, has been caught!"

Mr. Jones just kept yelling "It's noon! I need my meds! It's noon!" Nobody could get another word out of the senile old man. It wasn't noon, it was 3:00, but he had moved here from Arizona. Apparently, he had yet to figure out the differences between time zones.

This means he had thought he had been watering his tree every day at 3am? That's so weird. He's crazy.

Blinded with rage at the old and crazy man, I run up to my room. I bury my face into my pillow, crying. I had trusted Mr. Jones, but what could I have done about it? I'd probably triggered it by being nice to him. My mother comes up to my room. "It's my fault, isn't it?"

"No, Carly, it isn't."

"I was nice to him."

"So?"

I ponder her logic for a few moments before asking, "How did they know it was Mr. Jones?"

"I'm not sure, but it was apparently easy. Your father won't give me the details."

"He's murdered at least a hundred people, mom. He's experienced."

"He's also insane, darling," she says, as if that explains it all. Maybe it does - I'm just a kid. The adults know better.

My pillow is covered with snot after a while, so I get up and go to my parents' room to get a new pillow. I'm usually never allowed to go to my parents room, but I do anyways. They have a lot on their plates anyways.

I lift up my dad's pillow, and I almost scream.

There's a bloody knife under the pillow.