You want to know why I killed him, why I killed that revolting germ, that ugly little pestilence? I'll tell you why. I'll tell you with glee, with the fluttering of my heart that I felt that very day. I killed him because every morning I woke up, I want to use the bathroom but the door is closed with the 'engaged' sign (a sign of his making, I might add) hanging upon it. He's not in there, no one is in there, it's as vacant as the blank husk of his core. But still I knock, just on the off chance - it's expected of me. No answer. I walk in. I can almost feel his torn scalp underneath my finger nails. But still he haunts me. His sponge, coated in gangreen and his black scales and evil seeds, lies in the sink, it is big enough to get fast in the throat of God. It festers there, you can see the creepers branching out, round the taps and into the overflow - rusting, rotting, hating. It has grown eyes, naked yellow eyes, sickly and unblinking they turn now to look at me, they dare me to touch them. They laugh stickily, choking in their own phlegm. "Pick me up, pick me up". That insane cackle.
I grab the sponge and drop it on the side of the bath. Each time I do it I am certain it will be my last. No, it's just a sponge. I wash, paying special attention to my convalescing hand, to rid it of anything that may have slid from the sponge. I go now to the kitchen. I shall have a hot drink. Soothing and envigourating for the nerves. The kettle is all but dismantled, the cord detached from the kettle, the switch on the wall socket is off, the kettle is empty. A tiny task, almost no effort at all becomes a great battle of restraint. I go in the drawer for a teaspoon and there I see a bread knife. My thoughts are best not communicated. I check the mail, nothing for me but seven items for him all re-addressed from elsewhere with that shaky, twisted writing that may only have been performed by someone who has long been dead. What are these items anyway? Junk mail, mailshots, computing magazine, a stunning reference library of inanity and irrelevance direct through your door. It's too much. I sit and cry, long and hard.
So why did I kill him? Through my mornings of hell I resist simply because of his absence. But in his presence things get worse. He comes in. I hear him. His 'beep beep' turns off his one hundred decibel infra-red alarm in his room. What is in his room that needs protecting with this expensive technology? Something of value, something precious? Something sinister, embarrassing and dirt ridden, more like! I black out at the sound of that alarm, choking back my own loathing. I awaken to a buzzing, no a whistling, no, something else. It is him. He walks around the house openly talking to himself. What he says I don't know, it is a whisper and all I hear are the frequent hissing esses. But now and then the volume jumps and I hear threats, curses and plots - disjointed and gnarled. Othertimes I hear him, he is not talking but just breathing. Breathing like no other man could. Like an animal on a fire, dying but too badly injured to scrape itself off the burning logs. He breathes like a sewage works. A hoarse flapping of a torn membrane in his throat.
When he is in his room. I am sure now that he must be covered in cobwebs now. Stripped naked, sweating profusely, covered in excrement and feathers. Small animals, still barely alive, hang impaled on meat hooks suspended from the frieze, their warm blood trickling down the walls like those of their brothers yesterday. He is deep in himself now, I venture out of my room. Sometimes he stays put, I must be right about him. Othertimes he surprises me. He comes out on the pretence of something-or-other. He sits close to me and drips foaming saliva into my lap. He catches my eye (though I am looking away from him) and they smoke. His body is ridiculous, like an enormous barrel with tiny arms and legs hanging without any strength, twitching and blanched by solaric curfew. His clothes are equally ridiculous, as though he is trying to incite some rudeness from me. He wears jeans of untreated denim in a cut completely free of style. He wears a small blue tee shirt with three buttons at the top. His fatty breasts strain against the material like a bag of puss. He wears polished black shoes and white ankle socks with a red and a blue ring around them. I fancy that his name (whatever putrid moniker that must be) and address is clearly marked on each of these garments.
So why did I kill him? He engages me in conversation. He talks at me. Something I understand to be humour, but I cannot will myself to laugh. Knowledge, knowledge that were I to know it, I'd try my damnedest to forget it. He talks and while he does this, while he talks he tries to get me to speak up, he tries to make me talk to him, but I understand, if I talk back I am accepting him. That's all he needs, all he needs and then he'll snatch me in those sickly pincers and take me to his room, strip me naked and hang me by my jaw from the frieze and buggerise me. Then the thousand demons of Hell will dance in the red sands and shout their victory over the grace of God. I've got his number, and that's why I killed him. That's why I kill him every day of my life, for if I should forget, maybe I'd do it for real. . . . .
THE END.