Hi. 

You're dead. Don't tell me you've not realised.

I first wrote this in 2008 for my GCSE creative writing coursework. The original version got me an A, and has been updated since then.

The Psychopath 

My last sight as a free man was the bleeding corpse of my former best friend Benjamin Luton. As I stared out of the back of the police car, I saw him being put into a body bag, and the scene started to become more distant as the van pulled away. I continued to watch, enclosed inside; as the June sun rose over the scene, casting all with a bloody tinge.

To explain all this it is necessary to go back about 4 months, to a time when my life was almost perfect. It was Valentine’s Day, and I had left work early to surprise my beautiful wife Rachel at home. It was a wonderful day, even if it was February, and at that moment I was at peace with the world. I slotted the key into the lock and turned it without making a sound, creeping up the stairs to our bedroom. 

I leapt through the door, producing a bunch of flowers from behind my back as I did so, but the sight that met my eyes shattered my world and my heart for ever. My wife was in bed with my best friend Ben Luton. Minutes passed, maybe even hours, in which we all stared at each other in utmost horror. Then, I found myself swelling with explosive anger. ‘Get out Ben. GET OUT!’ I found myself shouting. He leapt out of bed with a look of alarm at the furious expression on my face, and made a grab for the clothes on the floor; but I got there first, snatching them away from him and throwing them out of the open bedroom window. He threw me a look of disbelief and ran down the stairs, stumbling as I kicked the back of his leg. He landed hard on all fours, scrambled up and dashed out the door, still naked.

I turned to Rachel. ‘W-why…why…I trusted…how could you?’ She opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘I think you’d better go.’ I said in a choked voice. She got up, pulled on her clothes and left the room. I sat down on the bed, tears pouring down my face, wondering at how my life had fallen into ruin…

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A couple of months passed. In that time I had begun divorce proceedings against Rachel and evicted her from the house, as I had no love or any other feelings towards her remaining, and it was clear that this was mutual. For a couple of weeks after that, I was alternately filled with apathy that lasted for hours on end; and periods where hatred of Ben consumed my soul like an inferno. During one of my apathetic phases I decided that in order to overcome these feelings that I would go to a psychiatrist.

However, this did not have the effect that I had hoped. The psychiatrist was so infuriatingly patient and calm that it was as though he was a robot programmed to operate in a specific fashion, rather than a human being with any understanding of emotions. I stopped receiving treatment 3 sessions in, only a week after I had had begun, as all it had achieved was to inflame my feelings of hatred still further, and as I stood outside, hatred coursing through my veins, I made the decision. I was going to murder Benjamin Luton.

I knew that I would have to prepare for the great deed, so I contacted an old friend in Manchester who worked with firearms. He was delighted to see me, and we had a good time out drinking. He loved handguns and was delighted that I was interested in acquiring a licence for one (I had not told him what for). With his help, I chose a Luger, acquired the licence and the ammunition, and returned home to London to prepare for the deed.

My deductions told me that I would be able to catch him unawares on the day of his birthday, and that I would need to be reasonably disguised so that he wouldn’t be able to easily tell who I was. 

On June 18, the day of his birthday and the great deed, I set out for the pub where I knew he would be just after 2:30am, which I knew would be about half an hour before he left. I still wasn’t suitably disguised, when I saw an old, unkempt tramp sitting up under a sleeping bag across the street. I strode towards him, but before he had even fully extended his arm, hopeful for some change, I had kicked him in the head. I kept kicking him until he keeled over sideways, dead. My eyes flamed and glittered with hatred as I stole his jacket and jeans and pulled them on over my own clothes, pulled his body into a nearby alley. I went back, pulled the tramp’s sleeping bag over myself, pulled out the Luger and loaded it, and waited. 

I waited for a little over 20 minutes, then I suddenly heard him say goodnight to his friends at the door of the pub. Soon he emerged and began staggering down the road, past me. I threw the sleeping bag off and pounced at him, pointing the gun to his head. ‘Any regrets?’ I said coldly. The moonlight illuminated his face as he replied in a terrified shriek ‘Sleeping with your wife!’ A mirthless smile curled my lips as I said ‘Too late.’ Pulling the trigger, I shot him once in the head and once in the chest, and Benjamin Luton moved no more. 

And as I sit here in the back of the police car, I feel a sense of satisfaction that justice has been done upon him, and that no one shall ever forget the righteous actions of Luke Shephard.