I've done it again. I've wasted my time.This is the umpteenth time, I am floundering about with ideas in my head, splaying on my bed like a bloated corpse on its way down the creek, wallowing in the tart indifference—the very same that I show to the idea of a career—that the world around so casually shows towards me.

But I tell you, it's the futility of my game that traps me here, and not a voluntary imprisonment agreement.

I know for a fact that every fabric of my story has been spun by someone other than me, entirely. Patterns upon patterns—that I see everywhere: on the walls, in the drawers, in action of others, and even in my planned reactions—remind me of that very fact.

It's too late to think any less of it, even if I were to try.

Now, I would never dare try.

I am satisfied with the answers that I have found.

I didn't take forever to write this one and it didn't turn into a novella either \o/

Warning: death, mild gore. This is a horror short story.

The lady has matted, dirty-blond hair swinging in front of her face as she stumbles towards me, bare feet dragging over glass-littered stone. A bit further along the train station, the rest of her people huddle in a clump like sluggish zombies. I always thought they were doing heroin around there, but whatever this woman is on might be worse.

I stumble backwards and into the shade between the old train station and the looming hotel next to it, hoping she wasn’t going for me, but she clumsily switches course. I groan. There’s a fence somewhere behind me.

“Do you, do you have a euro?” She slurs, and I only understand what she wants because I’ve heard that question a billion times around these parts.

“No, sorry. I only carry my card.” My answer doesn’t disturb her. She keeps coming. “Lady, I need you to stay away from me,” I try to reason, maybe only as a pretense so I can feel better about it if I have to get physical in a moment. Miss Meth-Head lurches forward, unperturbed.

I lift my hands in surrender, offering her a reassuring smile as I hug the train station’s wall in an attempt to scoot past her. It was dumb to try to hide in this tiny little space between buildings. A couple of trash cans are helping her block my way out. Then she pounces.

I’m taller and heavier than her, but she’s attacking with drug-addled ferocity and the advantage of surprise. Nails that haven’t seen a clipper in weeks scratch along my cheek and I howl. This could’ve been my eyes. We both go down, slamming into one of the trash cans in the process and spilling its contents across the ground.

I scramble backwards, through the trash, one of my hands erupting into pain as it finds purchase on a piece of glass. I hesitate. If push comes to shove, I can use it to defend myself.

While scanning the ground for a larger shard of glass in the dim light of the moon and kicking at the rabid lady, I spot something even better: a kitchen knife. It’s no huge cleaver, but it’s easier to grip than a shard of glass, and any sane person should fear a stranger swinging around a knife.

My attacker doesn’t care. She’s on me already, hands clawing at my pockets, searching for my wallet or loose cash. A giddy surge of energy sends every nerve in my body on edge. I’m going to stab her. I’ve never stabbed another human in my life.

~~I stab her.~~

I don’t know why anyone would have wanted to throw away this knife. It goes through her flimsy coat like popping a balloon, only meeting resistance against what must be her ribcage. Her struggles only grow more fierce, and now she’s going for the eyes.

I yank on the knife and slash it in front of me to ward her off, hitting her cheek. She screeches, grabbing the wound. Dark blood seeps through her fingers, disappearing into her coat at the wrist. My heart throbs angrily in my throat and my body is tense, ready for battle.

I push the woman off me. The knife slashes the front of the coat in the process. Our roles are reversed. She’s on her back now, in between the used tissues and spoiled food and paper towels that the trash bin vomited across the ground. There’s still fight in her eyes, hands reach out like claws, and her face twists into a snarling grimace behind those messy strands of hair. Like a wild, blond version of that girl from the ring, I think incoherently as I settle on top of her.

The body is squirming beneath the padding of her coat, trash scraping softly against more trash. She’s at my mercy. A hand swings towards me, taking a hold of my hair, but I ignore the pain and drive the knife home. I don’t know where exactly her heart’s supposed to be, but I must have gotten close enough. More blood spurts out of her chest in periodic bursts and her hand slackens. I stare at her in amazement.

I’m laughing. I’ve never felt like this in my life. I just killed someone.

The lady beneath me is still breathing, but her movements are sluggish now, and despite the haze of elation, I know that she’s beyond saving. Maybe, if I called an ambulance right now, they could do something, but I’d be stupid to do that. I was stupid to kill her in the first place. There’s no way anyone would consider this self-defense.

Why did I just kill someone?

One of my hands is still gripping her coat. The blood has seeped into it and is rapidly cooling. I have to consciously will my fingers to uncurl and release her.

