Idle Hands are the Devil's Playground

Dear Mr. Steele,1


Ugh, walking down the row of accusing faces was the worst feeling in the world. They knew I did it and they all hated me for it. But they don't know anything, how could they know the story as to why? But I have to tell the story to someone, that's why I'm telling it to you. After all, you asked for it.2

It was a nice summer day, but I was absolutely bored to tears. There was nothing to do since school had finished. All of my friends lived too far away to meet, and the ones who lived closest to me just happened to be on vacation.3

I guess that’s why I found myself walking down the deserted street late that night. Honestly, why else would I be doing it?4

Anyways, I was walking, and all around me were these weird houses. I don’t mean that they were crooked or anything. They were actually totally beautiful, being Castle Homes and all, but it felt like I was constantly being watched from the windows and stuff. Maybe I was just getting paranoid, but I was seriously feeling like that.5

I was walking, and then I got the bright idea that if people lived in houses this nice and big, they must be rich. Hence, they must have cool stuff that I could sell, getting the money to buy something that I could have fun with.6

I was thinking about getting some kind of Nintendo game or console while I sneaked up to the front porch, hidden in the shadows. 7

Gosh, that sounds like a cliché or something, doesn’t it? Well, whatever. It happened, and I’m not supposed to deny anything, right? I’m supposed to be telling the truth.8

So I tried the doorknob and was obviously out of luck. With the amount of crime in this city, who the hell leaves their door unlocked, especially at night?9

I took a bobby pin out of my hair, and attempted to pick the lock, like in all those awesome spy movies. Surprisingly, it didn’t work. I always thought that was one of the only Hollywood things that worked in real life.10

I looked around the porch, and noticed a glint of something shiny. I picked it up, and smacked my head loudly when I saw that it was a key. Great. I broke a bobby pin for nothing.11

The key turned the lock with a loud click and I opened the door. I felt like dying on the spot when the door creaked as it swung open. I pocketed the key just in case, and then closed the door as quietly as I could. I’m pretty sure that someone in the world was out to get me, because the door creaked as I closed it, too.12

I tiptoed through the foyer, and stopped right in my tracks when I saw a sleeping poodle. The poodle only meant one thing to me at the time: who ever lived here had to be loaded. I’m pretty sure that I stopped breathing, though. I didn’t want the dog to hear me, because all the dogs I’d ever had contact with started yapping and going insane as soon as they saw you.13

I tried to go around the dog, and I thanked the boss upstairs when the poodle remained sleeping calmly. I walked into what I’m pretty sure was a dining room, because there was a huge table covered with candles and flowers. The candleholders probably cost more than my entire college fund, so I pocketed a few, since they were pretty small.14

Next was the kitchen. It smelled like freshly baked bread and cookies, making my taste buds water with lust. It was one of those designer kitchens with a million different wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. I saw that there was an open beer can on the island kitchen, so I decided to take a swig. I figured that I was already breaking the law; I might as well go one step further. Now I realize how stupid that was of me. My lips on that can meant the forensic team could identify me easy-peasy.15

I got as far as what looked like an office under renovation when I realized that something was wrong. I didn’t know what it was, but I got some kind of feeling that made my skin get goose bumps, and let me tell you, those ain’t fun.16

And that’s when the light turned on.17

Instinctively, I grabbed the closest thing to me, and it happened to be a stapler gun. I spun around, and saw that there was a gun in my face. Behind the gun, there was an old lady, and behind the old lady, was that stupid poodle, trying to be intimidating by growling.18

It felt as if time totally stopped. All I could hear was the woman’s voice: “You better get out of my house right now, you damn hooligan, or else I will shoot.”19

When I stayed where I was, the woman looked even fiercer. “I’m giving you one more chance. It’s in your best interest to leave. Now.”20

It was as if her last word, “Now.” had activated my brain. In what felt like a second, I flipped the stapler open, and pointing it to her forehead, contracted my hand. It sounded like an explosion to me, and for a second, I thought that she had shot me. I looked down at myself, and realized that everything was in working order, so that couldn’t have been what made the noise. Of course, I realized what it was when I saw a deep gash about one centimeter wide in the lady’s head.21

She was still alive, but shocked as hell. The gun fell from her stunned hands, clattering to the floor. I was running on adrenaline, so I dove after it. Once the gun was in my hands, I pointed it up, and shot the woman in the chest.22

I had never even held a gun before, and here I was, trying to kill a woman! No one had ever told me how hard it was to pull the trigger, and I was totally unprepared for the recoil of the gunshot.23

I was also unprepared for the loud noise it made.24

I honestly felt as if my ears were going to start bleeding any second. The stupid poodle wasn’t making it any better by yapping and jumping around me, and it proceeded to be more annoying than I thought possible when it pounced on me.25

Grumbling, I turned the barrel towards the dog, and it yapped a final time before it was silenced forever.26

Wow, that sounds so melodramatic, doesn’t it? 27

So here I was, a young girl, aged sixteen, with two dead bodies right in front of me. My fingerprints were on the gun, and they had died from bullet wounds, labeling me as a murder.
The breaking-and-entering situation didn’t help, either.28

Was I screwed? Yessir, I was.29

So I did what anyone else would’ve probably done in my situation: I split. I ran down the street, and I never stopped running, even though I was out of breath. When I heard the sirens, I ran even faster.30

Gosh, I was so scared. I don’t usually get scared, so you can probably see how afraid I was.31

Of course, when there are sirens going off all around you and you’re running as fast as you can, people think it’s suspicious, so the police tried to make me stop for questioning. When I didn’t stop, I pretty much let them know, “Hey! Look at me! I did it! I killed them!”32

And that leads us to now. You wanted me to write you a recollection of what happened that day so that you can help me in court. Honestly, I’m pretty much guilty. Even if I get out of this case alive, my parents will never respect me again. They know I did it, I know I did it, and the world knows I did it.33

And all those people in the jury…all those accusing faces…they all hate me already. They’re already against me. I can see it in their eyes. I’m only surprised that they hate me because they don’t know what happened yet. After all, we were only in court once.34

I appreciate all your help, but I’m pretty sure that even though you’re an award-winning lawyer (as you politely like to point out every single time I meet with you), I’m pretty sure you can’t give me a free future. I’m either going to end up in juvie, or with a big fat CRIMINAL stamp on my record.35

Whatever, you can still help me if you want, but nothing in this letter will probably help you. After all, you did force me to write the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.36

So this letter will let all those accusing faces hate me for real now. After all, it’s giving them the reason as to why.37


Sincerely,
Janice Pike38