The perfect murder

I hate him. I hate everything about him. I hate the way his chocolate brown eyes sit so far apart. I hate the way, his nose, bulbous and wide, takes up a majority of the well-crafted mask he calls a face. I hate his broad shoulders. His shoulders that turned me away, that ignores me despite my regular attempts at getting to know him. He acts as if his stain glass windows can’t clearly see the opportunity, I am bestowing upon him. I am giving him the opportunity to be my friend, but he has the audacity to turn it down, as if I am too insignificant to waste his precious time on. I hate the way he towers above me, he is six feet so it always seems as though he is looking down on everyone. Don’t think me vein; I do not dislike him on his looks alone, although it doesn’t help his situation. I hate him for the internal version of him as well. 

            I hate his arrogance. His arrogance gives him the impression, that he is better than everyone. He walks around Jefferson High, as if life is his, and only his, birthright. I hate the way he walks down the halls, only looking at me through reflections of his locker mirror, or the image that projects my hate in the doorknob before he turns it. It’s not fair. I talk to him, but he ignores the sound of my whispers, and my loudest yells. He makes me feel even more isolated than I already do. So, I hate him. Malcolm. That is his name. Malcolm, I hate the way his name taste as the air leaves my lips, leaving a disgusting aftertaste, afterthought. 

Some would call me mad. They call me insane. I don’t see the insanity in planning and executing the perfect murder. I don’t see the madness behind me, Leoendiathis Escovinchy II, Leo for short, a seventeen year old certified genius, killing someone who deserved to die. They say I am mad because I feel no remorse or I feel no sadness at the thought of taking another person’s life. They say, “I am a danger to myself and others.” However, I am not, I am only a danger to him.

            We have been going to the same school for more than ten years, but do you think he notices me, outside the occasional run-ins in the bathroom mirror, or glance through a car window. Why does he always look afraid when he sees me? I didn’t plan to harm him until he started ignoring me. I worshiped him, as did everyone else. Then, he showed me my true insignificance in the story of his life.

            One day, as I was walking down the hall, three boys started picking on me. A bully, that is the kindest thing I could call such an ignorant group of kids, kicked my books out of my hand, and told me I was nothing, and told me I should kill myself. I saw him, I saw Malcolm, in the locker mirror. I didn’t understand, why he looked at me, saw me and ignored me, only to turn and walk away into the edges of the frame. That day, I decided he must die. I know, seems mad. I promise you, he deserves it. He deserves everything coming to him, everything that I have planned.  

            The day after I decide to kill him, I began planning his murder. Every day after school I would follow him home, making sure he did not see me, as I hid behind doors, corners, cars, and trees. When we came up to his house, I watched him walk inside. His house is almost as hideous as he is. The walls are a horrible, murky water brown color. The windows were almost rectangular, minus the rounded edges. The door was a light brown, almost honey colored wood, with a small medal handle that sat vertically.  You could smell death in the air. The dead brown lawn that edged his house, smelled like dew from polluted air. Maybe the toxic air he releases as he lives and breathes, corroded the very ground he walks on. 

            Every day, I watched him. I watched him make take the same route home. He went through the school, across the big field, to an opening in the fence that let out onto his street. He crawled through and walked a block East and was home. However, one day he didn’t do that. Instead, he walked the long way. He seemed to say his goodbyes, as usual, with a hug. This time, he held on to everyone just a little bit longer. He walked out the front. When he turned around to look at the doors close, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. I think he knew it. I think he was on to me because he looked right at me, he didn’t speak he just kept shaking his head, and kept mouthing, “No”. I was scared, so I sped up my plans. This caused me to become discombobulated. I didn’t know what to do. My plan, my brilliant meticulously researched, impeccable plan, to poison Malcolm with Hemlock during his ritual chocolate milk with lunch, was over. 

            That day I followed him home, he seemed to move faster. It almost seemed as if he was running from me, but I knew that was impossible. I walked inside his door that he left open as he sped inside. I heard the water running in the bathroom, so I walked in to catch him off guard. He was washing his face, as he did every day after school. I grabbed him by his hair and slammed it into the mirror. It shattered, and blood dripped from his face, as he lies motionless on the floor. I slit his wrist to watch the blood drain from his body. Suddenly, I felt weak, and I had to sit down. As I watched the blood run from his veins like a faucet, I began to get weaker and weaker. 

“Why?” Malcolm asked through blood and tears. “Why? I thought we were friends. I always stood up for you when mom told me to stop talking to you. I was there, I didn’t forget.”

Images flashed across my eyelids, as I closed them because they were getting too heavy to bear.  I saw Malcolm and I playing as kids, Malcolm and I talking to Dr. Graham, and him telling me goodbye. I guess I repressed all of the memories when I loved him. I opened my eyes and he was gone. I was now lying on the floor where he did, covered in blood. I looked to the left of me, and a shard of the mirror was lying on the floor. I peered through week and heavy eyes, and saw Malcolm’s reflection looking back at me. Before I realized what happened, I couldn’t open my eyes anymore. 

            So now you see, I am not mad. I hated him, I hated him and now he is dead. I will never get caught. I win. I am not mad. I am simply, Malcolm.