Confessions of The Murderer-Chapter 9
Am I crazy? Maybe. Can you call me lunatic? Probably. Can you say that I killed her? Most certainly.
Does it matter to you why I killed her? It does, though you were in no way related to that woman. That scum was rightly killed. She was aware of her beauty, and was ruthless in taking advantage of it. The woman was a blot on how society should be. How can anybody use something advantageous about them to create havoc like that?
What about the editor, you may ask. What wrong was he doing? I’ll tell you what wrong he was doing. But how can you understand what wrong he was doing. You people are the same ones who were complicit in his crime. You are the same people who were reading that salacious gossip that the newspaper “The Daily Star” was belting out. The trash was absolutely unacceptable; it was crass and vulgar, just like that woman (what was her name? Yeah, Dawn Jones) How could he have done that?
I still remember that night and the rising waters, as me and Maher were struggling to stay afloat. And that son of a bitch was not even to let go of me, even if it were to mean the death of both of us. I was running out of air, and my lungs were filling up with water, as I felt its pressure on the walls of my lungs. Damn him, I was thinking, and was almost ready to die there, when all of a sudden I realized that Maher’s grip was loosening. I was stunned, and almost motionless for a while, even as Maher completely let go of me, and the current carried me away to which place, I cannot recall, for I woke up after a long time, not knowing where I was. But now, I am back.
Do you want to know my name? Does it really matter? Anyways, since you are curious like all other human beings, that human nature is, my name is Stanley. You can just call me Stanley. There is no need for you to go all crazy. Where am I hiding; that would be your next question. I would not like to reveal that to you, else my mission would not be fulfilled. Don’t worry, mon cher. All of you would be impressed to know that I am closer than all of you think. I have already made my appearance, and have also made my presence felt; it’s for you to figure out where. I am trying to hide around, but keeping a track on what Maher and that journalist bitch of his are up to. She is helpful, that Young. She is made of sterner stuff, or knows how to hide her emotions well, for I did not hear any shrieks or gasps when I told her about her beloved boss’ murder. Only silence greeted from me, followed by that oh-so-journalist spirit, which starts to question you even before you realize it. I did not give her time though, just like I gave no time to her editor, who could not even scream when I shot him through his head; somehow screams do not gel well with the daytime, and so I decided that this death should be instant. And so I went into his office, and pumped bullets into his body. How come no one came to know about it? Because no one was around; it was lunch break, you see. People love it whenever they get an excuse to get out of their seats, and disappear, only to appear at a time that they find convenient. This guy was gorging on something he had ordered. What was it? How does it matter, anyway? What matters is that he is dead now, and that I have committed yet another murder.
How come Maher did not recognize me, if I am so close to him? Isn’t that question burning up your souls, you curious cats? I do not look the same. That flood had left me so disfigured that I had to go for a new face. But let me tell you, it was not a happy experience, and this is not some cheap third-grade soap going on here, where the villains get to torment the protagonists. It was a painful experience, all thanks to Maher, for which he will pay in many ways.
Who am I going to murder next? How long will I keep doing this? What will I achieve? Patience, my friends; be patient, for the roots of patience are bitter, but the fruits are sweet. How can I do something like this, without letting Maher know, without giving him any hints whatsoever about what I am up to next? It would be unfair to him, for try as much as he did not to, he did go of me, to give me freedom once again, and as a good human being I have to repay that debt as well. It is just that there is that woman, that Sam Young, who is putting in a spanner in the works, and creating a mess that I do not want. The matter is between me and Maher; why the hell is she dawdling around here? Anyways, we will soon find a use for her, won’t we, dear readers? But Maher has to be careful, for I hold the cards once again, and have the winning hand, so he better play well. All the best, Maher.
I am a crazy lunatic, that’s what your impressions about me, isn’t it? Maybe you are wrong; maybe you are right. Even I am not sure why I am killing people here; its just that I like to see blood stream out of dead bodies.
Does it matter to you why I killed her? It does, though you were in no way related to that woman. That scum was rightly killed. She was aware of her beauty, and was ruthless in taking advantage of it. The woman was a blot on how society should be. How can anybody use something advantageous about them to create havoc like that?
What about the editor, you may ask. What wrong was he doing? I’ll tell you what wrong he was doing. But how can you understand what wrong he was doing. You people are the same ones who were complicit in his crime. You are the same people who were reading that salacious gossip that the newspaper “The Daily Star” was belting out. The trash was absolutely unacceptable; it was crass and vulgar, just like that woman (what was her name? Yeah, Dawn Jones) How could he have done that?
I still remember that night and the rising waters, as me and Maher were struggling to stay afloat. And that son of a bitch was not even to let go of me, even if it were to mean the death of both of us. I was running out of air, and my lungs were filling up with water, as I felt its pressure on the walls of my lungs. Damn him, I was thinking, and was almost ready to die there, when all of a sudden I realized that Maher’s grip was loosening. I was stunned, and almost motionless for a while, even as Maher completely let go of me, and the current carried me away to which place, I cannot recall, for I woke up after a long time, not knowing where I was. But now, I am back.
Do you want to know my name? Does it really matter? Anyways, since you are curious like all other human beings, that human nature is, my name is Stanley. You can just call me Stanley. There is no need for you to go all crazy. Where am I hiding; that would be your next question. I would not like to reveal that to you, else my mission would not be fulfilled. Don’t worry, mon cher. All of you would be impressed to know that I am closer than all of you think. I have already made my appearance, and have also made my presence felt; it’s for you to figure out where. I am trying to hide around, but keeping a track on what Maher and that journalist bitch of his are up to. She is helpful, that Young. She is made of sterner stuff, or knows how to hide her emotions well, for I did not hear any shrieks or gasps when I told her about her beloved boss’ murder. Only silence greeted from me, followed by that oh-so-journalist spirit, which starts to question you even before you realize it. I did not give her time though, just like I gave no time to her editor, who could not even scream when I shot him through his head; somehow screams do not gel well with the daytime, and so I decided that this death should be instant. And so I went into his office, and pumped bullets into his body. How come no one came to know about it? Because no one was around; it was lunch break, you see. People love it whenever they get an excuse to get out of their seats, and disappear, only to appear at a time that they find convenient. This guy was gorging on something he had ordered. What was it? How does it matter, anyway? What matters is that he is dead now, and that I have committed yet another murder.
How come Maher did not recognize me, if I am so close to him? Isn’t that question burning up your souls, you curious cats? I do not look the same. That flood had left me so disfigured that I had to go for a new face. But let me tell you, it was not a happy experience, and this is not some cheap third-grade soap going on here, where the villains get to torment the protagonists. It was a painful experience, all thanks to Maher, for which he will pay in many ways.
Who am I going to murder next? How long will I keep doing this? What will I achieve? Patience, my friends; be patient, for the roots of patience are bitter, but the fruits are sweet. How can I do something like this, without letting Maher know, without giving him any hints whatsoever about what I am up to next? It would be unfair to him, for try as much as he did not to, he did go of me, to give me freedom once again, and as a good human being I have to repay that debt as well. It is just that there is that woman, that Sam Young, who is putting in a spanner in the works, and creating a mess that I do not want. The matter is between me and Maher; why the hell is she dawdling around here? Anyways, we will soon find a use for her, won’t we, dear readers? But Maher has to be careful, for I hold the cards once again, and have the winning hand, so he better play well. All the best, Maher.
I am a crazy lunatic, that’s what your impressions about me, isn’t it? Maybe you are wrong; maybe you are right. Even I am not sure why I am killing people here; its just that I like to see blood stream out of dead bodies.
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