Victimized Murderer

Feeling what’s left of the world crush beneath your feet is an odd feeling. My gray sky eyes look at the torn path ahead of me, glass crunching legs aching, I walk on. What left do I have here? Only Broken glass, broken dreams, broken hearts and other pointy objects. These things that rip at my soul, and tear my life apart. Nothing. That’s why I’m here. Here, as in my hometown, looking at the burned buildings, walking on dead dreams, being shadowed by the burning fires. Somewhere in this rubble are my parents, my love, everything I lived for. All I can hope is that it’s not their blood on my shoes. 1

All I can hope is that this darkness I’m walking through will make me stronger. Survivors look at me, and wonder why I even try walking, all they can think is how did we get here; I thought I knew you so well. They only recognize the eyes of a killer, Stryker the murderer. 2

My feet stop “So you think I’m the murderer? I was the victim before any of you.” Terrified eyes look at me, though not in my eyes. I see their tears ripple to the ground covered with blood and pain. But the grounds are silent, not a Childs scream can be heard. 3

Then a man steps up “What is your passion, why feed off of the blood of your kin? Why spill your lover’s blood out of lust? Why can’t I feel your regret?” I wanted to say something, but the words are caught in my throat, silencing me, choking me. 4

“I didn’t murder them!” Tears stream down my dirty cheeks. 5

“Then whose blood is on your hands Stryker?” 6

My eyes are now stuck on my hands, warm blood covered. I don’t even remember how it got there. Disgusting, I don’t know who’s it is, but it’s not the blood of my enemy. Sick. 7

“Where is your family Stryker? WHERE?!” 8

His words echo in my head over and over again. I’m Not a Murderer; I’m the victim I AM!! 9

Then the alarm clock snaps me back to life, my head whips up and eyes dilate. I’m home, old bed, annoying alarm clock, clean hands. Just Stryker LockHart, seventeen year old boy, who was blamed for the murder of the 150 towns people of his hometown in Alaska two years ago. 10

All cases dropped, there was not enough evidence, he goes free, but his heart is still trapped. 11

I don’t remember what happened; all I remember was waking up in a burning land with blood-covered hands, the only thing keeping me warm in the cold wonderland. 12

Snow tainted, eyes dull and crying. Alone. The next thing I remember was sitting in the courtroom, and the judge asking me “Did you murder them?” I couldn’t even say no, only that I didn’t remember…that I didn’t want to believe that I killed them. My parents and My Girlfriend. Their bodies were found, but you couldn’t tell it was them. Faces torn, arms and limbs cut into pieces. I was the only one without a scratch, the only one with blood on me that wasn’t mine. 13

It’s a good thing I’m not very depressed person, or sad. I never thought of killing myself. Not once, or hurting myself. I know I didn’t do it, I couldn’t have. No one talks to me, at school or anything. They all know who I am, “Stryker LockHart 21st century Killer,” The newspapers raved. “Mass Murderer moves to The Heart of N.C” So, only the strange hyper girl, Ebony Iris, she kills me sometimes, with her annoyingness. For some reason she talks to me, I don’t know why. Maybe some chicks dig murderers. Though, she believes it wasn’t me, that it was the man in my dreams. I tell her too much I guess. 14

Misery loves company, so I let her in, I talk, ramble. It looks like she’s interested, but I don’t realy know. Ebony loves talking too, she’s a writer so she says but I’ve never read any of her work. I’ve just listened to her theories on my “Mystery” she says. 15

Which, she probably writes about, and gets loads of money off of, that’s probably why she’s my friend. Money. Or she’s one of those creepy gossip girls who go around looking for things to tell and spread. 16

I live Alone, in a house, where Raleigh police monitors me constantly. It’s not like I have anything to hide, my hands aren’t red. Therapy is a drag, along with the anti-depressants I have to take. The only reason I have to take them is because a normal human should be very depressed after all of this. I’m not though, it worries me sometimes. I’m not depressed; I think it’s more like, anxiety. I’m very edgy, and I have a horrible temper. I’ve been suspended twice this year. People who think it’s funny that I’ve been suspected as a murder like to fuck with me. I don’t take it so well. 17

I’ve broken one guy’s nose, and another guy I broke his middle finger. With the first guy, he shoved me, and the second guy well I think you can figure that out. I don’t handle pressure very well. 18

But death doesn’t scare me, nether does blood. I can barley remember any emotional ties to my parents or my girlfriend. I don’t remember it at all. 19

Ebony thinks I’m some android from the state, designed to kill. But those are just movie stories. I don’t like movies, or acting. 20

Acting is just faking feelings that another people are actually enduring. Those are the real actors. The real people. 21

Hopefully I’m real, Ebony has too many theories, most of them, I’m not realy though. 22

What if I’m not…Real? 23