The KillerThe KillerThe gun lay smoking beside the body. A stifling smell of cordite had filled the room. I just wanted to get out. The doors, the walls, the windows... they just seemed intent on imprisoning me. I wanted to scream but my lungs wouldn't fill. I panicked. I know I must have fainted. Only a few minutes at most, because that smell still lingered. It was then I looked down. The body. The dead body. A single hole in the right temple. And of the left... not much remained. The gun was still beside me. I tried to kick it, but missed. I tried again. Eventually I gave up.
I couldn't believe it. Any of it. I'd never done anything like this. I was never really Mr Perfect. I sometimes lost my temper. Don't we all. But killing... It's just something you never even conceive as being possible. Perhaps it was him. All really his fault. He provoked me. He made me hate him. He make me kill him.
He drove my wife to someone else. Turned my own mother against me. He singularly despised me, my life, everything about me, my little nuances, foibles. He said they drove him mad inside. Each little thing I did, he said, was purely done to annoy him. He tried to blame it all on me. His failures, saying I should have helped him, made him stronger, instead of just criticising him. But if the truth be known, he brought it all on himself, the debts, the gambling, the drinking. All his own doing. Just because once. One single time, he didn't listen to me. From then on no more advice. No more help. No more Mr Nice Guy.
And now he's dead. No more him. One problem gone. Just the rest still to come. They say at forty life has just begun. At forty my life is over. And this time I can truly blame him. I will never truly be the same. Because he wouldn't leave me alone. He just wanted to ruin my life. Not only that, but live my life. He wanted to be me. And when it came down to it. No-one can live my life, no-one but me. No matter how crazy they are. I just had to stop him. He was slowly killing me, mentally. Persuading me he was the victim. Near the end I almost believed him. It was then I finally flipped. When I knew I could take it so more I got the gun. Surprisingly easy I thought. A psychotic glint in your eye, a wad of notes in your hand and they're queueing up to sell them. But I'm sure They know. Or find out. They do. They always do.
I can hear them coming. They've found me. Somehow. They'll be here soon. God, help me. Please. God, forgive me. He'll never understand, none of them will. He won't even listen to me. It'll be Hell. My life will be Hell. But God, why did you let it happen. Why couldn't you have stopped me, I'd never tried it before. You must understand. Just listen to me. I know schizophrenia is a dirty word up there. Almost as bad as suicide. But believe me. I never meant to kill him. Never meant to kill me.
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