And Such and Things

AND SUCH AND THINGS

Dear Diary, Day 1:

This is my first time writing down my thoughts in a locked book with blank white pages. As if that would stop someone from looking at my secrets. If there is a desire, a way can be found. I bought you two weeks ago after the incident or accident. Perhaps I shall refer to it as the event. No, it really wasn't that grandiose. You see, it is also my first time killing someone. More on that later. I thought I was different from the rest of my friends and siblings. I did not really care if I ever found "the one." I mean, is that even real? I finally got tired of hearing the comments and questions. When are you going to settle down? Don't you want to be happy? As if that depended on another human. I got tired of being set up, being told I found the perfect guy for you. Now I know what you might be thinking. I killed the last guy I was set up with just to prove a point to my friends. Nope, I killed my mailman. Hahaha! Sorry. I know how that sounds. Hey, talk later. It's dinner time.

Dear Diary, Day 4:

I apologize for missing a couple of days. There are times when you just do not want to interact with anyone. No talking, no nothing. I didn't mean to leave you hanging. I'm sure you're wondering what happened. I chose you to tell my story to for the simple fact that you will not, cannot, talk back. I don't think I could be this liberal with my word choices if I had to tell this to the police. They would be asking questions I had no answers to, and certainly, I would not be allowed to take days to reveal what I had done. You know I hate that word. By definition, murder suggests premeditation. And if it had not been for someone else's actions, he probably would still be alive. Let me take you back to the day it all started when I met my cousin's neighbor's yoga instructor's uncle's dog walker. I was told he was in the export business, which later turned out to be buying junk online and reselling it. Oh, yes, he is a good-looking guy; the most handsome, indeed, were the exact words. He even takes care of his sick mother and is taking accounting classes at the local community center. A fun guy to be around. Oh, my dear Diary, thinking back on it now is making me sick. I will be right back.

Dear Diary, Day 5:

Yes, I know I did not come back as I promised. I really did throw up, though. But I know that it was due to the anxiety of all this. Too much information? What do you care? You are just a book. Okay, so back to this creep I met on a warm, clear night a month ago. The plan was for us to have a picnic in the park. He had arrived before me. I wanted to turn around and run, but unfortunately, he spotted me. I noticed he had with him two of his regulars. Dogs, that is. He waved me over, and I took my time walking toward him, which allowed me to come up with some excuse to tell him that I had to leave. He was not as he had been described to me. Not a lick of handsomeness on his face. Is that a word, "handsomeness"? Anyhow, the dogs barked wildly as I approached. He cursed loudly at them, then stared at me, smiling, his eyes wide and searching. He said nothing as he looked me over, then exclaimed that he was in love. Good Lord, I wanted to hurl. Hey, Diary, my show is on. I will pick up the story tomorrow.

Dear Diary, Day 6:

This will be a brief entry today. I need to attend to something.

Dear Diary, Day 7:

As promised, I will continue the story. Sorry about yesterday, but I received a phone call from the detective who came to talk to me the day they found Mr. Harmon dead a block from my house. Mr. Harmon, a quiet and unassuming man, had been delivering my mail for over twenty years. What a great guy he was. So, yeah, I sat down, and the dog walker, whose name I honestly cannot remember, proceeded to tell me his life story. He was a fast talker, and at the end of every sentence or two, he would add the words "and such and things." He told me he was a high school dropout, still living at home with his mother, who, by the way, was not sick. He had shoulder-length, unkempt, dirty blond hair; according to him, it was perfect for his desire to be a rock star. And such and things. You may not be able to see it, but I am smiling. I actually chuckled when he told me he wanted to be a famous rock star. That was the first and only time his expression turned sour. When I asked how the accounting classes were going, his obnoxious smile returned, and he laughed with his whole body, which caused the dogs to bark. After telling them to shut up, he stated that he had no idea what I was talking about. He was not good with numbers, so there would be no way he could attend such a class.

I asked him what he had been told about me. Dear Diary, let me tell you that when he slid closer to me on the picnic table, and I mean inches from me, his leg was touching mine. As I recall, I started to shake. He looked me straight in the eye and said without blinking that I was beautiful, graceful, and a great listener. Okay, so that is true. Hold on. Laughing out loud here. Coming from him, it was disturbing.

Anyway, we were supposed to bring our own sandwiches and drinks. Let me tell you, I was grateful for that. I had no intention of sharing his picnic fare, which consisted of tuna fish that was past its expiration date, on dry, crusty bread, and a small baggie of what appeared to be broken pieces of potato chips, along with a bottle of water. I had left my food in my car and used that as my excuse to get as far away from him as quickly as possible. I hope you are still with me, Diary. I am getting to the part where I killed my mailman. This journaling stuff is quite liberating.

I know I had never given the guy my phone number. But as soon as I returned home, he called. That was the first of a succession of relentless calls and texts confessing his love for me. I never answered or replied to any of them. I finally blocked his number. It was getting out of hand. When I saw him walking by my house, holding onto six different dog leashes with a variety of mutts in front of him, I freaked out. That happened daily. He would occasionally stop and just stare at my front door. I looked out the upstairs window, hoping he would not see me. Then the flowers arrived, along with the notes on the windshield of my car. When Mr. Harmon started to deliver those cards, I had had enough. Not you, too. Not dear, sweet old Mr. Harmon. Hey, Diary, I am getting tired. I will finish in the morning.

Dear Diary, Day 10:

The officer told me I was not allowed to take you with me to the station. So, I will just tell you that it was my fault that Mr. Harmon died. I handed him back all the letters and cards. "Please return to sender," I asked him. He told me there was no return address and that I should have just given his nephew a chance. After all, he really is a nice guy. I was unsure if the stone I picked up would be heavy enough to do the trick, but apparently, it was. Mr. Harmon will no longer be delivering my mail. And such and things.

THE END