It Was All a Dream

I went to visit my grandmother's house and when I got there, I was told that my grandfather had been murdered. There were many different stories on the news, but none explained the cause of his death, nor had any identified his killer. One of the biggest stories though, was that he had been stuffed into my grandparent’s larder, which was fairly small. I stayed with my grandma for a bit after hearing the news, and she told me there was no evidence as to who the killer was, so I took it into my own hands and did some research. Sure enough, there were many stories, but so little evidence that they weren’t even sure where the body had been stored, meaning that the person had disposed of the body after storing it, but the media wouldn’t directly state such. The fact that they could dispose of the body told me that they must have been young, or at least not old, and fit, since my grandfather is on the heavy side. I wanted to keep researching what the police had found, but eldest my brother kept nagging me because he wanted to use my grandmother’s laptop, which was all of the resource I had to research with at the time, but I gave in. I gave him the laptop, but he didn’t do much with it. He was aimlessly sitting there, but I thought I was over-analyzing, so I ignored it and continued house observation. I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. In fact, all of the places that the body was rumored to have been hidden were completely clean and undamaged, despite the fact that my grandmother had never touched or cleaned them and that it would have been illegal for investigators to do so as they haven’t even a suspect. I found it very odd, especially since my grandfather would have surely struggled, and he’s quite strong. I continued my research, eventually getting the laptop back, but I had to go home. When I returned home, my brother hadn’t left his room for an entire day, but okay, that was normal for teenagers. I kept trying to do research and even call my grandma, but he would always intervene. Then, when I was sitting on my bed trying to put pieces together, he walked to me and asked the iconic line, “Do you want to play a game?” Being skeptical, I asked, “What kind of game?” and he said something along the lines of, “Well I need my friends to come over, I get ten knives, and you lay on the floor with them.” I prepared to run, and to distract him from my moving, I asked, “And how many ‘friends’ will you be bringing?” I pushed him out of the way of my door as he said, “Nine.” I ran to the dishwasher and grabbed out three knives; two small ones, and a butcher knife. I held the first two in my right hand and the other in my left. I ran from the kitchen into the living room where my mom was, and I said, “Mom, take this knife, he’s the killer, he killed Grandpa!” I pushed a small knife sideways up to her chest to force her to take it. She said something like, “Even if he was going to kill me, I’m his mother, I could never try to kill him.” I started crying and queried, “And what if he were going to kill me? He’s a killer! He killed Grandpa!” My mother stopped responding to me and started crying. I pushed her out of my way, since he was behind her. Her back was bad, so once I pushed her onto the floor, she couldn’t get back up. I stood right in front of the boy who I was convinced had murdered my grandfather, and even with so much room for research, so many ways he could’ve been joking, so much room for error on my part, I stabbed him. Once. Twice. My mom yelled at me to stop but I yelled back as if it somehow justified my actions, “He’s a killer!” I stabbed him one last time through the heart and my mother crawled to me. She said, “Just let me hold him. One more time.” And I said, “But he-” and he moved closer to her and I yelled, “He’ll stab you!” She kept looking up at him and quietly cried, “You stabbed him through the heart.”

He held her face and I continued to worry that he had a knife, but he didn’t. I held him up as he hugged my mother. His body was getting weak. Then I woke up.