Sleep Walker

May contain graphic material. Includes death, violence, gore and mental illness.

My name is Hank Hudson and in 1993, I maliciously murdered my seventeen-year-old neighbor, Marcy Ford. I currently reside at the Gilridge Penitentiary for Men. I was twelve when Marcy and her brother, Robert moved in. It was summer. Sweltering. Grape popsicle weather. I could see the U-Haul pulling up next door. I was in a kitty pool in my garage.

There, hopping out of the passenger side of the U-Haul, was Marcy Ford. She was tall, thin, her sun kissed legs, long and toned. Her shiny brown hair hung at the small of her back. Her breasts, that barely filled her tiny white crop top, bounced as she skipped across the front lawn. I was entranced by her beauty.

I was shy back then, so I studied Robert for several days before finally approaching him. Robert was twelve, like me, but less nerdy. He wore the coolest rock band t-shirts that I had ever seen. I hoped to become his friend so I could stay over and maybe catch a glimpse of Marcy in her tiny panties.

"I'm Hank." That's all I had the courage to say to him. Robert stood at his front door, puzzled. When I reached my house, I about knocked the door down trying to get inside. I rushed to close it, then crawled to the large picture window that overlooked our front yards. I held my breath until I peeked out the window. Realizing Robert had gone back inside, I let myself breathe again.

The following day, when I took the trash out (that was my chore), Robert threw a basketball in my direction. 

"Heads up!" He shouted. I never saw the ball coming, it bounced right off of my head, nearly stunned me. "I'm Robert. Wanna play ball?" And that's how our friendship began.

We played all summer in the woods behind our houses. Riding bikes, building forts, swimming in the creek, climbing giant oak trees. And as long as we were home before the streetlights came on, we wouldn't face our parent's wrath. A few summers after I met Robert, that all changed.

The afternoon before Marcy died, Robert said some very terrifying things about Marcy. 

"I saw her watching me again last night." He said, as he picked at the grass beside him. I raised my head from my towel. I had been drying out in the sun after swimming alone.

"What do you mean? Watching you?"

"She stands in the hallway, just outside of my bedroom, and watches me when she thinks I'm sleeping. So, last night I called her name and told her to go away and when she turned to leave, it sounded like she said she wanted to eat me. I must've fell back asleep, but when I woke up this morning, I was covered with these bruises." 

Robert lifted his faded Nirvana t-shirt, revealing his black and blue chest. I was in shock and unable to find encouraging words. I said nothing. Shortly after, we walked home, said our goodbyes, and went our separate ways. That was the last time we ever spoke or played together.

I don't remember waking up the next morning, walking to Robert and Marcy's, opening their garage door, and standing in their kitchen. I can't recall choosing the largest butcher knife from the wooden block on the countertop, heading down the hallway and into Marcy's bedroom. I can't tell you what her face looked like when she woke up, the cool blade of the knife pressed firmly, against her carotid arteries. And I don't know how all that blood sprayed onto the lavender walls, seeped into her plush mattress, staining the white carpet as it dripped down the bedposts. I don't even remember hearing her toy poodle, Scrappy, barking like a maniac, as I slaughtered Marcy.

When the police arrived, I was standing by the creek wearing nothing but my tighty- whities, covered head to toe in Marcy's blood. I held the handle of the knife in my hand. The blade was later recovered by the medical examiner, deep inside Marcy's rib cage.

When Officers placed me into the back of the patrol car, the media claimed to have heard me say, "she was going to eat us all." My Mother told me they aired that part for weeks.

"On the way to the Sheriff's Office," Officers wrote in a report, "Juvenile H.H was licking the victim's blood from between his fingers and underneath his nails."

Again, I can not recall any of this.

What I do remember, however, is the day I officially met Alex. He's my other half, my friend, my foe, my confidant. Alex has been with me, ever since I was seven. Unbeknownst to me, he was the one who taught me how to play hiding seek, tag, red light green light, and simon says. I didn't really know of him then, but I know all about him now, all thanks to Dr. Russell. I see the Doc every Tuesday and Friday, following afternoon chow. He sometimes brings us a turkey club, Alex's favorite, not mine.

Alex is someone I've chose to keep in my life. He's made some bad decisions, but it's something I'm use to. I've always been blamed for his actions. Like the time he got caught looking up Mrs. Taylor's dress in art class. Or the time he snuck into the girls' locker room and stole Nancy's training bra. Then there was the time he took Kim's diary and made copies of every page, distributing her darkest secrets to every student in our junior high school.

I think I spent half of eighth grade in detention because of Alex, but he never left my side. Now looking back, I regret nothing because at least he's never abandoned me like Robert did.

The pen isn't too bad. Alex and I have a private rack. We eat three hot meals a day. I enjoy Taco Tuesday in the chow hall, Alex, on the other hand, likes Meatloaf Monday. We shower when we want to, except for when the Officers shout for lights out. Alex orders Irish Spring soap from commissary. Alex enjoys showers, though I don't. The Doc says I associate showers with rinsing Marcy's blood off for the first time. The reason why, isn't important to me. All I know is I'd rather only shower once or twice a week.

Alex tells me, we are being released real soon. He's been dating Warden Montgomery. He doesn't know it, but she's married. I've seen pictures of her and her husband when I've cleaned her office. I'm the evening janitor in this joint. Honestly, I think Alex is delusional.

Last night, I had an awful dream. I was standing in the Warden's office. There's a large mirror behind her desk. I happened to glance into it. Alex stared back at me, an evil smile on his face.

I woke up in my cell, my Bible in my hand. I opened it to the back where I keep Marcy's obituary taped to the leather cover. I read that obituary everyday. It brings me comfort.

It reads:

Marcy Ford, age seventeen, passed away suddenly on July 16, 1993. Marcy attended Hallow Heights Highschool, where she cheered for the Bears. She was also lead violinist for the band and a member of the drama club. Marcy was an excellent student, daughter, granddaughter, and friend. Marcy is preceded in death by her Uncle Paul Ford and her Grandmother Betty Yields. She is survived by her Father and Mother, Dean and Phyllis Ford, her Aunt Lucy Ford, and Grandparents Clark Yield, and Dalton and Sandra Ford. Marcy was the only child.

Well, I guess I'll hit the hay until an Officer wakes me for my janitorial duties. I hope the Warden isn't pulling another late night, because I'd hate for Alex to be right and he have her bust us out of here. This is, after all, our home. There aren't any U-Hauls pulling up to carry anyone's possessions away, just a black horse that brings the lonely souls of the condemned to their final resting place.