Try, Try, and Try Again

Nov 27 – 2:45 a.m.

I’m starting this journal because every villain has their origin story, and I want mine to be in my own words, from my perspective. Granted, I’m not super yet, but I am a villain… aren’t I? Leave it to Mrs. Ellison to slip and fall in the bathtub, robbing me of my first victim. Who dies from a slip and fall? Old bat should’ve been taking Boniva—or, and this is just an idea, get a walk-in shower! I know she did this just to spite me: she’s seen me following her and casing her house. She was halfway dead anyway, just didn’t want to give me the satisfaction. Three weeks of planning down the drain. How petty can you be?

Not to worry. I’ve already found my next victim—a big loser with no one to check in on him. He seems to have the same mundane schedule, perfect for following. Just tried out my maniacal laugh and started choking on my own spit. Need to practice that, for sure.

Dec 15 – 12:30 p.m.

I’m just waking up. After the night I had, I needed six cold ones, and I ended up passed out on the couch. So, I’m following this guy, Ray—the slob I mentioned last time—and everything’s pretty much going how it always goes for him. Then the guy goes to Old Grammar School Park; apparently on a new health kick or something. Kind of ironic that he decides to change his life when I’m planning to take it.

I start thinking: it’s late, literally no one is around, and it’s going to be freezing tonight so the body will be pristine when they find it. I’ll finally start being put on the map with all the greats—Dahmer, Bundy, cancer. I instantly ditch my byzantine plans and decide to just go for it. I grabbed my knife, my balaclava, and my stun gun, then I start making my move.

This guy is jogging around the track, and honestly, he’s really pushing himself. For such a big man, he’s moving pretty fast. I take off my shoes so I can run behind him without making too much noise. It’s so peaceful, the moonlight reflecting beautifully off the fountain, and the melodic sounds of the water splashing back into the very expensive bird bath. I almost forget I’m trying to kill a guy. Anyway, I’m gaining on him and once I get close enough to see his back rolls sweating, I pull out my taser and pick up speed.

All of a sudden, the dude falls, and I swerve into a nearby bush. I instantly know I messed up—should’ve taken advantage of the moment and slit his throat while he was down. But I was so startled by the suddenness, my body went into flight, not fight. Peeking out, trying to see what’s going on, I see him lying there, clutching the left side of his chest, staring up at the night sky.

Oh, he must be having a heart attack. Let me make my move, I tell myself. This being my first kill, I’ll admit I hesitated longer than I needed to. Once I get over the nervousness, I jump out of the bushes, pull out my knife, and jump on top of him—but there’s no fight. No struggle. No breathing. This man dies of a heart attack right in front of me.

What… the hell!? I should’ve stabbed him just because, but I just left it alone. What is the point of doing that? No recognition if the guy just keels over. Yes, I thought about the fact that the heart attack may have been due to the panic of hearing my footsteps. But after my first beer, I had to accept the truth: my second “victim” just died on me. Again—WHAT THE HELL!?

If I was a quitter, I would’ve resigned from the lifestyle right then and there. But I haven’t even had my first body yet—I can’t give up now. When I was at the gas station picking up my beers last night, I bumped into Kim from accounting. We used to be so close. She and her recently deceased husband even threw a small party for my birthday. While he was actively dying from… whatever the hell, he even asked me to check on her sometimes, letting me know they keep a spare key in their abandoned doghouse.

She’ll be perfect to make my dreams a reality, and I don’t have to plan much. Next time I write in this journal, I’ll have moved on from fan to killer. Then only one more person and I’ll be serial! I have renewed faith that I’ll be the greatest in history. (Definitely have to work on my evil laugh, kind of ruins the moment when I start coughing my lungs out.)

Dec 20 – 8:30 p.m.

Ugh, I’m disgusted. Truly and utterly disgusted. I don't know who to be mad at: myself, this broad, or the universe. I drove 15 minutes to Kim’s house, parked in the alley about 10 houses down, and made my way to her backyard. I opened the gate mindfully, demurely, and felt around until I found the key in the dilapidated blue doghouse. Funny—I’ve known Kim and her husband over 10 years, even remember seeing him build the doghouse, but I’ve never seen a dog. Great for me, but curious indeed.

Looking through the downstairs window, I saw her seated at her small but fancy glass table. Her black hair with the silver patch in front was pulled back into a sensible bun, her golden skin glowing against the red flowy dress draped across her curves just right. This was supposed to be just about killing, but in this moment, other things were on my mind.

Perhaps she’d be happy to see me, invite me in, and who knows where things would lead. I shook off that thought. Tonight, I’m getting my first kill, damn it. I decided to sneak up behind her at the table, slit her throat, and watch as she bleeds out. Maybe I’d finish her plate—Kim’s always been a good cook. Is it crazy that I take the time to finish my thoughts before I make a move? I caught myself saying a lot of this out loud, snapping back to reality and making sure no neighbors saw me.