I just killed someone because it felt right. It felt good. I’m still smiling, aren’t I? I’ve never killed anyone before.

I get up from the soon-to-be corpse and stare down at her, so frail and small, now that the drugs and the fight have left her. The murder weapon is still in my hand. Looking down, I see blood covering my own coat. I’ll be cold if I take it off. I’ll be found out if I keep it on.

Why was there a knife in that random trash can?

I undo the zipper of my coat despite the chill of the winter night. That lady was no threat to me. Fighting her was the best feeling of my life. Stepping past the body, I ball up my coat to hide the blood-covered front, wiping my hands off on it for good measure.

I spot another coat in the trash. This isn’t right.

With a dreamlike numbness, I watch my own body bend to pick up the coat. The zipper is broken. That’s why it’s in the trash. Still, I can put it on to stay warm. A knife and a coat. It’s as if someone prepared all of this just for me.

Suddenly, I know I’m being watched. I turn around and scan my surroundings. Wall to the left, wall to the right, fence in the back. Nobody here. The moon is watching me, but the moon has no camera with which to incriminate me. Still . . . cameras. I stare up the many floors of the hotel, and suddenly I’m certain there’s a camera hidden behind one of those many windows.

I pull the hood of the coat over my head. Why would I randomly find a coat just large enough for me? Is this a setup? No. No one could have known. I didn’t know. If I didn’t know how much I’d ~~enjoy~~ this, then how could anyone else?

I sneak out between the buildings, but no one is around to see me. It’s like they emptied out the streets just for me. It’s a setup. The knife, the coat, the streets an empty stage just for me. For me. I hide the murder weapon inside the coat. There’s an inner pocket conveniently large enough to keep it in. Why would anyone set this up?

And doesn’t that also explain the ~~ecstasy~~ at what I did? It’s drugs. They drugged me, so I’d want to kill that woman. I never would have murdered another human being in cold blood if it wasn’t all staged. They fed me something, and they sent that meth-head or heroin junky. It’s all fucked up. It’s a dystopian reality TV show. Big Brother is watching me, and it’s all to entertain some rich fucks. I’d never kill. I’m not a murderer.

If I didn’t feel the hard bulge of the knife softly slapping against my chest with every step, I would’ve thought this was a dream. Surely, I didn’t just kill an innocent woman? She wasn’t innocent, though. She attacked me first. She attacked me first, and she was put there by someone else. If anyone’s responsible, it’s whichever sick fuck put her there and made me kill her.

She’s probably not even dead. No matter how rich, we’re still in a civilized country. They can’t make me kill someone for entertainment. It’s fake blood. It’s one of those tricks where they have bags of fake blood that spurt when you stab them, like in the movies. I laugh, quietly, scared that I’ll draw attention, but there’s no one there, so eventually, I let it all out, howling at the moon and at the ridiculous situation they put me in.

Where are the cameras? With modern technology, I’ll never find them. I’ve made it to the tram station. Inside the trams, it’s easy. Several surveillance cameras in every cart. I look up at one and offer it a wide smile. Do I have blood on my face? I wipe at it, but my hands come back clean. The knife swings in its pocket with every movement.

I’m getting away with murder. I’ve never been this elated in all my life. I’m not getting away with murder. It’s all staged, anyway.

I can’t sit down for the ride. My legs refuse to calm. Instead, I’m walking up and down, past a group of kids on their way home from a night out, drunkenly chatting with each other. Are they plants? Am I expected to go on a rampage and take them all out? I wave at the camera above me. No, that wouldn’t be very elegant.

It’s not many stops, and I’m out again. The wind is stronger here, no longer blocked by the tall buildings of the inner city. No one exited the tram with me. I’m alone. It’s perfect. It’s all made for me, the special boy. I stroll down the two streets to my house, checking the surrounding windows in case I can spot one of the cameras they must have put between the tram station and home, but they’re clever and I don’t see any.

I never would have killed if I was in my right mind. There’s no way killing would make me this happy. I whistle a song I picked up in the grocery store earlier today. Did they film me in there as well? They must have. My entire life, how much of it have I spent as entertainment for the masses? Did they laugh when I got fired last spring? Was it good television when Marie broke up with me? Was she ever in love with me or was she just another story beat in the magnum opus that they’re writing about my life?

The good mood swings violently into anger. Sure, they just prepared the perfect scene for me and I love, love, loved it so, so much, but what about everything that came before? What about the hardship? Do they really think it’s all okay because they throw me a druggy to knife down?