Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20140929222804

It's funny how the said protector's of the people don't really protect the people. Instead, they pick and choose who they accommodate, leaving the rest to fend for themselves in a world full of danger. Before now, I was a happy person. I went out for food daily, replenishing my stock of the finest cuisine, and also caught up with the latest gossip around town about the hotspots hidden amongst the city. The only time I was not happy was when nosy neighbors invaded upon my property. One in particular had given me hell ever since I moved into the neighborhood. Amy Langston. You know, those people that think they're better than everyone else? Yeah, that was Amy.

Countless times, ever since she became my neighbor, she had called the authorities on me. Supposedly, my music was too loud, my grass was unkept, and I had too many pets. Her pursuit of getting me evicted from my own home never seemed to end. I've tried talking to her on several occasions, inviting her out for brunch, but she just looked at me with an uppity smirk and continued walking. There was no stopping her endless hatred of anyone different than her. There was no hope in bringing forth even the slightest smidgen of empathy within her cold eyes. She wanted nothing more than to completely destroy my life and my reputation. She was absolutely evil.

Still, my heartache and disappointment did not end with her.

Even when I contacted the police, no justice was served. Instead, I was insulted for calling the authorities without any real proof of Amy's sociopathic innuendos. She had the authorities within her back packet, as her own husband was a well respected sheriff. So, I had to accept the fact that my own home wasn't my home anymore. I had to accept that no matter what I did or said to anyone, I would be looked at as subhuman in comparison to the oh so perfect Amy.

Though I hated my situation, it wasn't all bad. Over the years, I have developed quite close bonds with my other neighbors, who do not share the same twisted desire to ruin everything I have created for myself as Amy did. In fact, these friends of mine could relate to me in almost every aspect. They would come to visit every once in a while, and we would stand in front of a fire, chatting about other neighbors we could not stand. Each and every time we spoke of these intruding neighbors, we all walked away from the conversation seething with anger, upset we could not control our situations.

That is, until we devised a plan.

A plan that would set us free from our nosy neighbors. A plan that would fix any and all shame and ridicule from our thoughts. With our plan within the forefront of our agenda, we set out upon the world to relieve ourselves of any shame, doubt, or feelings of inadequacy. One by one, we began exterminating our neighbors. One by one, we set them ablaze as they walked out of their high rise office buildings into the parking lot. One by one, we watched as the embers rose from their bodies, releasing them from their own tormenting selves.

After about the third victim, the media was all over it. Police officers questioned any and everyone within the distance of each event, promising the family of each victim justice.

Justice we were never promised.

A manhunt began as the murders picked up, and a 100,000 dollar reward was announced to anyone that would bring forth any evidence against whoever did such "heinous" crimes.

It didn't take long for a fellow neighbor to rat us out.

I couldn't blame him for doing so. When you go without food for days at a time, your mind starts playing tricks on you. No matter how strong willed you are, you would go against anything to feed yourself. So I couldn't be upset. If I hadn't been apart of the group that slayed the neighbors, I would have called for the money just as quickly.

Almost immediately, the police officers rushed each of our homes, pulling us from our beds as we slept. Handcuffs wrapped tightly around our wrists, and our heads were pushed forcefully within the cruisers. Once our journey to the station ended, we were confronted by the family's of each victim. Many spat upon me, lunging objects in my direction as soon as I exited the vehicle. As expected, the cops did little to shield us from such barbaric behavior, and instead walked us quite slowly to the doors of the building, seemingly to allow the family ample amounts of time to violate us.

Once inside and within the safety of the interrogation room, the air conditioner seemed to be lowered to an uncomfortable level, one that made every goose-bump arise over my grimy body. Quickly, though I was almost immune to my own stench, the air permeated with a foul odor caused by a lack of bathing and the daily dumpster dive. It didn't take long for an officer to enter the room, a cup of coffee in hand.

"Well, aren't you a piece of shit," he said, walking slowly towards me.

I sat back in my chair, staring intently upon the man staring back at me with hate filled eyes.

"Why am I here?" I questioned.

He laughed, sitting in the chair before me as another officer entered the room.

"You're here because you murdered those people," he said, starkly.

I pulled in closer to the officer, allowing my stench to brush against his nose as I did so.

"I didn't do nothing," I said, matter-of-factly.

He pulled away from me, shaking his head as if he wanted nothing more than to choke the life out of me.

"You did! And I have proof," he said, accepting a folder from the other cop's grasp.

He threw it on the table before opening it, exposing pictures of numerous charred bodies. Almost instinctively, I caught a glimpse of Amy. The only reason I could tell her apart from the others was the fact that her red purse laid within arm's reach of her blacked arm, unsinged. A laugh quickly escape my mouth, as my body jolted with happiness. The investigator looked upon me as if I were insane, but he didn't know how good it felt to see that bitch dead.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. But, I believe I have a solid alibi, sir. I was home that night, cleaning up my house. After the week I had, I sort of neglected doing so," I said, wild eyed.

From that day forward, I was covered and interviewed by countless journalists. My name was on every television screen, even the one within the jail. I watched, gleaming happily as they flashed a picture of a shaggy man with a beard far too wild for his face. They all described me as a mentally disturbed, murderous, homeless man.

That couldn't have been further from the truth.

I mean, I was simply cleaning my house. 