I could see him across the street, deep in conversation with his beloved wife, Ester. His face was creased in laughter, in that good natured way of his. I saw him reach down and hold his dearly loved wife in his arms; I cringed and thought oh, why could that not be me. I watched, torn up with jealously, as they entered the shops together arm in arm. I sighed with sadness and anger as I knew he could never be mine. I slumped on the bench in the lush and beautiful park I had been watching from and started sobbing; just thinking of all the times I had been consumed in my love and obsession of him and had done something stupid like stalking him in broad daylight.
I gathered my thoughts and wandered home. As I opened the door to my small, cramped and dingy slum of an apartment I again collapsed onto the moth eaten and smelly couch, overcome with my emotions. In my anguish I thought of all the times when I had gone to profess my love for him and he had looked at me like I was something disgusting, as if I was something so rotten and foul that he had to throw me out, like garbage. My latest attempt had been met with a threat that if he ever saw me again he would kill me, like ‘the disgusting queer that I am’. Even with all these accusations and insults, I couldn’t stay away, I needed to stay near him and love from afar.
I stumbled into the dirty and disease ridden kitchen and picked up the almost full bottle of whiskey and drank deeply, hoping the liquid would carry away all the anguish in its burning, lava like power. I staggered back into the living room, toppling onto the ripped couch and flicked on the old and out-dated Television set. I thought maybe I could relax in some mindless and numbing TV. Alas, as soon as the picture cleared, he was there on a news report speaking about how he is so accepting of other people and their religions and anything else that really matters to them. As he said those words, something inside me hardened and then broke and anger like I had never known gripped me. How dare he say that he is accepting of others when he blatantly offended me and didn’t care, he’ll pay for this.
I downed the rest of the bottle and, almost walking into the wall, shuffled purposely into the storage room and started kicking at the half ripped and moulding boxes. I was looking for something that I hadn’t needed for a long time. Finally, I saw the silver gleam I had been missing for so many months. As I slowly reached down and brushed aside the dust and dead bugs that had gathered during the long wait since I had last used it, I shuddered with the excitement of finally taking my one friend out and avenging my pride. As I took the Glock out, I hit my knee on one of the other upturned and broken packing boxes. Out through the gash my knee had made on the box, poured photos and drawings of him. I started having second thoughts because I knew that if I went through with this there was no way he could still love me. I have seen many people with fancy degrees and titles who have told me that this man will never love me. They are wrong, I will make and show him that I need him and he has to love me. I turned and walked out of the room and down the dilapidated staircase and onto the now darkened footpath.
After a hazy walk, I stood on his porch and tried to imagine what I was going to say to convince this man that he truly loved me. As I stood there, the front door rattled and his wife stood there, wearing no more than a robe and slippers. As she looked straight at me, her lips forming a question, I swiftly raised my friend and suddenly she was falling to the floor. My face was frozen in place and my legs wouldn’t work as I saw a dark crimson liquid seep out onto the wooden slats under my feet. I finally found my voice and I screamed and fled back towards my house. Please understand that I didn’t mean it and I only wanted to be with by true beloved. As you read this, I will no longer be here and you will never find me.
-Extract from main suspect, Rupert Vandenberg, diary. Found in his deserted apartment.