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The Paltry Killer

Short Story

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. A quote from Benjamin Franklin. A man who when you look at his portrait, all you see is a happy looking balding man in spectacles. The man that appears on the one-hundred dollar bill. Why would this jolly, Santa-like man say something so austere?

I found out the hard way. Looks can be deceiving. I am a 5’2, 110 pound, 16 year old killer. I have mousy brown hair that curls around my small face like a doll. My eyes are blue, wide, and innocent. But stare into them too long and you might get a lethal dose of poison.

My small height and petite frame only make me more agile, although the officers laughed at me. They didn’t believe little ol’ me killed Diana, but there was solid proof. A “smoking gun” and I never denied what I did. I was guilty, plain and simple. Even the psychotherapists at the ward sympathized with me; I was too soft and childlike to ever do such a dastardly thing.

But it’s all true. And I regret nothing. Diana should’ve kept her mouth shut; she knew what I was capable of. She was my best friend once, and she insisted I tell her my every secret. Especially the one that I kept locked deep down inside, the one that no one could find out until she did. At the time I lived with my aunt and uncle, and I was new to town. I was a bit of a loner, and never bothered making friends.

Diana lived just down the street and made it her job to become joined at the hip with me. She had a loud, amiable personality, cheerful about everyone and everything. More annoying than friendly, really. She warmed up to me almost instantly, and I eventually gave up trying to push her away. I know not why she was so attached to me; I was about as cuddly as a cactus.

When we hung out she would go on and on about friendship pacts, best friend secrets, and the like. She wanted to know what happened to my parents, why I had to live with my aunt and uncle. My father is a no brainer; he’s an alcoholic I haven’t seen since I was five. And god forbid I ever see him again. My mother was killed when I was fifteen, in a beautifully tragic way. She was killed by her one and only child: me. I never could stand that woman, and her disruptive ways. She was half insane by the time I put her down like a dog, so I was really just relieving her of her misery.

Diana of course didn’t believe me when I told her; she thought I was only joking. Darling please, I am the last person on this planet to joke. She forgot all about her so called “friendship pact,” and went straight to the police. I expected it, and I had already laid my trap out for her. Poor girl found herself noosed up in the tree in her front yard, body blowing in the wind, nobody found her until it was too late. And by that time, I was already gone.

But sadly I’m a bit of a messy killer, and a slow runner. The police caught up to me a few days later, and I was institutionalized. But the silly people that captivated me like a wild animal think I only killed one. Just poor, annoying little Diana. They won’t ever know the truth about my mother’s death, because the only other person to know is sealed in a tomb. So this little secret will be taken to the grave.

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