"Murray Glastonburg: Inside the Mind of a Psycho" (First) The night resembled a scene from a movie before the villain kills an unsuspecting person
asleep in a house. Only the rustling of leaves and roaming of cats disturbed the quiet
neighborhood. The dim lamppost could barely penetrate the fog, which was so thick that
seeing your hand in front of your face was virtually impossible. On the other hand, light was
not necessary due to the roads being so alone and deserted. Miranda's head nodded to the beat of the music, her stereo blaring rock music into the night.
She did this so frequently, that her parents grew accustomed to the noise and learned to
sleep through an earthquake. The blasts of her speakers enveloped all sounds; the
grandfather clock in the hall chimed at midnight and her pen scratched away at the English
paper that was due the next morning, all of which remained as unnoticed as my footsteps
into the unsuspecting household. No alarm system or pets alerted the family, not that they
would have heard anything. So as I quietly approached Miranda, whose back faced the
door and head tilted down to her paper and faced a blinded window, with the can lid I stole
from a restaurant's trash bin, no one knew I was there. When I grabbed her so quickly that
she could not struggle, and the lid sliced through her skin letting her warm blood spill over
my already wounded hand protected by a long leather glove, no human being heard her
short, blood-curling scream. Then her body fell to the floor, the round piece of metal still
sticking out of her throat, and I left as invisibly as I came. The following morning, Miranda's whole neighborhood heard the shrieks upon the discovery of
her murder. The police informed the media that they could only determine the killer was an
Vadult male who possessed or worked with dogs. I laughed at this news report as I passed
by a electronic store's window. It's a good thing that I shaved my hair last night before
visiting the pound. I also have to thank their sleeping security guard for his boots. Hm, I
guess all my aunts were right when they said, "Oh you grow up so fast!" since even those
highly trained police officers think I'm an "adult male." Then again, all the clothes I took from
Salvation Army were in the men's area. Smiling at that thought, I continued to stroll down the
sunny sidewalk, ball-cap shading my baldhead and ragged clothes without a speck of
blood upon them. A few minutes later, I arrived at my new home. I paused to glance at the ruins of an abandoned
hotel that could hardly stand on its concrete foundation. It reminded me of a car's tough
windshield that somehow held millions of shattered pieces together after a runaway
baseball smashed into it. Gray paint chipped off the wood-board covering, jagged bits of
green-tinted glass outlined the old windows, and the day's cool breeze passed through
them, forcing the hotel's rickety doors inside to creak as they hung on rusty hinges. Home,
sweet home. I whistled past the cobwebbed lobby, through the deserted cafeteria, and past the rows of
stoves and ovens in the kitchen to a door marked MAINTENANCE. As soon as I opened
the door, I inhaled the odor of smoke that rose up the concrete stairs. I made my way to the
furnace, unlocked its small but heavy, steel door, and began to undress. I tossed the just
used jeans and T-shirt on the pile of donated clothes before peering into the flames of the
furnace. My bloodied pants and oxford shirt from the previous night burned in there with the
security guard's boots, my shaved hair, and the stained gloves. Over their ashes did I throw
the khaki jacket I wore for the past hour, not to help conceal my identity, but the color did not
match my skin. Staring into the fire, sweat trickled down my forehead by my eye and
Alexandra's voice faintly chimed in my ears. Don't wear anything that you think doesn't look
good on you, Murray. You can wear whatever you want. You can do whatever you want.
No one but God can stop you, and whatever you choose to do, I will be proud of you. The
salty droplet passed my strained eyes onto my cheek, and I shook my head before tears
could form. I slammed the metal grate over the inferno and began to plan for the next
night.Continue: Part 1: "Murray Glastonburg...the...Psycho" Part 2: Voice Part 3: Another *Note: I am not sure whether or not I should make Part 2a the second chapter and Part 2b the third chapter now, due to
the material I composed recently. A decision will be made upon by a consensus of comments by the story's readers.
No copying allowed. All places and characters in this story are purely fictional. Any relation to them is purely coincidental. Isn't this a purely annoying statement?