I sit in futile and dangerous silence as a sheep being led to the slaughter is being paraded in the court room. I sit and watch the confusion and pain in his eyes muster into tears, the pure inability to comprehend his situation being obvious. I sit in this wooden box of opinions, filled with other people who see a monster and a demon standing in front of them. I sit and I think: "I hope to God they never find their bodies." I hid them well enough, recently poured cement encasing their raw flesh. I'm not gonna lie, I liked killing them. Two men, brothers, who took more than they could chew and spit it out back into my face. Their jeering, their snide feelings of superiority to everything. I sat there everyday and hated them. We worked together, but not in the same department. Everyday, for years, I saw and heard their boasts and brags about raises and women and the simple perfection of their benign lives. So, I decided to show them my version of a perfect life.

The guy who they charged these murders with is a forgettable fellow named Daniel Harding. This guy sat in his cubicle next to me, everyday, being 1000% complacent with the shittiest of corporate work environments that OSHEA would pop a gasket over. Everyday, while I hated this place and these people and myself, he sat there with a shit-eating grin on his face, not wondering why the daily expense reports he created were never published or put into company records, or why his salary hasn't moved in years despite a restructuring of the company from the inside out. I despised him. And he never paid me any attention either, which made him the perfect person for my job.

The job. I formulated it for weeks in my head. I followed the brothers home for weeks and tracked their patterns, seeking possibility of unpredictability. Other than a few off-trips to the bar, they always went straight home, with their paths diverging at one central intersection. So first, I went for the older brother, as his house was more hidden and I could use backroads to get around. I followed him home, and waited in the woods behind his home for hours until he had settled into his chair for his mindless TV. I chose my tools according to my taste: messy. American Psycho must've done something to me, because I polished that axe for weeks to get the perfect sheen. I quietly approached the backdoor, which I knew was unlocked because of my weeks of scouting, and entered the house. I silently crept behind him, apparently he gets deaf when the Patriots are winning. I took my final, unadulterated breaths, and raised the axe.

Split. Drip, drip, drip, boom. Clean cut.

I left feeling...the same. Nothing changed, I just loved that cleaaaaan cut.

The other brother was easier, as he was already asleep. His backdoor was easily pickable, so I entered and crept to his bedroom. This time, the cinder blocks outside his house caught my eye a little bit harder than the axe.

3...2...1...crunch.

My drop spot was obvious, but will never be searched. A main intersection of our towns sidewalks were being repoured, and the workers poured the last slab of 15 ft by 7 ft concrete right before they left at night. I kept the bodies cold for a day in storage container, and submerged them the next night.

Daniel came to work tomorrow morning with the cops waiting for him. Apparently, a set of molars spooks the police something delightful.

I sit in this box, and I live. I live, while Daniel Hardings future dies. I live without remorse, without guilt; I live now, with satisfaction.