My Best Friend. Short Story.

Murder. That was how it all began. Another human thrown onto the trash heap that was humanity and no one seemed to care. They looked at her and all they saw were big blue eyes, long blonde hair and a killer smile. They didn’t see what she was really like. How she behaved when she was alone. When we were alone.

I know people will never believe me when I say it, but she was the one that started it. She was the one who came to me. I remember the first time we spoke to each other properly. It was weird and awkward, the two of us wary of the other. Her with her short skirts and bright smile, me with my glower and dark clothes. She was my first real friend you know. It’s sad to say it, but up until that day when we were fifteen I had no friends. I would have done anything for her then and if things had gone differently I probably still would.

We became pretty inseparable from then on. Her friends thought it was weird at first but they got used to me and over time I got used to them. My style of dress changed, I no longer wore dark, bulky clothes. Everything became brighter, tighter. I too changed. I began to participate. Not just in class but in the world. Before I would spend evenings alone in my room, just waiting for the day to end, but with her I became someone. I was known, hell, I was liked. I was the smart one, the one with the quick comebacks. I thought at the time that people were finally seeing me for me, but that wasn’t the case. They were seeing me through her eyes. She made me what I was, she made me believe I was somebody, that I was liked, that I was loved.

She was the first one to suggest it, her boyfriend, Tommy. He was getting a bit rough with her. He slapped her around a few times. No one said anything of course, we all just politely looked around the black eye. She made it clear it wasn’t to be discussed, so we just didn’t bring it up. Not even amongst ourselves, God, I forgot how much power she had over us all. If she didn’t like it neither did we. Maybe things would be different if we had spoken up, talked to someone. At the time I thought surely someone would step in, someone else of course. Even the adults, but they all seemed to be buying her clumsy ditz act about it. She was one of the most graceful people I have ever known, she couldn’t be clumsy if she tried.

I was in her house, the two of us bundled in blankets watching TV, the Simpsons I think it was, when she started to cry. I don’t remember much of what was said, maybe I blocked it out, guilt or shame. But a plan was made. Tommy would have to pay for what he did to her, a lesson, that was all, to make sure he never did it again.

Tommy drove drunk, it wasn’t approved by any of us, but it was tolerated. At that age there was no real sense of consequences. If we went out to drink in the woods, well, we had to get home somehow didn’t we? None of us could see the danger in it. The roads were mostly empty by the time we’d be leaving, there was no fear of crashing or getting caught by the cops. She brought me to his car, asked me to keep a look out while everyone continued to party around us. I didn’t ask her what she was doing, I didn’t want to know. I had agreed to help her and help her I would.

She came back a few minutes later, her jeans and t-shirt smudged with dirt. We walked away then, we got drinks, we laughed, we danced. I had forgotten about what she had done until we were leaving. I looked around but I couldn’t see his car. Part of me hoped that it was only something small, like throwing fish oil into his heating vents or something, but I had seen the way she had looked before. I knew that it was going to be more serious than that.

The next day at school we found out that Tommy was dead. He was drunk and had rammed into a tree, his car had been totalled. She found me soon after I heard. She looked upset, everyone did. She begged me not to say anything, that she hadn’t caused it, that it wasn’t her fault. I’m still not sure if I believed her, but I agreed. I owed her so much, she was my first friend, she had been my only friend. Besides, who would believe me if I told? Blame would just get shunted to somewhere, or someone else. Most likely me. After all I was the one who used to dress in black, the one who was protective of her. Even then I knew that if it happened she wouldn’t step in to save me, just as I knew I’d accept the blame to save her.

The pattern continued throughout our lives. Someone would cross her and soon after they were dead. I never helped, but I can’t say I didn’t know. She would rant and rave about these people and then when they died she would have a glint in her eye, a small smile. There would never be explicit threats, only vague mentions of someone doing something, or taking them down a peg. All of the deaths were just like the first, classed as an accident or ruled as suicide.

I didn’t want to believe it at first, but soon I saw there was no other explanation. I would watch her sometimes, when we were out. Watch as she moved through the crowds, always being exactly what everyone wanted her to be, what everyone needed her to be. I became afraid of her, she was the ultimate social chameleon. No one would have been able to imagine the stuff she said about them, the way she hated them all.

I’ve gone back, looked through the numbers. Fifteen. That’s how many people I know she killed. Let that sink in for a moment. No one ever looked at her, she was too pretty, too bubbly, to sociable. No one had ever suspected her. I was the only one who truly knew her. She confessed, in the end. Confessed to every single one and despite her tears I knew she was never truly sorry that she had snuffed out their lives.

I had to do it. There was no other way. How many people would she have gone on to kill? Her picture was all over the papers, people out looking for her day and night. I thought I had hid my tracks well, but I guess I didn’t do it as well as she did. I know that I’m a suspect, pretty much the only suspect now. I’m sorry, I wish there could have been another way. No one would have ever believed me against her. I have enclosed a list of names and a video of it all. I’m sorry to whoever has to watch it. It isn’t pleasant, but its proof. She admits it all in every detail. By the time this reaches you I’ll be already dead. I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet. People will remember me as a monster, and I’m ok with that, once they know that I only became one to destroy one.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
This entry was posted in Horror, Short Stories, Suspense, Thriller and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to My Best Friend. Short Story.

  1. Pulled me in and kept me until the end. Satisfying.

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