In the plot next to my home, new neighbors are building a house. The workers said they’d be pouring the foundation tomorrow. How convenient, except I know it’s no coincidence. It’s all planned. This is where they want me to put the knife. The ground is flattened, wood lines the rectangle where they want to pour the concrete.

I hop down. They aren’t getting a basement, so it’s not far. Digging into the dirt, I carefully place the bloody knife only a few centimeters deep. They won’t want to find it. Helping me get away with this is part of the story, I’m sure of it. I shovel the loose dirt back on top of it and flatten it with my hands. Like new. Tomorrow, they’ll make sure it’s never found.

When I climb out of the building site again, my feelings are mixed. Did they know I’d love this? Did they expect me to despair? Is this to be the grand conclusion to some arc that sends me to prison? They wouldn’t have prepped this construction site if they wanted that.

I unroll my old coat and fish for my keys, unlocking the front door. A quick shower rinses off the rest of the blood. Do they have cameras in here? Are people seeing my privates every single day? Would that be worse than filming murder, real or not? I search the entire bathroom but find nothing.

Head spinning, I lie down in my bed. No obvious cameras in here either. Tomorrow, after work, I’ll turn the house on its head.

The next morning is as usual. I keep expecting to find cameras, but there are none. They must be microscopic. Cameras in my mirrors. Cameras in my lamps. Cameras in my cereal.

The job they have me working since spring—this is the job they want me to have, that’s why they had my old boss fire me—is mind-numbing, until a colleague jumps up from her cubicle with a gasp. “They found a corpse near the train station!”

Soon, half the office has clustered around her, all staring at her screen that shouldn’t be showing a news site while she’s working. “That’s only two minutes away from here,” another colleague says. It’s all performative. They want to get a rise out of me. I take a call, because I won’t be playing their game.

The chatter continues. People are wondering if the perpetrator has been caught yet or if anyone has seen them. There won’t be any evidence because it’s all been set up specifically for me. A warmth settles in my stomach at the knowledge that nothing will happen to me. At the same time, I’m sick from anger that everything is a lie.

The next day is more of the same. Lunchtime discussions about the murder. They still don’t have a suspect. Everyone is talking about this. There aren’t many murders in my city. My colleagues simply won’t shut up about this.

The neighbors have poured their foundation and that knife is gone for good. The bloody coat has been picked up together with my general waste by the rubbish collection service. The timing for that was near perfect as well to save me from worrying about having all that genetic material waiting in my house.

Towards the end of the week, the topic slows down. People still talk about it, but their attention has shifted. They must be exhausted, trying to get a rise out of me day in and day out. Even actors aren’t perfect machines. Still, I commend them. Somehow, every few hours, one of them manages to mention the murder at least as an off-hand comment.

On Friday, I spot a casket in the cemetery on my way from work. There aren’t many people around it. I immediately know who’s in there. Of course, they’d stage this to happen at the end of my work day.

Weighing annoyance at these people controlling my life against morbid curiosity, I head over there. When are we finally done with this particular chapter of the story? When will they give me the next person to kill? Is this going to be a serial killer arc? The thought makes me giddy.

The bystanders don’t pay me any attention. It’s strange after days of finally knowing that I am the main character. The casket is closed, but there’s an image of the deceased on a stand next to it to make absolutely sure that I’ll know. Two disappointing wreaths are laying at its foot. Trashy flowers for a trashy druggy. Of course the casket would be closed. Whatever part of me thought these people were rich enough to have me actually kill another human being must have still been high on whatever drugs made me stab her in the first place.

Of course there’s no real human body in there, because the lady was an actor and she didn’t actually die. This new certainty makes something within me snap. I close the distance to the coffin in a rage, brushing past a sniffling lady that looks eerily similar to the woman I “killed”, maybe her sister, maybe the same actress.

Someone shouts something at me and the priest pauses whatever he was saying to eye me with alarm. They don’t react in time, because they don’t expect this sort of behavior in a civilized society. But none of this is civilized. This show they’re producing is barbaric. The way they made me feel, that ecstasy, all a trick. They’ll never let me feel like that again.

This coffin is an eyesore. This coffin. This coffin. This coffin. This coffin. This coffin.

I rip open the coffin to expose the scam, and I’m face to face with her. Miss Meth-Head looks like she went to a beauty spa. Her face is all done up, and she’s wearing a dress she could never afford. It’s a trick. She’s an actor. They knew I’d do this. They know every little thing about me because they’ve been filming me all my life. Of course, they’d know.

In my fury, I grab her by the front of her dress and give it a yank. “Stop this shit!” I yell at her. “I’m done with you people!” Someone grabs my right arm to pull me away. People are shouting. Another person is tackling me to the ground. We take the stand with her picture down with us. “You're not fooling anybody! I know none of this is real!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but they’re good actors, and they keep acting like I’m some sort of lunatic.

I struggle against the man holding me in place. They might have the upper hand for now, but I’ll bring them down. I’ll bring their whole fucking show down. If it’s the last thing I do.