At various stages in my life, I’ve often found myself playing a part in different situations, with different people. I was never consistent. I’d be playing a role just to please the ones around me. Everything I’ve always wanted was to fit in. But now that I think about it, fitting in was never something I was ever able to achieve, at least not entirely. No matter how much I’ve tried, I never managed to completely pretend to be somebody else. And it’s tiring. It’s not just what’s inside of me that needed changing, sometimes it was the outside as well; my physical appearance.
When I walk down the street, I see all kinds of people. Each one of them has an authentic and real personality, and a very clear identity. The way they speak, the way they dress, their mentality, what they like, what they dislike. They’re coherent and affirming individuals. But me? I’m transparent. A blank page. You take it, and you write down whoever you want me to be, and I’ll be it. It’s not an obligation. It’s me wanting to please you. If you’re into sports, I’ll buy tickets and invite you to go watch a football or basketball game. If you’re into books and literature, I’ll boost up my knowledge about the most notable writers so we can share our love for their work and engage in intellectual and philosophical conversations. If you’re into indie bands, I’ll go with you vinyl shopping, or play the music you like while driving in your car, and I’ll be mumbling the lyrics, pretending to know them by heart.
I’ve pretended I was dozens of different people throughout my life. I’ve seen it all. I’ve tried it all. Or at least that’s what I thought, until now. Now I’m a murderer; an accomplice to a murder to be precise. I helped dismember and dispose of two human bodies. Although me and Matt cleaned up in the lake near the forest before driving back home, I can still see dirt stuck underneath my fingernails. I’m a filthy mess. I can’t keep up with who I’ve become anymore. I’ve reached a whole new level of craziness. I don’t know what I was thinking picking up an axe and butchering those people into tiny little pieces. But that’s how it is with Matt. He does all the thinking and the planning, and you just help execute. You don’t have a lot of say in what happens. You just follow his orders. I can’t even start to imagine what’s next for me. I’m not sure I even want to know.
I thought I knew Matt; clearly, I don’t. I can’t stop thinking of what he’s done, or even worst, of what he’s about to do next. I saw the way he behaved the night of the killing. He knew precisely what he was doing. He was planning for it all along. I’m so afraid to look him in the eye and face him after this. When we got home last night, I took a shower and slept in the guest bedroom. He wasn’t very pleased and he swore he’d never hurt me. But how can I be sure? He might be in love with me now, but what about tomorrow? What if he wakes up one day and decides he wants me gone? What if I become an inconvenience to him? I’m literally at risk here.
Felix Eberstark 