The Witness of the Killing

by Andrew (the pessimistic one)

One night, I was on my nightly stroll through the park when the unthinkable happened.

It all began with two boys, running into the park. They both seemed like they were in a hurry to get somewhere past the park, but only the rate of their footsteps implied that.

They ran right by me, oblivious of my presence. Since I was curious, I followed them with my quiet footsteps I once used for stalking someone.

They finally came to a wide, open area with a fountain in the middle. I admit that it was a calming sight until a bit later.

A blue Mustang appeared out of nowhere. I still remember it clearly, the lights shining on the boys, the wheels tearing up grass, and the five boys in the car. After the car arrived, the five boys, two leaders and three followers, stepped out of the leather covered seats in the Mustang. The two boys with greasy hair were in shock. I don’t think they expected to be ganged up on in a park with no roads.

The newly arrived boys attacked the other two boys after exchanging a few words. They pushed the smaller one on the ground first. At first I thought he was out cold, but I was proven wrong later. Afterward, they went for the other one. The cruelty of this attack was appalling, but my curiosity of what would happen next rooted me to the spot. All the rich kids from the blue Mustang shoved the poor boy’s head in the water until he was coughing up water and gasping for air. I wish that I could have done something to help him at the time, but that probably would have jeopardized my safety. As the boy was getting tortured by the people in fancy jackets, the other boy on the ground slowly got up. I saw a blade reflecting the light from the car as it was drawn. It was a sharp, metal knife.

He lunged at one of the kids from the car with the dagger’s tip facing him. It all happened so fast. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing the moment the victim died from his attack. When I opened my eyes, the fountain water was tinted red with blood. All the other attackers ran afterward.

I was rooted to my spot by the grip of fear. I was staring at a murderer and his half-drowned friend. I didn’t know what to do.

I think I fainted because once I looked around again, the two boys were gone and the body was left to rot. Either that or my memory problems are becoming more severe. Both ways, I was a witness to a murder and an attack. Without thinking, I fled the scene of the crime.

As I ran home, the siren of a police car rang furiously. Luckily, the police didn’t notice my panicked pace and my breathless breathing.

In the distance, I saw my house, that white, old countryside house. As I entered, I realized something. What if someone saw me? I could be accused of murder. After pondering this for a few moments, I realized that if I never report my findings, then I won’t be accused. Then there is still the issue of a possible second witness though. I discarded the thought and continued into my house.

It was messy as always. Papers on the floor, old bread squished on the carpet, and boxes limiting my breathing space. I’m always too lazy to clean up my home so I’ve gotten used to the mice and cockroaches.

As I scanned the floor to see what else is in a state of extreme dirtiness I noticed a newspaper with a picture of a boy. From a distance he looked familiar but at a closer view he was different. It was a picture of a greasy-haired, tough-looking, troublemaking kid who had a caption all to himself.

“Dallas Winston, known to be part of the ‘greasers’ from the east side of town. Wanted dead or alive”, it said.

I found it hard to believe that his greasy hair made him look similar to one of the boys at the fountain area. Hopefully, I’ll never see either of them again. Seriously, nobody is inclined to meet a murder or any of his friends.

After some closer inspection of the picture, I realized that there was nothing else to see. I threw the newspaper into a rusty metal sink. When the newspaper was out of my mind, I continued up to the excessively messy second story.

It was messy like the rest of my house, only with more spider webs and skittering rats. About five rats passed by me as I started to walk towards my room.

When I tried turning my bedroom doorknob, it got torn out of the door. The shock of the event threw me backwards… either that or I was getting too weak to handle a doorknob. Both ways, I was on the floor. Also, I made a mental note to go down to the local Home Depot and buy a new door. Actually, maybe I should just buy that house next door. I realized that I was pondering things that I couldn’t afford so I rid myself of useless thoughts picked up a hammer from a nearby toolbox. With it, I started smashing the door to bits.

I arrived at the inside of my room after destroying my ancient door. As I looked around, I realized something. I actually had a job! As I tried recollecting any memories of this job of mine, it became obvious that I was suffering from memory loss (as always). Oh, by the way, this job of mine was a writer… of something. Well, the only clue I had was a typewriter.

This new job of mine inspired me to write about my encounter with a greasy murderer and his friend.

My story started with this, “One night, I was on my nightly stroll through the park when the unthinkable happened…”

When I finished my story, I figured out that it was the worst piece of writing ever written.

“Well, maybe I could trick a few people into buying this horrid paper with ink on it”, I said to myself.