To me he is like a son, he is the one to give me water when I am dehydrated, he is the one to organize my inventory of books, he is my only one left, he is the only one that cares for me. He does not care about my gold and treasure; he does not simulate his affection for me. He is simply just concerned for me because he appreciates me. But, since about a week ago I have this feeling, this feeling of doubt. Could the man I have treated like a son be betraying me? He no longer offers to help, and when he does help, he does it in a cursory manner. He has grimaced at me as if he was glaring at something gruesome…I feel repulsive.
It’s a quarter to midnight and I am clad in my night- gown, I have cleared my mind as I go to my chamber and fastened my eyes as I lay in my bed. I am about to fall asleep, but I suddenly hear the sound of a minuscule object drop.
“Who is there?” I cry as I spring up in my bed, but no one answers. But, nothing can possibly be there; it’s just but the wind in the chimney or maybe a mouse crossing the floor. It has been silent for so long, but a ray of light like the thread of a spider shot directly to my cataract-infected eye, feelings of fear are electrifying me.
A millisecond after, I have shrieked and he has thrown me to the floor, along with the heavy bed on top of me. The corners and sharp ends of the bed made abrasions on my shoulders, and my endeavor to escape just isn´t enough. I succumb; I can feel my soul leaving my body.
I am witnessing something, something I would of never surmised when alive, my killer was the man I had loved like a son. That man I had treated so well, that man was the one to cease my heartbeat. Gingerly, he moved the bed off of my lifeless body, lifted up three planks from the floor, and buried my shell underneath there.
In the morning, two policemen rang the doorbell, and the murderer has answered and welcomed them in. They said they had derived suspicions when the neighbor informed them they had heard a shriek coming from my house. The killer is letting them search the house on search of clues, and because they have seen nothing they have decided to take a seat and chat. But I am not going to let my murderer win, from heaven and into his mind I am emulating the sound of my heartbeat. He has become pale white, he can hear the horrifying beat, and his heart is rising into his throat. He cannot handle the guilt anymore!
“I did it! I killed the old man! It wasn´t me it was his vulture eye,” he claimed!
His guilt-evoked confession has corroborated my conclusion, the man is simply insane!
