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Rough Patch

You enter the kitchen, totally unaware I’m watching you. That I’ve been watching for days. You turn on the radio just as the 8am news is starting, as you always do after your morning run. You’re nervous, waiting for any news on the girl. Missing, only 6 years old. The report starts, it details her disappearance from her bed, her family’s terror when they found her room empty on the morning of her 6th birthday, how there were no fingerprints, no sign of a struggle. There are no updates, still missing, no evidence. But the world is searching for her, and that’s great.

You turn off the radio after that report, the only report that matters, and begin to make yourself breakfast. A hearty plate of bacon, eggs, beans, toast and mushrooms. I don’t know how you can eat, how you can even think of food. I know I can’t. I get a little more comfortable, it’s hard sitting here in your garden every day. Under the shade of the trees, at least I have protection from the sun. I watch you leave your house, you check the back door lock, and leave by the front. You always do that. I think about my wife and children. I think about how this would make them feel. I wait.

When you return, I’m sleeping. I know this because I wake angry at myself. You could have seen me. Then you’d have known all of what I plan to do. That can’t happen. But you don’t see me. You’re so stupid. When I’m sure you’re occupied, I pull out the scrap of denim from my pocket. The scrap that matches your jacket. The scrap left on my daughter’s bedroom floor after you stole her. I pick myself up off your garden and make my way to the back door.

Upon entering the house, I pick up a knife from your kitchen. Nice and sharp. Careful not to make a sound, I open the door to your living room a crack and peer in. You’re sitting in your red velvet chair, not a care in the world. That makes me angry. I grip the knife harder, and recall the day I passed you in the street. The first time I saw that torn denim jacket. Your dead, empty eyes, hollow in their sockets. I tread lightly to the back of your chair. Lucky that it’s red, maybe your blood won’t show when I slit your throat.

Your skin cuts like butter. You struggle, and that excites me. I’m so happy to finally avenge my baby. There are big, black bin bags in your kitchen, I grab one for your disgusting, lumpy body. You’ve got blood everywhere. I put your limp body in a bag and drag it in to the basement that’s connected to your kitchen. I open the door and push your body down in to the darkness. A methodical search of the house bears no useful information, I return to the living room where my mobile phone has been charging.

I’m furious, so frustrated with myself. How could I have been wrong again? I’m certain that scrap of denim matched your jacket. It was you, I am sure. I sit, slumped in the red arm chair, the blood soaking my back. I want to cry, to vomit, I can’t bear that I’ve got it wrong again. I can’t be wrong, there’s something, I know it.

My phone vibrates on the chair of the arm. A text message, from Jan. I unlock my phone, and throw it at the wall seconds later, before covering the floor in sick.

‘I need you to come back home. They have found her, baby. Turn your phone back on, come home, I know this affected you but our baby’s back. She’s alive, she’s back, come home please!’

In the background, some news report, '3 more found dead their homes in South London, this makes for 7 total, however police still suspect there to be more. Keep your doors locked at all times, we are searching for the killer.’

Credits to: georgeoliscott



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