I knew who the old man was. There was something in those black eyes that was all too familiar. Those black eyes retained the same cold anger that they had the night of the murder.










I was just a kid then. It was night in my family’s apartment. I saw my sister walking out the door and I was curious as to where she was going. I vaguely remember being annoyed that the elevator had closed. Then came the screams. The screams wouldn’t stop. Soon I couldn’t differentiate between her screams and mine. Then everything was quiet. I swear someone could have heard me panting from a mile away. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t speak. I was completely frozen. Then the door opened. And there he was. With those black eyes, full of hate.

No one in the family ever mentioned my sister after her funeral. We pretended that she’d never existed. I remember the day of her funeral, I swore I’d get vengeance, no matter what form it took. I used to visit her grave whenever I was feeling lonely. My older brother used to come. Then one night he stopped coming. He said it was too painful for him. But I knew better than that. He was becoming like everyone else. But I wouldn’t forget. I’d never forget.


One day I felt something tugging at my conscience. I went for a walk to clear my mind. A few minutes later I found myself in front of the elevator. I really wanted to ride in it. I reluctantly stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. I turned around and saw the man. There he was. I had to get him to come into my house, where I would have the pleasure of murdering him. We made small talk, and I made a good impression on him. I offered to have him over for tea. He said that would be charming.






I was so glad that it had gone well that I practically skipped to the local pharmacy. I bought a cheap camera. Reliving this man's murder wouldn't be enough. I wanted a video of it. My next puzzle was what to kill him with. I wanted something tortuous, but clean enough that there wouldn’t be blood on the floor. “I’ll strangle him”, I thought. With my hands. No tools needed. Minimal evidence.
That Thursday evening, I was preparing my house for the visitor. I had the camera in a little plant by the door. I was more nervous about the murder being perfect than the slaying itself. There was a knock on the door, and there he was! The most important person in my life at the moment. We sat down at my little living room table and made small talk. Eventually he started rambling on about his childhood or something like that; I was too nervous to process what he was saying.

When the conversation reached a lull, I knew it was time. I said, “Sir, would you like to see the lovely gardens a block from here?





“Yes, that would be wonderful.” And I made to walk him to the door. And I creeped up behind him, put my hands in the air around his neck, and then squeezed. I pushed him to the ground and kept choking him. His black eyes looked into mine, and I could tell he was remembering the same thing as I was. He turned purple and started to struggle while I tightened my grip. Then he just stopped trying to breath.











I shoved him into a laundry basket and completely covered him with clothes and towels. Then I walked across the street as if I were simply on my way to the laundromat. Then I saw the park I was looking for. I knew the area well. All I had to do was walk through the woods a little ways and I’d find a lonely little creek. It leads into the ocean after a while; hopefully his flesh would be eaten by a catfish after rotting a while. I looked around. There was no way anyone could be here, but having just killed a man makes you slightly paranoid. I pulled out his head. Then I made sure he wasn’t breathing. I laid him in the water, gave him a little push, and watched him float away.