Murderer

Chapter 23: Brendon

Have you ever attended your own funeral?

No, of course not. Nobody should. Not what I thought I would be doing at the age of seventeen. The worst part was, I really wasn't dead. I saw family, friends, and even strangers weep over my death, and I just stood there behind a large gravestone in the distance, watching like a ghost. 

My parents were the biggest of my problems. Seeing them hug each other, tears streaming from their eyes. It hurt. I wanted to just go over and give them a huge hug, and tell them that everything was going to be okay. That I was alive, not killed in an explosion. But I couldn't. I had to kill a monster, and I could not be discovered now.

What's worse than going to your own funeral?

Going to your girlfriend's actual funeral. I had to resist every urge possible to not let myself run up to the casket, kneel down, and start crying in front of everyone there. I felt like a disgrace of a friend to her, I was a coward hiding in the shadows while her family asked God why this happened to their little girl. Does everything really happen for a reason? This wasn't her destiny.

As they started to lower the casket, the sound made my heart skip a beat. I fought back tears, and held my hands over my mouth to keep myself from screaming. Sometimes I would tell myself that this was just a dream, and she would be there when I woke up, her blue eyes would once more welcome me from the nightmare I was in. Then I would pinch myself and whisper "idiot" while yanking at my hair, which was a mess by the way. I looked like a madman myself. Maybe I was. I was forgetting who I once was, back when Ryan was always there for me.

I haven't slept in days, I was starving all the time, and I smelled horrible. Something nobody should go through, but sadly many do. The sad part is, nobody who has all the things you need in the world will never know what it's like to be homeless. I understood what it was like now. I felt like pile of worthless shit, a person of crushed dreams, a man who lost the only thing he cared about, a boy who everyone thinks is dead, somebody who plans to kill to get his revenge. I lost my identity. I lost my morality. An inching insanity within.

All the while, I had no clue where Christopher took Ryan. What should have ended at the abandoned hell house, but was thus erased from existence. There was no leads. There was nothing I could go on now, except to walk in the very direction that he had drove off to that dreadful night. But what use was it now? He could have made a turn down the road. It was hopeless.

Yes, attempting to track Christopher would be useless, but bringing him out of hiding would be different. A man like him, definitely protective of his dear parents. I'm sure glad they weren't at the house when it burned down that gloomy day in 1982. I wouldn't have gotten the chance to kill them, now would I?