Comedy Of Terror

I’d been thinking for a while of committing a murder. In terms of a visceral experience, it seemed to me that there was very little to compare to the act of killing a person. I’d read so much about it, so many examples of ordinary people taking an extraordinary step. Perhaps they weren’t so ordinary to begin with. Certainly they’re never presented as ordinary after the fact. Vicious maybe, or cold-blooded or calculating. But it had always occurred to me that this was only apparent due to the fact that they had committed a murder. Were they ordinary before? Was I?

I am certainly not a violent or angry person. I never have been. I’m quiet and reserved. I speak very softly. But I have had friends, and girlfriends. People who liked me, knew me, considered me rational and predictable. There’s never been any reason for anyone to think me otherwise. Only this, this only. You must remember that before you trample me.

I’d been thinking about it, yes, but all of that happens in the realm of fantasy. I used the idea to help me get to sleep for many years. I would visualise myself atop a tower, watch people through the scope of a rifle, blast them, strangers all. Like counting sheep, it soothed me. Sent me right off.

I couldn’t tell you the point at which the idea tipped into reality. I had been feeling lonely for some time. People can fade away so easily, and so I would stay at home, my face glowing blue and eyes aching. And then sleep would not come, no matter who or how many I counted.

So maybe that’s how my thoughts took a more serious shape. But there’s still leap to be made if one is actually going to commit the act. Practicalities, after all, ensure that the prospect of murdering someone remains fantastical. How would one go about it, for example? I had only ever fantasised about using a gun, and once I allowed myself to think seriously, I was focused entirely on this idea, for a number of reasons.

First, the distance. In fact, my obsession with shooting someone reassured me a little that these creeping, these dark and creeping thoughts, were just little fantasies of mine, because shooting someone, even if only in thought, maintains a certain clean distance. No blood on my hands. Second, the speed. The moment the trigger is pulled, the decision is made. No chance to recoil in horror. And a swift death.

But I had no gun, and had no way of getting one, for which I am sorry. I think my reasons for wanting a gun were sound.

More important than this, however, who to choose? I had no reason to murder anyone, no one whose life I desired to end and no one whom I wished dead. In fact, everyone I knew I hoped would stay alive. I felt no anger towards anyone who’d left me alone. They had their lives to lead, and I wished them well. In fact I have spent many years angry only at myself for letting them go.

This actually posed a moral problem because, inescapably, whoever died would be known by people, and presumably those people would want them alive rather than murdered. I thought about this a lot. Knowing that so many would be, will be, grieving. And then looking at this and knowing how he suffered makes it worse. I spent many nights wondering whether I’d feel guilt, or whether like some Dorian Gray I’d spin off into life anew, but I did not anticipate what this would feel like. This feels like sickness.

You must understand that I had no way of getting a gun. I would have, if I’d have even known where to begin, but I didn’t.

I thought maybe I could avoid the grief of others by choosing someone as lonely as myself, a homeless man perhaps. It was pure cowardice that warned me away. It was too risky, I thought, too dangerous. They might be strong and drunk and used to violence and fighting and maybe even used to murder. I wanted to be safe, and to survive. Which is funny now, when you think about it. This whole thing has become some sort of frightful comedy of terrors somehow. He has a grin on his face, if you look at him right.

I came to terms with my cowardice, though, and I found someone weak. I console myself that he was old. I’m so weak myself, god knows I’m weak. If I was stronger I may not even have needed to write. But this, you can’t live with this, not with how he cried, or with how he looks now.

I convinced myself I would simply be able to wash my hands. To be like so many who can walk away, and others still who can clean up. I look at him now and I know I can’t clean up. Someone else will have to find him, us, like this. To you, I am truly sorry.

I have not led a happy life. I have been frightened forever, in company and out, while I have loved and laughed and lived alone, always, a lifetime of terror. But I have never been so frightened as I am now. I am scared to die, but it would be worse to live. Worse because I saw that he was scared to die too. I don’t know his name, I’m sorry.

I was a good man for most of my life. You must, you must remember that. You must not judge me on the last thing I did. To my parents, I love you.