It doubled as a place for his feral cat colony to gather and a small armory equipped with all the things an experienced murderer could possibly need. I always shied away from going in there, but I needed to do it to see my favorite cat. He chirped at me from his place in a cat bed. I sat down across from him and pet his head, feeling a bit more comforted. The black and white tomcat had been my comfort and favorite friend over nearly the past year. Aside scratched him, I knew what I had to do. My eyes fell on the racks lined with different varieties of guns. I had never used one before, befitting of my role as a hapless nerd. I knew how to, though. I gave Rasputin a few pets down his back and murmured to him. "It's okay bud. We're both gonna be okay." I remembered that I saw a cat carrier in the kitchen, on the table. "You won't be going to the vet. Not yet, at least." I stood up and went to the trunk set against the wall. It had a few pairs of gloves in it, cat food,

,and a couple knives I knew weren't supposed to be in there. I picked up a pair of gloves and slid them onto my hands. I bet by now you can see where this is going. Maybe I should just let your imagination do the rest of the work? No, that's a bit unfair. This is the least punishment I deserve. I snuck back inside and grabbed the carrier. I then coaxed Rasputin in, and left some food in there for him. He was a bit unhappy, but I wanted to keep him safe. I grabbed the first pistol I saw from the wall and went back inside, around the staircase, and down to the basement. "I can't believe I'm saying it, but I'll miss this place a bit," I sighed, looking around the place embodying my nightmares. He had recently stain-treating the egregious magenta curtains over the boarded-up window. Just because he enjoyed tacky things. "Or maybe I won't," I said as I thought about everything that had happened there over the years. "I'll just be glad to be back in my own home."

It wasn't long before Abattoir finished with his gardening in the backyard and came looking for me in the basement. "Hey, I though I told you to stay out of here," he said, before he noticed my hand. "That's a real clever plot you have there. I doubt you have the balls to do it, though." He laughed a bit, and I bit my lip and my finger moved to the safety. I'm not describing this bit. Let your imagination do the work. I'd even supply a YouTube link to a sound effect if links were clickable. The version that won't have me crying everywhere is this: we both said goodbye to each other. He told me to burn the gloves, and to leave a note that was in the looked drawer on the table. It was for this exact moment. I took the key to the lock from him, the metal feeling warm. I would be remiss if I didn't include his exact words as I left, though. "You know, I was starting to reconsider hating you quite as much. Looks like I'll be spared that disgrace."

Oh frick, I'm crying now. I'll hold it together, I swear. Uh, this page might be a bit hard to read. I followed his instructions and used his fire pit for the gloves. I didn't look at the note, feeling like that was an invasion of privacy. I also felt like I shouldn't care about invading the privacy of him of all people, the root of my life having gone so haywire the last four years, but respect is respect, and he at least wasn't the worst person ever. Or, who knows, maybe he was Hitler. I guess I'll never know. I ran out of the subdivision with Rasputin in his carrier in my hand. He was meowing like it was going out of style, which served as a good distraction from my thoughts, which were not about to get over what just happened. Obviously. I mean... Duh. Just be glad you've never experienced this. With my apartment key secured in my pocket, I ran all the way back to the place I wished I could have lived. I fumbled with the key and forced back tears for the sake of someone I didn't care about.

And that's where I am now. Recounting it to this journal. I guess I won't have any need for it anymore, now that the purpose for creating it isn't... In play anymore. Four people, five years, too many corpses. Now the only things I have to worry about are getting my degree, finding therapy without admitting to what I did, and you know... Getting charged with murder. I'd say that's a bit more than most college students, but I'm still alive and kicking, and for once I'd like to keep it that way. Now, I'm going to go get some cat litter.

...u sure abt that my man