Narcissist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Watch the Sky Media - Mystery, Crime & Horror
Don’t fall asleep yet. I need you to know why I am murdering you.

Submitted: June 28, 2017

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Submitted: June 28, 2017

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Narcissist

 

by

Grant Fieldgrove

 

  Don’t fall asleep yet. I need you to know why I am murdering you.

  You remember me, don’t you?

  Of course you do.

  We went out on two dates about five years ago and I found you absolutely insufferable and stopped talking to you.

  Yeah, you remember.  Of course you do.

  You ruined my reputation because you couldn’t stand that someone didn’t want to see you again. How could that be, right? How could someone not want to see you?

  Do you remember what you told everyone? Do you remember telling all your little friends that I was violent? That I had grabbed you hard by the arm and slapped your face? Do you remember saying that?

  You blocked me from all social media before you went on your little smear campaign, but it got back to me. Of course it did.  That’s when I started doing some digging.

  Perhaps I should have done it before I even asked you out, but that’s not really my style. I’m not the jealous type and I’m certainly not the stalker type, but after a few dates with you, everyone sure thought otherwise, huh?

  I found out what you said about the guy you dated before me. You said he tried to rape you, but you successfully fought him off.

  Was that true?

  I also heard about the man who stalked you on the subway, who made you feel so unsafe that you contacted the transportation department via Twitter and filed a complaint, then retweeted their response to you so everyone would know.

  Was it even true? Or did some guy just smile at you while on the train? Or maybe he gave you his seat just to be a gentleman…

  Always a victim. Always the hero, you are.

  This wasn’t hard to find, you put it out on social media for the world to see. Scratch that, you put it out there for everyone to see except the people you smeared. You blocked them first, of course.

  Are your lies conscious or unconscious? Who is the real psychopath here?

  The list of people goes on and on, the people who have wronged you, stalked you, hit you and threatened you, and they’re all bullshit. Of course they are.  Because you always have to be the victim. You always have to be the one with the rock solid reputation. It doesn’t matter whose reputation you trash as long as yours gets built higher and higher.

  Open your eyes, dear. I’m not done yet. I need you to stay awake.

  You see, I was pretty pissed when I heard what you were saying about me. And I was really pissed when I saw you had done it many times before and probably many times since.

  You see, this is a classic narcissistic tendency, so I can’t really blame you for the way your sad little brain works. I was going to let it slide, try and just let it go, stew in my anger for a while before it eventually faded away.

  But you couldn’t let it go. You couldn’t let it go.

  You kept tabs on me and when I started dating someone else, someone who I genuinely liked, you contacted her. You contacted her and told her I had been hitting on you behind her back. And she believed you. I don’t know why she did, but she believed you and she left.

  And for what? What reasoning? Because I had the audacity to not want to date you? Because I rejected you and your narcissistic little mind couldn’t cope?

  Well, my dear, that was the last straw.

  I tracked down all your old boyfriends, even the ones you had since our two little dates, and guess what…

  That’s right. You trashed their reputations because they didn’t want to see you anymore.

  Can you feel this? If you can, you might be a little confused as to why I’m making you hold a shovel. I need you to get a splinter or two, then we’ll move on. This might sting a bit.

  Don’t worry. This will all make sense in a minute.

  Anyway.

  Everyone always believes the sweet little female victim, right? Your precious reputation remains intact as everyone else in your path’s crumbles.

  Here, prop yourself up on this pillow. You don’t want to miss this part.

  As far as revenge goes, I don’t think killing the person is very creative. It’s lazy and there is no real sense of justice. It’s simply you’re alive one second and dead the next…and then what?

  No no, that’s not good revenge. Want to know what good revenge is? It’s patience and planning. It’s a complete architecture design of pain. And that’s what I’ve done. And before you die, I want you to know all about it. I’ve let you be the victim long enough. I’ve let your ego and reputation swell to epic proportions, but now it’s time for it to all burst.

  Remember when you’re brother died?

  Of course you do. Silly question.

  The medical examiner wrote that off as a severe asthma attack, if you recall? Poor guy had been struggling with that terrible annoyance his whole life. But, you want to know a secret? It was no asthma attack.

  It was Abrin. I won’t go into details about how the poison works, but once it is inhaled, it causes respiratory failure. May not be so fatal to someone with healthy lungs, but with your poor brother, it only took a few minutes.

  I broke into his house while he slept and held it under his nose. I watched him wake up coughing, struggling for breath. He saw me holding his inhaler just out of reach. When he hit the ground, I put it in his hand and showed myself out.

  Now, that’s good revenge. You were devastated, and rightfully so. I saw you turn to social media again and gather all the sympathy you could get.  Once again, you were the innocent victim, the poor girl who needs all the support in the world. The woman of the hour.

  Then there was your poor mom, run down by a hit and run driver in a stolen car. Imagine that. Do you know how to hotwire a car? Because I do. Now.

  Then your poor old dad. I almost felt bad about him until I remembered that he helped raise you. Your old man, diabetic with a bad heart, he was a ticking time bomb anyway, I just sped up the clock a bit.

  Can you feel that? I’m running your fingers over the keyboard of your laptop. You see, I typed something up earlier and wore gloves. The gloves would actually have wiped your fingerprints from the buttons I pushed, so I’m just brushing your fingers over the keyboard, back and forth, back and forth, just in case you were wondering.

  What were we talking about?

  Oh yeah, your dad. Have you ever heard of a plant called curare? I don’t blame you if you haven’t; it’s certainly not something people have growing in their gardens. Well, I got my hands on one of these plants…believe me, I went out of state to get it…didn’t want anyone to recognize me, no matter how small a chance there was… Anyway, you break this plant apart and you steep it in boiling water, kind of like you’re making tea, then you let the water evaporate and you’re left with a thicker liquid, maybe a little thinner than cheap jelly.

