NewsPapers

I swear, I’m not crazy! Ask anyone. I’m not the one who put those things in the newspaper. I’m not responsible for any of this! Just let me explain things from my side of the story. You’ll understand. You’ll agree, this was never my fault!

Let me start at the beginning. You see, every morning when I wake up, I follow a strict routine: I wake up, make myself presentable, eat breakfast, and get the newspaper. A simple routine — and that’s how I like it. I then leave for work and lead a rather boring day. I’ll admit, occasionally I do wish ill of a coworker, or someone I pass in the streets, but such thoughts are harmless things.

The week leading up to the events I must now recount went something like this:

It was another winter morning. I arose from my bed at 6:00 as per usual. I then dressed myself and made a cup of coffee. At exactly 6:30, I opened the door to catch the newspaper tossed from a young boy riding his bike. I opened the paper, and was immediately greeted by my own face and the bloody body of Mary Jane. An overwhelming feeling flooded through my body. I rushed back inside, started a fire hastily, and burned the damned thing. I watched the flames eat the paper until it was nothing more than smoke and ash. It curled and shriveled as I caught a small glance at the entry that no longer had my face on it. Now the paper showed nothing more than some politics I had no interest in reading. But no, simply moments before my face had been there, I was certain of it. The blasted paper accused me of killing Mary Jane, my overly joyous neighbor, when I had only ever thought of such a thing and nothing more. For goodness ' sake, I could hear her humming outside right now. Who dares to see my thoughts and publish them? I leave the thought for another time and head to work.

The second day goes by mostly the same as the day before. I woke up and followed the same morning routine. At 6:30, I went outside to get the newspaper; this time, it said I had burned down the office I currently work at. I burned the thing again, watching as my face disappeared from the page. This must have been a cruel prank, but by whom? Was it Harold, my dear friend, who works for the papers? No, he would never do such a thing. Could I have imagined it? But no, that would be silly. I went to work once more. 

The days dragged on with similar accusing articles, driving me insane. Maybe everyone knew of my wretched mind. Maybe this was all a cruel joke against me? 

The third day, I was accused of killing Elliot, the boy who delivered the newspapers each morning. The fourth, I was accused of stabbing a man. By then, I had stopped counting.

One morning, after the newspaper had been successfully burned, I got a call from Harold, “My good friend Arthur! It’s been a while since we’re talked. I was wondering if you’d like to get together for some games and conversation here soon?”

I’ll admit I was wary of social interaction, but how could I say no to my dearest friend? “I’m glad to hear from you, Harold! I’d be delighted to get together soon. How does tomorrow at my house sound?”

“Fantastic! After work, I presume?”

“Yes, how about an hour after work?”

“Wonderful! I look forward to seeing you!”

I hung up the call, and went to work.

The next morning, I woke up and at 6:30 went to get the newspaper as per usual. This time, my face was shown and a picture of Harold's dead body, proclaiming I had murdered him. What nonsense! I looked up to see if anyone else was nearby. Seeing no one, I went back inside, looking at the paper once again. My face was gone, and in its place was an article of more politics. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. My face appeared again and just as quickly disappeared. I burned the paper and went to work.

An hour after I arrived home, my best friend knocked on my door. I swung it open with a grin, “Harold! How good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you, too, Arthur! I have brought some cards, would you like to play a game?”

“Of course! Would you like something to eat first? I have dinner waiting for us.”

“Thank you! I am quite hungry.”

We went inside. So far, everything was rather normal. As we walked to the kitchen, my mind filled with anxiety. He must know about the papers. He must be writing them — laughing as he does. That look on his face, it’s one of mockery, is it not?

We turned into the kitchen, and I spotted it. A stack of newspapers. I had burned every one of those damned newspapers! How did they get here?

“One moment,” I told my dear friend, grabbing the papers and throwing them in the fire before he could see the many new crimes and horrors on them.

If he had written them, it wouldn’t have mattered. At the same time, I couldn’t bear another knowing of my criminal thoughts.

Yet the papers disappeared when I turned back to dispose of them. I couldn’t afford to question it.

“So, Arthur, how has work been going with you?”

“Oh, you know, uneventful as usual. Same cubicle, same pen, same boring job. Nothing of much excitement, really. How about you?”

See, I didn’t really want to know. I’d rather avoid that topic altogether. But I must be polite, and he had asked me.

“Simply splendid!” He began telling me all about his job, but I really couldn’t hear a thing. 

I noticed another newspaper on the floor and was eager to grab it, but didn’t want to make a scene. Then another on the couch down the hall. Was I going mad? No, this was a trick — a cruel one. Each horror in the news was worse than the last. I couldn’t stand this mockery! He left for the restroom, and I began running around the house, desperate to relieve myself of these unwelcome guests! They were everywhere! I turned the corner, and more were on the floor, hanging on the walls, and on every available surface, my crimes sometimes circled in red, other times my face scribbled out.

“Why, dear friend, do you hate me!” I lamented in a panic, clutching my head. This needs to stop. This needs to stop. THIS NEEDS TO STOP!

When my friend was back, I was calmly seated at the table where he had left me, a smile on my face.

“Now that I’m back, would you like to play that card game I brought?” He asked so simply.

“Yes, but… oh, I’m terribly sorry, good friend, but I can’t keep living this way,” I began to get up. 

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked innocently. My blade sank into his neck, and I felt his blood on my fingers, finalizing my actions. The realization of this horrid deed sank into my very soul.

And I smiled.