Strange Fruit
A thing I wrote, whoa!
Thinking back on it now, murder hadn’t been terribly difficult. Television and movies talked it up, as though it was some kind of delicate art, but, frankly, it wasn’t painting the God damn Mona Lisa. Granted, people were always telling Mark that he was gifted. “That Mark Wendell, he’s a fine young man. Gonna make us proud,” they’d say and smile and he would force a smile back, all the while resenting the great expectations being forced upon him.
As far as Mark was concerned, anybody with one good brain cell could kill someone. It was all in the timing really. In Mark’s case, he had waited weeks for the right moment. He camped outside of Mr. Johnson’s house every other night, when he didn’t have to work late, watching, memorizing his patterns. The elderly, he supposed, were fairly set in their ways and could be expected, fairly reliably, to adhere to a certain routine. Every afternoon at 4:30, Mr. Johnson would prepare dinner for himself. At 5:30 he would leave through the back door and head out to the bar until 8:30, when he would stumble in, leaving the door unlocked, and pass out in his recliner. Killing the old man after he passed out would have been easy, but Mark wanted to know what it really felt like to kill a man, and the only way to do that would be to confront his victim first. Johnson had to know what was coming; Mark wanted to see the fear.
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