  Do you know what happens when you inject that cheap jelly crap into someone’s body?

  Paralysis. Complete paralysis, everything ceases up. Lungs stop contracting and you die of asphyxiation.  Or, if you have a bad heart, that kills you first.

  I did my research on this one, believe me. I knew I had the right one when I realized I could inject it straight into an injection hole previously used for insulin.

  I mean, come on, the odds are pretty slim that they would do an autopsy on an old bastard like that, right? His wife died, his son died, and he had a bad heart. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

  But, you can never be too careful. Don’t want to leave any extra marks that can make someone suspicious. Besides, even if they did do an autopsy, they would have to test specifically for curare and never in a million years would they think to waste their budget money on doing that. Especially for no reason. He was an old man, who in their right mind would want to poison him?

  Can you feel this? You’re clutching a pill bottle. It’s important, trust me.

  And all these times, you were the victim. The tragic, living victim. It brought life to your previous lies, didn’t it? It made everyone think that perhaps you were destined for bad luck.

  And you loved it, huh?

  Don’t get me wrong, I know you were devastated. Trust me, if I didn’t think you’d be heartbroken and on the brink of a total breakdown, I never would have killed those innocent people.

  But, I know I’m right. Your precious reputation, your self-importance, your narcissistic little self, you crave the attention. You need it. And that’s why you’ve been tweeting about your neighbor.

  A woman you barely even knew, who just happens to be missing for three days, and you’re out gathering up all the attention you can get from it. Saying how much you love your neighbor and asking for prayers. Prayers! For a neighbor you barely knew who just happens to be missing.

  Now this one, this one I know is bullshit. How many times have you even talked to her? I’m guessing twice. Twice since you moved into this house and you have sixteen Twitter posts about her. Sixteen. You just found out she was missing yesterday and you have sixteen posts about her, all with comments from your little bitch friends, all telling you how sorry they are for you, and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through.

  Give me a break.

  Your precious reputation. Your precious ego. Your precious need for attention.

  You’re going to get a kick out of this one. When your roommate hung herself from the crossbeams in your old apartment…when the door was locked from the inside and with no possible escape from the eleventh floor of your building, when you had to call the landlord in a panic to have him cut the chain lock, only to find your roomie there, swinging by the neck, your IKEA kitchen chair on its side, her feet barely brushing against one of the legs.

  Now that, that had to have been a suicide right? It’s the only thing that made sense, even though her killing herself made no sense. She was always so happy, right? Isn’t that what you said on Twitter? Then, for extra attention, you started blaming yourself, saying maybe you should have known something was wrong and helped her. But that was bullshit anyway, because nothing is ever your fault, and you know it. Just another lie.

  I’ll never forget your scream when you first barged in and saw her.

  That’s right. I heard you scream. But how can that be?

  It’s because I was hiding in your apartment. I locked the door with the chain lock after I choked the life from your roommate with a rope and strung her up like a pig.

  I was there. If you would have looked for me, I have no doubt you would have found me. But you didn’t. Neither did your landlord. You screamed and ran away. The landlord followed you and I strolled out of the apartment and down the fire escape like nobody’s business.

  Stay awake, dear, I’m almost finished. Don’t try to talk.

  Now, we’ve come to the end.

  I’ve taken the liberty of typing up a little suicide note for you. Nothing special, just a little something to clear things up a bit.

  Your precious reputation. Your precious ego. Your precious narcissistic little self.

  Please, keep your eyes open for just a minute more as I read it to you.

  To whom it may concern,

  I’m so sorry for all the harm I have done. I’ve lived my life thinking only of myself, and I’ve destroyed the reputations of others just to make myself feel better. But here is the sad truth: I am nothing.

  I killed my brother with Abrin because he was more successful than me. You can find the bottle in my medicine cabinet. I kept it in case I would ever need to use it again.

  I stole a car and ran down my mother because people had stopped talking about my brother.

  I killed my dad with curare. I injected into his belly where he shot his insulin. I knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy. I did it because people stopped talking about my mother.

  I killed my roommate and made it look like a suicide because people liked her more than they liked me. They said she was cuter and more fun to be around. No one actually said that to my face, but I could tell. I used a coat hanger and a lot of practice to lock the chain lock from the outside.

  What do you think so far? Seems like a pretty big reputation killer, eh? There it goes. Everything you hold dear, destroyed. And you get to go to hell knowing that every man you ever wronged has now been vindicated. No one is going to believe your lies now. And your reputation, the thing you hold so dear…gone. Poof. Like it never even existed. From now on, people will only speak of you as a monster. A jealous bitch. They’re going to say they never really liked you to begin with. They’re going to say; She always seemed a little off. They’re going to mistake your narcissism for a mental illness, a green-eyed monster, and no one will ever say another nice thing about you.

  And here’s the best part. Just in case you’re clinging to the hope that no one will believe you did those things, that you didn’t even write this letter, let me read you the end of your note.

  If you need further proof, my neighbor, the woman who has been missing for two days, she knew the truth. In a moment of weakness and a lot of wine, I let slip my little secret…so I had to kill her. She’s in my backyard. She’s been sitting in my bathtub since Tuesday. I just buried her tonight then took these pills.

  I’m not even sorry.

  Goodbye.

  Oh, that ought to convince them, all right. Truth is, that lady has been in my trunk the whole time, but it’s not important. I dropped a few of her hairs in your drain and buried her before you got home tonight.

  So, that should wrap things up. I know I sure feel better.

  That’s right, close your eyes.

  Go to sleep.

  Go to sleep.

 

 


© Copyright 2017 Grant Fieldgrove. All rights reserved.

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