As I sit in my black leather chair, I gaze out
the window looking out towards the ones that define my existence. The citizens
of Yonkers have been washed with my terror for two and half years. My name is
James Altiwood and I am a writer. While I had never achieved the success that
would label me as ‘successful’, I found myself living comfortably from the
words that I tossed to the masses. Like a king chucking his left overs to the
peasants, they flocked to the passages with salivation building in their
gullet. They were more than ready to tear me down after briefly building me up.
I stood up and motioned towards the window, kneeling down in
front of it with my arms folded on the pane. The trees waved their leaves like
hands at a concert, dancing to nature’s tune. The green grass excited me, I
could pick up on the children’s innocent screams and laughter. They reminded me
that I do have a heart.
She had a way about her, I couldn’t look away. I was
transfixed on every flip of her locks, breathlessly awaiting the next. She gave
into my silent demands and positioned her hair behind her shoulders and down
her back. Here I sat, smiling like a fool. She reached down into her purse and
pulled out a bottle of water and took a clean sip. Before placing it back
inside she looked in my direction. Of course, she did not acknowledge my
presence. Did they ever?
My mind raced from the scenarios in which I could take her.
If I could just show her what it all means, I’d feel that my life was complete.
What am I saying? I’ve never even spoke to this woman, yet she has my heart. I
admired her features from the window that separated my love from hers. Trapped
in my own head again, you’d think I’d be used to this feeling by now.
She clutched the copy of the New York Times that sat next to
her on the park bench and began to flip through it. She was knowledgeable
about the on goings of the world around us, which was admirable. I wondered to myself if she did any research
on her own.
There are massacres happening all around the globe. Uganda,
Syria, places that are redacted from the youth’s history books. I’m getting
ahead of myself. I sip my tea and watch the kids play in the streets, prancing
and smiling as they tag their friends. I wish I could talk to her, tell her
about them. After reading an article or two, she put the paper down and
searched for her phone.
Sitting on the bench with her legs folded, she played on her
phone like any woman her age would. Based on my first glance I gathered that
she could no older than 30, no younger than 25. She had the aura of a single
mother. Her grey Hollister shirt and low cut jean shorts fit snugly, hugging
her body with a bears grip.
I was drawn to her, she has to be next. I can settle for no
less than her. The only thing holding me back from walking out the door and
approaching her is the fact that I’ve never had a girlfriend. My father made
sure of that.
My train of thought was interrupted when her toddler son
approached and complained of something I couldn’t make out. It’s not like I was
within ear shot. She picked him up and scampered away to her silver Honda
Civic. I reached for a pen and a piece of paper to write down her license plate
before she pulled away.
I was most certainly breaking my pattern by attempting this,
but the fire inside raged on, persuading me that this was the right move. I was
not one to argue with my inner demons. So it was settled. She has to die by my
hand, and it was painfully obvious that only I could make it so.
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