Pisaries Creator

I’ve written something similar to the below before in a blog because I keep re-working my idea for a novel where the narrator writes it sort of like journal entries. It starts at the beginning of the year, Gregorian style, and ends with the end of the year, December 31st. It involves murders that need to be solved. This is based on something I saw when I was in my mid 20’s and while nothing sinister came out of it, the mind of a writer can take it anywhere. There are other murders that take place after this initial murder that this detective needs to solve. While it’s not going to be the masterpiece of anyone of Agatha Christie’s novels, it’s my attempt at writing a contemporary murder mystery novel with a twist. How big that twist really is by the end of it, well that remains to be seen. Of course, I’m getting some inspiration from contemporary writers I’ve read and while I need to read more of their books which are on my bookshelves, I’m dedicating the majority of today on my second novel. I’ve been neglecting it like no one’s business. It’s starving at this point and needing major attention. Happy writing to everyone.

January 1st

Here I stand. Here I will sit. Here I live. Here I will die. This is the saying I came up with after the day they came for me and I set foot in this place.

The hoity-toity rich people have tons of time to travel to exotic places, shop at boutique stores, and eat the freshest seafood and expensive wine. Me, I have books that keep me in touch with the world. Some of them are new. Most of them are old.

I don’t take pity on those middle-class people working themselves to the bone with little time for themselves. Shit, I would love to spend one day in their shoes. I would love to be so busy I’m exhausted at the end of the day. The only option for me is to crawl onto my hard, thin mattress with thin sheets and a blanket you really can’t call a blanket. What I wouldn’t give for fresh smelling sheets hung outside on a warm sunny day, maybe cuddling next to my wife, and kissing her good night like a husband should.

The major difference between me and this middle-class man who has a wife, children, and probably dog with a white picket fence around their house, is that I killed someone, and he didn’t. The jury of my peers found me guilty on all counts. I was sent to prison without any hope for parole. If they could’ve sentenced me to death, I’m sure I would be dead right now. I would’ve exhausted all my appeals. A part of me wishes I was dead. It would’ve saved me a ton of misfortune and trouble for someone like me.

You’re thinking how can a convict like me have any heartache? How can a monster like me even think to ask for sympathy? How did I get so freaking large? Let me tell you the answers to your three questions. A convict most certainly can have heartache. I’ve lost a lot of women along the way, not that I killed them, but they nearly tore me apart for leaving on such bitter terms.

One had her best friend tell me she no longer wanted to be with me because of how I breathed at night. So, I snore at night. She tried to sue me because she was crazy. I can’t help I snore. My ex-girlfriend really thought I did it just to piss her off. What a bitch. In hindsight, I’m glad she broke it off but at the time, it didn’t feel like it.

A monster can ask for sympathy but most of them don’t. They don’t care about getting sympathy from others. It’s not in their DNA like killing isn’t in most people’s DNA. Some might argue everyone could kill if put in the right situation. I don’t believe this kind of crap and maybe I’ll tell you the reasons later. My last answer for you is I got so freaking large because of an uncle on my mom’s side of the family who is even bigger than me. I’m a midget compared to the other giants in my family tree.

The other convict living with me in this cell is the opposite of me. He treats women like they are subhuman. That’s the reason he’s here in the first place. He acts as if everyone in the world is out to get him. This is ridiculous because he’s not as large as me, but he’s big enough where other dudes won’t go out of their way to tangle with him day or night. I doubt he’s ever had a girlfriend. She would leave him after two days solely based on personality.

I find him exhausting and must control my urge to smother him while he sleeps. Besides, I don’t want to live in the hole for the next few months or how long the guards decide to punish me for killing him. I know a few of them would silently be glad he was killed so they don’t have to deal with him any longer. Do you think they’ll come to my defense? Hell, no. What they fail to realize is prison is cyclical. When one dies, another takes his place. When one loses, another wins. When one starves, another eats.

My cellmate ended up driving slowly around nine at night on a weekday. I believe it was a Thursday. He picked randomly a house with the lights on and after he got out of his car, he did his schtick and raised up the hood of his car with it still running. His next step was to knock on the door and hope a woman answered. If it happened to be a man and woman, he didn’t mind killing two people, but he preferred one at a time.

As he stated in the courtroom, “people don’t’ think about the energy it takes to kill someone.” He said so many stupid things in his defense. The truth is he didn’t mind the challenge of trying to overpower another man if the situation called for it. He did his pretend bit of having car trouble and could he use her phone. This was during a time cellphones weren’t around. The woman lived in a good neighborhood. You might say she was gullible because she followed him outside to listen to the sound of his car. Maybe it was out of curiosity or needing to show off her nice factor. Women tend to be nicer than men and do things that might put them in danger.

At the suggestion of my cellmate, she leaned over to listen to the motor, and this was when he struck. Her head hit the motor a few times by the force of his hand. She wasn’t dead yet, but she was unconscious and bleeding.

Now, I don’t know who runs this late at night with headphones on, but the woman who saw parts of this happening was lucky my cellmate didn’t chase after her and kidnap her too. She stood there in silence with her headphones still on her head but the music on pause.  When she noticed there was something going on and movement ahead of her, she pulled off her headphones. She watched from afar, seeing only outlines of the people in front of her. There was a large man carrying a person with a limp body.

She couldn’t be sure of what was in front of her until a flashlight was turned on by the man. The light beam bounced left to right in short movements as he was walking toward the passenger side of his car. Before she had been a motionless lump in his arms but now, she saw the woman from a different perspective. She was still unconscious, but she took note of her bell bottom jeans and her midriff shirt. She couldn’t make out the print on the shirt, but it was pink. Based on her dress, the woman in his arms couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

One of the last details she remembered was how he stumbled a bit to open door. It prevented him from placing her into the car with ease. He more sloppily threw her onto the seat. He shut the car door and hood. He hopped into his car and drove away.

His plan has gone smoothy until the woman with the headphones, in the middle of her run, was discovered to be years later. If you’re wondering what my cellmate’s name is, it’s Paul as in Paul Bunyan. As for my name, I’m not going to tell you and besides, this isn’t about me. In fact, it isn’t even about Paul or the dead woman when you get to the center. It’s about how right is usually right and wrong is usually wrong until it is not. There’s gray between the black and white and there was enough gray to hold onto this time.

January 2^nd

I don’t think it’s too much to ask to be left alone when I want to be left alone. Now, I don’t know about the outside world where everyone has their eyes looking down at their cellphones, but I wouldn’t mind if the people in here look up a little bit more. They are too busy being pissed off at whatever situation or news pissed them off, they fail to realize how lucky they got it. Life can always get worse. Trust me, I know. I’ve been locked outside in the freezing temperatures, after having had the crap knocked out of me by a group of biker gang prospects, because I fell on hard times and had nowhere to go. Luckily, a nice man took me in for the night because he was a sucker for kindness.

I could go on and on about how life has been unfair, but it doesn’t make me appear intelligent. Instead, it makes me sound like a loser and whiner. Sometimes the worst childhoods make adults be the greatest in what they do. In other cases, they make them be the worst examples of a human being. I fall into the latter category, but this detective that finally solved the mystery of who killed the “motionless lump” on that Thursday night in a small Minnesota city would become the talk of the city, then state, and compare+d to me he was a stand-up guy. The surface of everything is always nice and shiny. Under that shiny exterior, you could have rotten wood or corroded metal. I’m not saying this detective was rotten or corroded, but he had his own faults. It was these faults that led to the solving of the other murders he came across along with the “motionless lump.”