At the side door leading to the garage, I tried the key. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. Then I remembered seeing Kim’s husband jiggle the key in the front door once—success. The door to the house was unlocked. Creeping into the dimly lit kitchen, I saw Kim sitting at the table, shoulders moving up and down. Was she crying because her husband died? Laughing at the insurance payout? I’ll never know, I thought.

The closer I got, the more those shoulder movements looked like choking. I ran to the other side of the table and wouldn’t you know it—the bitch was choking. I threw my hands up in disbelief. Not again, Lord! (Whoa, not the time to call His name.) Her eyes were screaming for help.

Now, things got interesting. Do I help her and become her knight in shining armor? Or… do I pretend to help, then stab her in the neck and watch her figure out whether to leave it or take it out? As I stood there laughing at the thought, I noticed the silence—no gasps, no clinking utensils. Snapping back, I saw her lying face down in her chicken corn chowder.

I lifted her head by her hair. Dead. I feel so defeated. Maybe I can still claim this one. I could’ve saved her but didn’t—so one could say I caused her death? I sighed and headed back to the alley. That’s when I noticed one of the neighbors returning home, greeted by her boyfriend—definitely can’t do anything now. But she had ice skates in her hands.

There’s only one rink open at this hour. Cold as it is, probably deserted. Maybe there’s hope after all. House number 1268—you’re about to have a silent visitor. My sinister laugh is getting better, but this cough is ridiculous. Maybe I’m coming down with a cold…

Jan 8 – 10:30 p.m.

I’ve been following the girl from house 1268 since the day I laid eyes on her. Saw her and her boyfriend celebrate Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas; people constantly in and out. Not once did she venture off alone—until tonight. At 9:45 p.m., ice skates in hand, she left the house. This was go time.

I drove to Worthington Rink. Perfect: cold, beautiful, deserted. Samantha (I call her Samantha because of her blazing red hair) was already skating. Clearly seasoned, graceful, mesmerizing. She spun faster and faster, then dropped into a squat, one leg straight out. God bless her ankles.

Then it happened—her skate flew off, hit the protective glass, and bounced off. As she skated over to retrieve it, the blade flew right towards her and sliced straight across her neck. Blood everywhere.

I stopped in my tracks. This must be a cosmic joke. Why do all my victims keep dying without me? Why am I always witnessing it? The Ice Patrol arrived; I had to get out. This cough is going to blow my cover…

Jan 24 – 1:17 a.m.

Today’s the day. I’m getting my first kill. A new tenant just moved across the street—young, alone, scrawny. Earbuds in all day. Perfect. I’m still outside his apartment. Looking up at the fire escape felt like looking at the stairway to heaven. My destiny is up there, I thought while climbing up here. Just this damn cough… feels like it’s going to be the death of—

Incident Report — Accidental Death

Case No.: 25-1184

Date/Time: January 24, 02:12 hours

Location: Rear fire escape, 442 West Hensley Street

Summary of Incident

Responding officers arrived on scene after multiple calls reporting a fall from the rear fire escape of 442 West Hensley Street. The decedent, Courtney, female, mid-30s, was pronounced dead at the scene from massive blunt-force trauma. Witnesses reported hearing a severe coughing fit immediately before the fall. The victim was found lying on the pavement beneath a partially collapsed section of the fire escape.

Preliminary review shows the decedent was known casually around the neighborhood and had previously been seen visiting multiple area residents. A partial footprint found near the Old Grammar School Park (Dec 15th accidental death) may have matched her shoe size; no evidence of wrongdoing was found, and it is possible she attempted to assist before leaving in shock. Her fingerprints were confirmed on door handles at the Robertson residence (Dec 20th accidental death), which neighbors state was due to prior social visits. Ice patrol from the municipal rink reported seeing a woman matching her description near the scene of the Vance accident (Jan 8th), though the observation could not be verified.

Witness Statements

Mrs. Dolores Keene, Apt. 2B: Heard “violent coughing, like she couldn’t catch her breath,” followed by a metallic crash.

Mr. Terry Vaughn, passerby: Saw “a woman leaning too far forward, like she was trying to look in someone’s window and writing in a notebook,” then falling headfirst.

Ms. Marla Sykes, Apt. 3C: Denied knowing the decedent personally but recalled “seeing her around, always coughing into her coat.”

Conclusion

Investigators determined the death to be accidental, caused by a loss of balance during a coughing episode. No evidence of foul play or suicidal intent was identified. No evidence of notebook reported by witness, possibly blown away due to windy winter conditions. While the decedent appeared coincidentally present or acquainted with several individuals who suffered recent accidental deaths, no criminal nexus exists. The case is closed pending coroner’s final report.