Personal Narrative On Murder

“This is the BBC reporter James speaking. How may I help you?”

“I live in the next door of a murder suspect’s house. Could you please come to …”

I wrote down the home address of an unknown informant. From the high-pitched tone and bird-like voice, it was a woman for sure; however, that was all I knew. Name, age, nationality, and other basic information was not told. I wasn’t clearly sure, and shouldn’t be sure about a report of a murder suspect; however, I decided to visit her house since I had nothing to lose. The time was 8 o’clock in the evening when I first met her face to face.

“Here, my house. Next door, the murderer. I’m the neighbor. You give me $30 to keep me quiet. I will tell the other reporter if you don’t give me.”

She turned out as an illegal immigrant from Pakistan. I gave her my phone

The website server has shutdown by citizens asking for more information about the note! You did it! The news is on number one in ratings!”

Few days later after the note was disclosed to the public, I continued stalking the murderer suspect’s red Honda car. One day, I ended in the theater that held an act of “the journal of a murderer”. Following the title of an act, the stage was full of red spray and glutinous, unknown red liquid. I forgot about the murderer suspect at that time, and paid full attention to the act.

“How would you describe the feeling when you’ve killed someone for the first time? You will never be able to …”

Familiar sentences woke me up from a deep sleep like a sleeping beauty. After I heard the rest of the sentence, I unfolded the yellow notes from my bag and went through it. At that instant, I recognized that something was going wrong. I rubbed my eyes – I could not believe it. Those knives, bloody t-shirts, artificial internal organs and bloodstained hammer on the stage, were exactly the same objects that I saw in the murderer suspect’s house. Were those only for the play for tonight? Only? Not a real