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Did I Ever Tell You About The Time Where I Killed Someone?


It’s nothing gory, I promise. I think television programmes and movies and documentaries washed our minds into thinking the only way you can take someone’s life is to stand in a secluded corner as you watch their corpse slowly burn from the fire you started. Or watch as their blood bleeds out. Or when crying out to you to let them go before the knife enters. But there is more than one way to kill someone.

There is always more than one way to do something.

I didn’t intend to; it was a coincidence. My skirt tore when some asshole rollerbladed past me, pushing me into the fence, which then made my arm look like I’d been stabbed by a blind nurse. Or a horse. I walked into the store browsing through the limited design his store carried and was disappointed. You know, I think there is a limitation in time where something is just too vintage. I know he was looking at me weird, thinking, “why is this girl walking around with her skirt exposing half her ass?”. Call me crazy, but I’d rather walk around half-naked than wearing mismatch clothing. And the 25 minutes I spent walking around the store was the start of his obsession. Okay, I get it, “obsessed” is a strong word, but come on, you’re not going to tell me with a clear conscience that the guy who since then bought me breakfast every morning isn’t obsessed with me. I didn’t even know his name.

And that was the first stab.

I guess he was alright. He was just that average kid you see around school. Glasses, hunched over, always hanging around with his friends talking about…I want to say code? Frankly, I have no idea. People around me always asked why I was talking to someone like him. Because minus the totally shallow viewpoint, we have nothing in common. As I said, he works in a place that looks like a grandmother’s basement, and I don’t even have a basement. I can’t, seeing as I am 52 floors up. Literally worlds apart. Heaven, and that place. So, on paper, our “relationship” looks ridiculous, and I can tell you with the most certainty that my answer to that question is even more ridiculous. I just like the way he looks at me. His gaze is unlike the others. Instead of being lusty, or sensual, or straight-up perverted, he just looks happy. That’s the only word I can think of because I cannot think of any other word that would cover how he looks. It sometimes feels as though he worships me a little, and that’s the kind of validation every girl needs, you know?

I’m mean to him. I’m not nice to him at all. I never once acknowledged his presence when I was with my friends, always touchy-feely with some guy whenever he was around and never once initiated a conversation with him. I actually thought he might cut off contact with me after a while, but the drunkenness I acquired during a party, reeled him back in. One kiss on a cheek was all it took to get him putty in my hands.

And that was the second stab.

The rest of the story carries on like how you’d imagine. Boy chases girl, girl acts oblivious, girl uses boy for her own good. There’s nothing romantic about this. Maybe in the boy’s mind, there is. But the girl simply needed some company when her friends were away. This sounds like such a bitch move; believe me, I know. But hey, willing buyer willing seller, right?

Anyways, that was the third, fourth, fifth and however more stab as I kept rotating my boyfriend in front of his face. I think you would have already figured out by this point that I use everyone around me, but just him a bit more. Just because he lets me.

The final nail in the coffin came about a month later during graduation. After taking a million and one photos with my friends, he awkwardly came up to me asking for a photo. Of course, I took it; I’m not a monster. At least not until the following sentence.

“Thank Elias, you’re such a great friend.”

And that was when it happened. Right in front of my eyes, I watched as the cold embrace of death stole the warmth of life in his face. His brows furrowed, his eyes slowly and steadily shifting to the left, taking a small step back with every wavering glance. I saw his mouth open and saw his struggle to get words out, but all that came were tiny little gasps. His eyes were not glistening with happiness anymore, it was instead filled with tears. I didn’t know what was happening, and before I could ask, he sprinted away. That was the last I saw of him.

I know what you must be thinking: he was just heartbroken because I had placed him in the infamous friendzone. I had initially thought of that too, but it turns out I was wrong. So wrong, as I found out a few months later when my boyfriend asked what happened to him.

“Where’s that Elijah kid anyways?”


That’s right, a year we had sort of spent together, and I never bothered to learn his name. I had never once referred to him by name. It was always “hey, you” or “hi, there”. It wasn’t my flighty or sometimes aggressive attitude that made him run. It was my selfishness. My lack of conscience. My utter and total disregard for anyone. He bought breakfast for me every day for a year, helped me with homework and kept me company when I needed him, yet I never once bothered to learn his name. To be fair, I have no idea how he never caught on that I have never addressed him by name, but that’s it. There you go, another way to kill someone. You don’t have to stick a blade through the gut. Sometimes you just have to make them feel like they’re needed in your life, and then wait until your self-absorbed ass mention you never had enough respect for them to even learn their name. That’s also a quick way to see the colour drain from the face.

I thought about looking him up before to see how he is doing, but I still don’t know his full name. Also, I don’t think I care enough. The only thing I’ll miss is just the breakfast delivery service. I did really like his ham and cheese sandwich.

© 2021 Alison Lian

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