Hello. When I was young, I robbed Walmart and ran from an orphanage, my "home" with Ramone, a friend. Another friend was Peter, who was another killer. We harrassed a young girl, our age at the time. Now, she's my closest friend. My name is Jame.
"Breaking news: Missing girl found! The kidnapper left the scene, but we saw a portion of her back. Not much to go on, but we seem to have a clear picture of dark brown hair and spotted arms. If the victim would've survived, we–" I turn off the TV.
"Really? Why does she, of all people, have to be clumsy?" I ask the darkness of the night."I'm bored."
I get off my lazy butt and open the front door as quietly as I can. My roommate, Ty, would not be proud of me. I walk outside. My neighbor is still on the porch. I wave and walk towards my brand new Chevrolet Avalanche.
When I turn on the radio,"Bad Boys" comes on. Perfect. I keep thinking what I'll do if they come for me. Again. I've been doing this since kindergarten. I got this. But what if they do find me? What if they interrogate me? And banish me, or hang me, or torture me?! Enough! I can't think about that before what I'm about to do. I need a clear, calm mind. I check the clock on my dashboard. 1:36. Perfect.
As I approach a big, two-story house, I slow down. I get out of my truck and walk to the door. Now for the first hard part. Everyone has an extra key.
Right?
It's not under the rug, on the pillar, under the swing cushions, anything. As I turn around to go back home, I see the key. Not literally. There's a cop car in front of a garage. If only they would've parked in the garage, I would've fled. Some people just want me to kill them! I love my job. Cops always do smart stuff. I gently lift the top of a plant. Ta–da! The key! I win.
It takes me a minute to unlock it in the dark. Doesn't anyone turn on their outside lights anymore?! I walk inside and look down. I realize the floor is wood, so I walk slower.
"Oh, shit," I mumble. I put my mask on. It's moments like these that make me wish doors were labeled. On the first try, I get lucky. I'm a big guy, so this job is meant for me. My luck doesn't last long. A girl walks out of the bathroom and gets a .22 out of a drawer.
I leap for her head. She cocks the gun as soon as my arms wrap around her. I grab her gun with one hand, the other on her mouth. It's easy to unarm. I drop it. She struggles, but gets a leg through. Oops. She kicks me in the wrong spot. I unwillingly drop her. Good thing I have experience. I grab my knife out of my back pocket and grab her foot before she gets to the bed. I drag her downstairs.
"Let me go," she growls when at the bottom of the stairs.
"No thanks. Thanks for asking, though." I cover her mouth again. Now that we're on the ground, it's easier to hold her down. My legs hold hers, so she can't kick me again. I press my knife to her throat."You were actually a challenge! I'm proud. My other victims just let me kill them. I like the ones that play hard to get." I press harder, and her eyes lose life. I close her eyelids and start to get up. When I do, the man shoots me in the shoulder. I pretend to pass out, and he takes the girl out. I leave to go home, but I have to fight to stay awake.
When I hear the car leave, I get up and limp toward the door. I can't move my right arm. He did a good job. He was silent. Why would he let me knock his wife out, though? That's the only thing I don't get. I open the door and continue my journey to my truck. It seems like it takes hours, but I know it's only a couple of seconds. This has happened to me before. Yesterday, actually.
"Ty is gonna kill me if I survive this," I say before I fall in front of my truck.
I use the step to get back up, then open the door and climb inside. As soon as I do, I let out a loud sigh. I let out a scream when I try to drive. Whatever that was, it wasn't a normal bullet. I'm not bleeding as much as I should be. I finally get the courage to drive off.
Thankfully, my neighbor is gone when I get back. Getting out is harder than getting in. I trip on a rock and fall face-first into our brick wall. I get back up and pry the door open with the knife I used on that girl's neck. I don't have time for this.
When I get inside the house, I trip again, but this time I catch myself.
Wrong arm.
I stifle another scream. The couch looks comfortable. For a couple seconds, I sit and inspect my shoulder. For those couple seconds, I regret everything. I finally decide I need Ty to fix my shoulder.
