To memorable to remember
Timothy Scott
I was a normal guy during the day; wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, everything the common person does on a daily basis. My nights, though, were spent wondering the streets; with someone else controlling my every move. Some mornings I would rise from my bed with no recollection of the previous night, others they would seem like a dream.
I taught elementary English for a living while spending most of my free time in the solitude of my apartment. Sandy left three years ago, taking with her my last desire to publicize outside of work. Rumors started to spread about me as I often hear the students say, “You know Mr. Davis lives by himself. I bet he has a secret lair where he dissects things!” Though not true I sometimes considered my bedroom as a sort of lair; a place where I could dissect some shows on television.
My apartment was a two minute walk from the shops and downtown and yet I seemed to never leave, save for work and the weekly trip to the grocery store. The area was nice enough for a while but I had decided to start the moving process. I lived in the space where Sandy and I had called home for nearly two years. The 1,000 square foot apartment was now half empty with boxes taking the place of many tables.
Sandy and I had a strong social life, but almost everyone we knew seemed to have been friends of hers from before we had started dating. I can’t remember any one of them being friends of mine. I did not care though, as it meant being social and living a normal life. It was when Sandy left that these experiences started to occur. I remember the first night so vividly. I lifted myself out of bed, got dressed, cleaned myself off, and walked out the door heading for town. I had no control that night as I walked the streets with a knife hidden underneath my coat, sheathed firmly against my torso.
To my knowledge I did not kill anyone that night, but there was a news story the next morning. A man, identified as Dan Snyder, was stabbed to death. Surely I was not the one who performed that task.
Dan was a former colleague of mine at the school. He had taught Math there for year until he had accepted a job as a principal at one of the other elementary schools in town. Everyone was happy for him, moving on up in this world. I had lost contact with him shortly after he took the job. He tried to reconnect with me a few times during the weeks prior to his sudden passing but I never engaged.
Those nights kept coming, one after another. They were the only nights I remembered. The next four kills were all too memorable for me to remember, each of them worse than the last. I was powerless in my own body, never able to control my actions. I was at it for weeks and had yet to be caught. Each time I wished it was the day, at work with the innocence that comes with an elementary school. I never understood why my body would involuntarily do these nonsensical and disturbing actions. I had never been a troublesome kid growing up and surely didn’t consider myself a troublesome adult.
I started losing weight freighting over what would happen on a nightly basis. This only fueled the children’s imagination at school. I often heard them playing games at recess and naming the mad scientist character after me. I had lost so much weight that the children started calling me Mr. Skeleton.
I took a leave of absence and left town to at least try to keep the kids safe from the dangers of my nightly horrors. The horrors continued no matter how far from town I went. I always seemed to find my way back. I began leaving love notes with bags of sand next to each victim, surely a sign that Sandy must be getting.
The local news shows jumped on this and started calling me the Beach Slayer. I found amusement in the name and tried my damned best to admit it was not me they were talking about. I had too, it was not me who was killing these innocent people. It couldn’t be. Often though, I would dream of these events, some gruesome stabbings, others quick hangings. It was never me in these dreams though. Only a faceless man with similar physique to mine before the weight loss.
It had been nine months to the day since the first kill as I was living in a rickety old shack in the woods. I stayed there as much as I could, only venturing into the neighboring town every few days for food and water. My beard and hair had grown out to the point where one could mistake me for a homeless man. I had sold the apartments and all the belongings that were left in there to have some money. My resignation at the school came with little surprise after I had failed to return after four months.
I had lost contact with a television while I was in the shack, only getting glimpses of day-time soap operas if I passed one in town. This day was different though. I was in the town diner when I saw the local news open with the town’s biggest news story since the great blizzard of 1915. The mayor and her husband had been murdered, by the Beach Slayer. According to the chief of police’s speech these were his seventh and eighth kills. My seventh and eighth kills. His seventh and eighth kills.
They found me three nights later, wandering the streets with my hair tied back in a small ponytail and wearing a Beetles t-shirt. My knife was sheathed tightly against my chest as I walked down the street toward Sandy’s place. I had dropped a baggie full of sand and a bystander had notified a near-by officer.
To my shock and amazement the jury took the insanity plea and I was sentenced to life in an insane asylum. I was Johnathon Samuel Smith to the judge and jury but pleaded that name was false. I was Mr. Davis, an innocent school teacher who taught English to children. When asked to give a first name to this identity, my identity, I couldn’t provide one. I told them I was Mr. Davis, and just that.
Sandy was there for the trial, sitting three row from the back. When I was on the stand I pointed her out, but she had moved her seat. In her place a heavy set man stood up and proclaimed to be Gilbert Goodrich, the son of one of my “victims”. The jury was convinced that Sandy was really Alexandra, my sister. Alexandra was found dead one night with a baggie filled with sand next to her. The whole family had attended the funeral, myself included. I couldn’t have been her killer, it happened three years before all the killings took place.
It wasn’t me then and it wasn’t me now. I was innocent, but no one seemed to agree. Sandy wasn’t my lost sister Alexandra, she was my once lover, the woman I wanted to marry. I wasn’t Johnathon Samuel Smith, I was Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis, the lovable yet strange elementary English teacher. Johnathon Samuel Smith was my cell mate in the asylum. He was a strange man, claimed to be three people trapped in one body.
