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Memoir of a Serial Killer

By David T. Bosquez All Rights Reserved ©

Thriller / Drama

Moving Day

Everything was cold and quiet. I lay there on the tiled floor, staring at the ceiling, and in a few minutes... I would be dead. 

That is a terrible way to start a story, I know, but hey, no one asked you. You ever stared down the barrel of an AR-15, knowing at any second the person on the other end could pull the trigger? Known that you were a flash of gunpowder away from being put to eternal rest? Probably not, so let's cut to the chase here. My name is Fredrick Draper, and I am a serial killer; or so they claim I am. Actually, I have never killed anyone in my life. 
It started back in April, when my whole life, my whole existence, seemed to be going to shit. I didn't exactly expect anything to turn around, so I decided to take up my friend Alex's offer to smoke a bowl with him in my apartment. So who shows up just as I am about to take the first hit? My landlord. Mr. Marcus Ronald Hamon, a bigger asshole than any you had ever seen. He had money, which is what made him seem the kind of prick who'd rather spit in your face than let you slide on rent for a couple hours to get off work. He was born into money, which made it even worse. 
Anyway, back to my story. This guy waltz's into my living room, announcing a random property inspection, sees me with the bowl in my hand, and gets this big smile on his face. I'm in shock, so I just sit there with this fucking glass bowl of burning weed in my hand, staring at him with my mouth slightly open. He sits down on the chair in front of me, and gets out a pen and a little pad and starts scribbling away at it. It was his way of trying to intimidate his tenants, and believe me when I tell you it worked. He once coerced the old lady across the hall out of an additional months rent just by drawing a few smiley faces on that pad, smiling, and then putting it back in his pocket. You never know what he is actually writing, so you'll either have to give him what he wants, or end up getting the boot from your home. 
"Well, Frank..." He began, wiping his smiling face with his pen hand. 
"It's Fred." I corrected him. His smile faded.
"Whatever. I'm not here for your name."
"Look, I..."
"Shut up!" He cut me off. His face turning a vicious shade of red. "You have the audacity to sit here, holding that," he pointed to the bowl, "and pretend like there's not an issue at the present moment."
"It's been a long week and..." I began, only to be cut off again. 
"It's been a long week and..." He mocked me. He paused for effect, then continued, "and what, Fred? And what?"
I sat in silence. I had no 'and' for him. AND FUCK YOU! My mind was screaming for me to reply, but my body wouldn't let me. I'll be honest, when it comes to confrontation, I am a bit of a coward. I don't like to be at the front of anything, let alone the center of an argument. He suddenly stood up, turned, and began to walk back toward the door. 
"I'll expect you out by next week." His voice low and menacing. I listened as the door opened and shut. Alex got up from the recliner beside my love-seat and waked to the narrow walkway that lead to the door.
"Good. He's really gone." He said, attempting to reassure me. 
"Sit your paranoid ass down!" I commanded, half laughing at him. Alex was really the most sharp tool in the shed, but he still was trustworthy. I think that is why I kept him around. Fuck it! I thought to myself. Just a chance for me to get out of the piece of shit roach hotel and get somewhere better. After five years of living here, eventually you get tired of being treated like you are less than nothing. Frankly, when it came down to it, I was waiting for an opportunity to move. Here it was. Why should I be worried about it now. 
We finished the bowl, and Alex left, leaving me to start packing my belongings. I didn't have much though, being a single bachelor of 34, I didn't have dishes. Most of my meals consisted of generic brand soda or a beer, microwaved t.v. dinner, and cigarette after. Not too bad, considering the job I was working. Most of my clothes fit into a garbage bag, and my work suits were folded neatly into a suitcase. Bed linens also went in with the clothes, and my furniture couldn't be dealt with until I called the movers in the morning to set up an appointment. I just left the game system and t.v. plugged in until I moved. 
Sunday came quicker than expected, but I was ready to move. The movers showed up right on time, and we were done and in the van in less than an hour. Like I said, not much to pack. They drove me down to a storage unit, my dad awaited us there as impatiently as you could possibly be. It took us about ten minutes, but he swore it took us "No less than 45 fuckin' minute!" Good ol', dad! The movers chucked my belongings into the unit, breaking a leg on my couch and nearly dropped my t.v., then hopped back in the van to leave. Ironically, one of the guys last names was Plonk. Go figure. 
"So what did you do this time?" Dad asked as we pulled away from the storage lot. 
"Got caught smoking weed." I answered. There was no reason in lying to him. He already thought I was a complete failure now anyway, so impressing him was the least of my worries. He scoffed and shook his head.
"Are you shittin' me?"
"Nope. He walked in before I even hit it once."
"No, you idiot. You're 34 years old. What the hell are you doing smoking weed for?"
"Look, it was a long week and..."
"And what, Fred!" He interrupted me. 
I didn't have an 'and' for him. I never did actually. Not for anyone. Especially dick heads like Dad and Marcus. We rode in silence for about three hours before we pulled into the driveway. 
Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, David T. Bosquez
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