It is a cold night. The kind of cold that deserts you once the new morn rushes in. I know it's not a good night to be out. While the rest of the world lives on in abandonment. Ok. I made that out. Some really believe that there will be a tomorrow to believe in. But I don't.
I am in my office, presently. Looking out of the glass shield. I feel more of myself, obliterated from any direct gaze. I don't feel watched tonight. I am reluctant to step out; to expose myself to the usual forays into the night geography. Neither do I want to expose myself to psychological dramas and high-key tasteless conversations with strangers. As it is, my life is dramatic enough. As it is, my friends are strangers.
And one of them just died.
It is the kind of nights when you reflect upon the inner mechanism of a human being and despise it utterly. He died of envy. Or is that me, in my bewilderment, seeking an explanation where there is none? I lament the fact that I know him slightly more than just a stranger. But I won't call him a friend. I don't have any friends. But the desire for the truth, and to solve this crime, burns in me a passion so sick that I could puke right here, and now. I know I am not doing this for him. The radio is playing a familiar track from the late sixties. Of course, I didn't vomit but the compulsion for answers is still there. Frankly, I don't give a damn how his friends and family must have felt. You see, he left me a letter, an hour before he was found dead. I have no idea why he chose me. Not that it matters who he was trying to contact and who might prevent the act. What I am bothered by is the trust a soon-to-be dead person had of me; I, who has severely given up on the living world. Now, must even hell come knocking on my office door?
He wrote:
Dear Friend,
I know we were never close to begin with. But listen, I'm going to die.
Find out who my killer is. I can only trust you.
Good Luck,
XXX
I take another good look at the letter. Then I tear it up. Nothing is going to change. I can't do anything for him. He was actually on the right track. He needed all the luck he could get.
I turn around and walk out of my office. I need a drink. Something to clear my mind. Maybe I can do with a stranger tonight. Maybe I just need a companion on a night like this.
The cold wind assaults me just like I expected it to. Just down the street are some boys suited up. I ignore them. As I step into the street light, I stop. I think I know what I want to do tomorrow. I think I will kill someone.
It's New Year's Eve.
Time to meet new friends.
I am in my office, presently. Looking out of the glass shield. I feel more of myself, obliterated from any direct gaze. I don't feel watched tonight. I am reluctant to step out; to expose myself to the usual forays into the night geography. Neither do I want to expose myself to psychological dramas and high-key tasteless conversations with strangers. As it is, my life is dramatic enough. As it is, my friends are strangers.
And one of them just died.
It is the kind of nights when you reflect upon the inner mechanism of a human being and despise it utterly. He died of envy. Or is that me, in my bewilderment, seeking an explanation where there is none? I lament the fact that I know him slightly more than just a stranger. But I won't call him a friend. I don't have any friends. But the desire for the truth, and to solve this crime, burns in me a passion so sick that I could puke right here, and now. I know I am not doing this for him. The radio is playing a familiar track from the late sixties. Of course, I didn't vomit but the compulsion for answers is still there. Frankly, I don't give a damn how his friends and family must have felt. You see, he left me a letter, an hour before he was found dead. I have no idea why he chose me. Not that it matters who he was trying to contact and who might prevent the act. What I am bothered by is the trust a soon-to-be dead person had of me; I, who has severely given up on the living world. Now, must even hell come knocking on my office door?
He wrote:
Dear Friend,
I know we were never close to begin with. But listen, I'm going to die.
Find out who my killer is. I can only trust you.
Good Luck,
XXX
I take another good look at the letter. Then I tear it up. Nothing is going to change. I can't do anything for him. He was actually on the right track. He needed all the luck he could get.
I turn around and walk out of my office. I need a drink. Something to clear my mind. Maybe I can do with a stranger tonight. Maybe I just need a companion on a night like this.
The cold wind assaults me just like I expected it to. Just down the street are some boys suited up. I ignore them. As I step into the street light, I stop. I think I know what I want to do tomorrow. I think I will kill someone.
It's New Year's Eve.
Time to meet new friends.
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