Panic surged from my core to my throat as I frantically looked at everything that was covered in blood. Thoughts of the night before played through my mind, but there was no evidence of what happened after I fell asleep. I wondered who I would call and what I would say to them. My first thought was to call the cops, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d get locked up for killing…Wait. Did I kill someone or something? Maybe there was an accident somewhere and I just tried to help out. My wandering eyes glanced at my hardwood floor to see bloody foot prints leading to my bed.
I hopped out to follow hoping that they would lead me to some answers. Any answers would be good right now. The steps led to the door leading out of my apartment. Quickly I showered to get the blood off and threw my soaked clothes in a black trash bag then I was out the door. I didn’t like where the prints were leading to. The apartment down the hall was that of this older male who hated me. He always complained about how my mail always ended up in his mailbox, and that the music I played was too loud. Honestly, the music was my next door neighbors, but he didn’t believe me.
I remember one day I was coming back in from a run when I accidently bumped into him. The groceries he was carrying were all knocked to the floor. Of course I had helped picked them up and even offered to take them up to his apartment, but he only yelled obscenities at me. From that time on, he scowled and made complaints about me to the landlord. It wasn’t until one day I had come home to find some of my mail opened at my door with a sticky note attached to one of the letters. It was from my physician’s office reminding me that I’m due for some tests to make sure my body wasn’t rejecting my heart. The sticky note read that he hoped I’d die. From that moment on he became an enemy and someone I truly hated.
When I approached his door I found that it was slightly open. Hesitant, I thought twice about whether I should go in or not, but I have to find out what happened. Instead of using my hands I used my shirt to push the door open. It was a weird thing to do in my mind, but something told me to do so.
Mr. Hutchington’s apartment was a messy one. You could tell right away that he had a hording problem, and that his entire apartment was a fire hazard. His living room wasn’t too small, but the stacks of newspaper littered from wall to wall and floor to ceiling made it too claustrophobic. There were different kinds of beer bottles littering the floor as I continued to follow the footprints into his surprisingly clean kitchen. The prints then led me to his bedroom which was also very neat. It is there where I found him lying dead on the floor with a pool of blood surrounding him.
I couldn’t scream in fear of alerting one of the neighbors. I could only stare in horror. Mr. Hutchington was lying dead on the ground with wide eyes and an open mouth. You could see that he was stabbed multiple times by an object that was round in nature. What do I do? I said to myself. There was only one thing to do if I didn’t want to go to jail. I immediately ran to my apartment, making sure that I didn’t alert anyone, and grabbed a mop, some water, and bleach. It was time to clean the evidence of my being there away. God, what have I done?
Previously: A Bad Heart: Part 1