I was a normal guy during the day; wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, everything the common person does on a daily basis. My nights, though, were spent wondering the streets; with someone else controlling my every move. Some mornings I would rise from my bed with no recollection of the previous night, others they would seem like a dream.
I taught elementary English for a living while spending most of my free time in the solitude of my apartment. Sandy left three years ago, taking with her my last desire to publicize outside of work. Rumors started to spread about me as I often hear the students say, “You know Mr. Davis lives by himself. I bet he has a secret lair where he dissects things!” Though not true I sometimes considered my bedroom as a sort of lair; a place where I could dissect some shows on television.
My apartment was a two minute walk from the shops and downtown and yet I seemed to never leave, save for work and the weekly trip to the grocery store. The area was nice enough for a while but I had decided to start the moving process. I lived in the space where Sandy and I had called home for nearly two years. The 1,000 square foot apartment was now half empty with boxes taking the place of many tables.
Sandy and I had a strong social life, but almost everyone we knew seemed to have been friends of hers from before we had started dating. I can’t remember any one of them being friends of mine. I did not care though, as it meant being social and living a normal life. It was when Sandy left that these experiences started to occur. I remember the first night so vividly. I lifted myself out of bed, got dressed, cleaned myself off, and walked out the door heading for town. I had no control that night as I walked the streets with a knife hidden underneath my coat, sheathed firmly against my torso.
To my knowledge I did not kill anyone that night, but there was a news story the next morning. A man, identified as Dan Snyder, was stabbed to death. Surely I was not the one who performed that task.
Dan was a former colleague of mine at the school. He had taught Math there for year until he had accepted a job as a principal at one of the other elementary schools in town. Everyone was happy for him, moving on up in this world. I had lost contact with him shortly after he took the job. He tried to reconnect with me a few times during the weeks prior to his sudden passing but I never engaged.
Those nights kept coming, one after another. They were the only nights I remembered. The next four kills were all too memorable for me to remember, each of them worse than the last. I was powerless in my own body, never able to control my actions. I was at it for weeks and had yet to be caught. Each time I wished it was the day, at work with the innocence that comes with an elementary school. I never understood why my body would involuntarily do these nonsensical and disturbing actions. I had never been a troublesome kid growing up and surely didn’t consider myself a troublesome adult.
I started losing weight freighting over what would happen on a nightly basis. This only fueled the children’s imagination at school. I often heard them playing games at recess and naming the mad scientist character after me. I had lost so much weight that the children started calling me Mr. Skeleton.
I took a leave of absence and left town to at least try to keep the kids safe from the dangers of my nightly horrors. The horrors continued no matter how far from town I went. I always seemed to find my way back. I began leaving love notes with bags of sand next to each victim, surely a sign that Sandy must be getting.
The local news shows jumped on this and started calling me the Beach Slayer. I found amusement in the name and tried my damned best to admit it was not me they were talking about. I had too, it was not me who was killing these innocent people. It couldn’t be. Often though, I would dream of these events, some gruesome stabbings, others quick hangings. It was never me in these dreams though. Only a faceless man with similar physique to mine before the weight loss.
It had been nine months to the day since the first kill as I was living in a rickety old shack in the woods. I stayed there as much as I could, only venturing into the neighboring town every few days for food and water. My beard and hair had grown out to the point where one could mistake me for a homeless man. I had sold the apartments and all the belongings that were left in there to have some money. My resignation at the school came with little surprise after I had failed to return after four months.
I had lost contact with a television while I was in the shack, only getting glimpses of day-time soap operas if I passed one in town. This day was different though. I was in the town diner when I saw the local news open with the town’s biggest news story since the great blizzard of 1915. The mayor and her husband had been murdered, by the Beach Slayer. According to the chief of police’s speech these were his seventh and eighth kills. My seventh and eighth kills. His seventh and eighth kills.
They found me three nights later, wandering the streets with my hair tied back in a small ponytail and wearing a Beetles t-shirt. My knife was sheathed tightly against my chest as I walked down the street toward Sandy’s place. I had dropped a baggie full of sand and a bystander had notified a near-by officer.
To my shock and amazement the jury took the insanity plea and I was sentenced to life in an insane asylum. I was Johnathon Samuel Smith to the judge and jury but pleaded that name was false. I was Mr. Davis, an innocent school teacher who taught English to children. When asked to give a first name to this identity, my identity, I couldn’t provide one. I told them I was Mr. Davis, and just that.
Sandy was there for the trial, sitting three row from the back. When I was on the stand I pointed her out, but she had moved her seat. In her place a heavy set man stood up and proclaimed to be Gilbert Goodrich, the son of one of my “victims”. The jury was convinced that Sandy was really Alexandra, my sister. Alexandra was found dead one night with a baggie filled with sand next to her. The whole family had attended the funeral, myself included. I couldn’t have been her killer, it happened three years before all the killings took place.
It wasn’t me then and it wasn’t me now. I was innocent, but no one seemed to agree. Sandy wasn’t my lost sister Alexandra, she was my once lover, the woman I wanted to marry. I wasn’t Johnathon Samuel Smith, I was Mr. Davis. Mr. Davis, the lovable yet strange elementary English teacher. Johnathon Samuel Smith was my cell mate in the asylum. He was a strange man, claimed to be three people trapped in one body.