Yes, yes I am indeed anxious. Anxious and very dreadfully tense, however you will and do see me quite different. As a matter of fact, you say that I am mad. It is the disease that has sharpened my senses to this point. They have not been worn nor blunted as the assumed nature of a disease should prompt. More than the others, though, was the sense of hearing. As it took a resolute grasp of me I began to hear everything. Every nuance, every motion, nothing escaped. With such acute senses how then am I to been seen as mad? Take note as I can tell you the tale in the pace and tonality of a sane man, despite the evidence and confession to the contrary.
I can only speculate as to the inception of the thought, however, as soon as it appeared to me it banished all others. Purpose? No. Rage? No. I love him like a brother, like my own flesh and blood. He has never spoken ill of me. He has never acted negatively in my regard. For his misery, I have no craving. I think it was simply the sound. Yes, the sound. The morning ritual of congestion-loosening that lingered far past the morning. When it resonates through the walls my chest tightens, and so by measures almost incalculable, I determined that his existence on this plane should be purged, ridding the halls of my home and my consciousness of the din forever.
Right now, right at this moment, you know me to be mad. The mad are not aware of their consequence. Nor do they have the capacity to recognize their actions with enough clarity to ascertain its moral alignment. Though, my execution was immaculate, without flaw or precedent. It demanded an admiring audience. Observers would have appreciated the care and prudence of the preparation, and the faultless precision of the effort. I was never more compassionate than the week preceding his demise. At the ninth hour of every morning, I sat in silence. My office adjacent to his sleeping quarters, I knew the instant he woke. In the minutes preceding his rousing I would turn the handle of his door as slowly as my body could manage. Laboriously, the door swung open enough to fit my head through. I imagine how humorous it would have looked. Crouched beside the entrance to his room, steadily moving my head through the cracked doorway. The speed was key. It took what seemed like ages, however I maintained my deliberate pace until I was able to see him, quietly slumbering, so quiet. It took at least an hour to move into position. Surely a madman would not have been so sensible. These were my actions for seven long days. Every morning I found him slumbering soundly, I relished the peace while dreading his stirring. Every morning I found him asleep, in silence, only faint noises of respiration could be heard making it impossible for me to do the work, for it was not the man who deteriorated my sympathy, but the sound, the evil cacophonous sound. Every morning, when he rose, I would speak casually to him, inquiring about his night. He would have to be exceptionally intuitive to suspect that every morning, just before he woke, I relished his silent slumber from his doorway.
The eighth morning found me opening the door far more warily than I ever had before. An analog watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than mine. I had never been so in-touch with my own ability. It was all I could do to keep the corners of my mouth from curling as I expertly pushed the door open. Gradually, it swung ajar, the sleeping inhabitant completely oblivious to the plan unfolding mere feet from where he sleeps. I snorted, my prideful confidence eeking its way through my stoic exterior and it was at this moment I thought everything fell apart as he suddenly shifted in his bed. The normal inclination at this point would be to draw back, but I did not. The room was black as a night’s shadow, thanks to his very effective black-out curtains. I was positive that the open door could not be seen, so I pressed on.
My head was entirely through the threshold of the doorway when the hinge let out a loud, singular creak. With that, another sudden motion followed by a weary “Hello?”
I stood motionless in the door, silent. An hour passed, and I was as a statue. In this time I never heard him settle back into the familiar breathing pattern. He was listening, motionless and listening, just as I had every morning when he rattled his congestion loose in the manner in which you might expect from someone fifty or sixty years his senior.
Then came then second surprise, a sniff. Not an unconscious reflex inhalation as you might expect from a person sleeping, but a conscious nasal-checking sniff. Motionless I remained, the fear of being discovered posed a very threatening prospect to me. I had no definitive way to convey my intentions that brought me to his doorway. I felt my primal instincts calling out to act now. My muscles tightened as I contemplated the outcomes of such a reaction. Nothing yield more positive result than staying put and hoping for the solace of his return to sleep. I heard a utterance, “I know you’re there…”
More time passed without action. I decided to tempt fate and proceed in opening the door further. I pushed, in a manner so tediously it was near stationary by definition. As it gave way, I saw him fully. “Bring me the big breasted one.” He spoke, freezing my actions once again. That is, until I pondered the verbiage of his statement. The incoherent ramblings of someone in the midst of what I can only assume to be the classiest of dreams. It was then that it came. Abruptly enough to nearly knock me off my haunches he cleared throat.
The harsh noised echoed briefly around the room and I felt my rage boiling through my veins. The coarse sound resonated within me, shaking loose the calm of being a civilized person. The restrictive chains of morality and upbringing were coming loose with little I could do to halt the process, not that I would have.
Now you know what you see as the machinations of a madman are merely the actions of a diseased over-acuteness of the senses. Enveloped within my own thoughts there came another noise, it was not enough to break me from my contemplation, though it bore notice. It came again, a bit more clearly, but still I remained within my rage. Again it echoed out, this time penetrating my thoughts, increasing my fury.
Yet, I remained still, barely breathing, stretching my awareness. Another cough, louder still than those before it. How does this not rouse him? It echoed again, increasing in volume. Again and again he let fly the raspy throat clearing. Louder and louder, each time. How could one so young have such matter in his throat without suffocating? Louder and louder it continued. I stood, on edge, yet measured. For longer than I thought necessary, I remained in the doorway. The noise grew louder still. How does his throat not open on its own? How does it not tear through its meager bindings and grasp the air it so clearly desires? Then a new notion wriggled its way to the forefront, what if this was not a seasonal affliction? What if this was the new status quo? His hour had arrived. I walked in, appearing calm despite the roiling cauldron of rage within me. The white-hot clarity of the actions I set out to accomplish made such sense. It was only logical to use his own pillow. It made perfect sense. Slowly but firmly, I lower it over his hacking half-slumbering face. The coughing only dulled at first. The muffled choked coughs continued for a time. I was not swayed by this, however. I was resolute. After a time, the rage subsided. I remained, my arms tense, pressing the pillow firmly. The silence was surprising. He was dead, stone dead. I grasped his throat, no pulse. Silence at last.
Perhaps you still see me as mad. However I will abolish that from your mind as I describe the efforts taken in hiding away the body. The morning broke and I worked quickly, but quietly.
I took him down to the garage. Gently I deposited him in his own trunk, to be disposed of later, under the cover of night. I smoothed the bed, showing no signs that it had been slept in at all. I removed any immediate personal effects from the room as if he had never come home. Nothing needed washing, no marks on anything. It was all so clean. I had made sure.
It was well into the afternoon by the time I had finished. Others would be home soon. As expected, there soon came the rumblings of someone pushing their key into the front door. Everything clean and tidy, I had no reservations. Then entered two people. The first, my girlfriend, a welcome comfort after the events of the morning followed by a face I did not at first recognize. The moment of recognition came split second later as panic crept from the base of my skull. A mutual friend happened to be in town and had been invited to visit by the empty vessel of a person sitting in the trunk of his car in the garage.
I displayed great joy in seeing him. It had been a while, and I had been careful enough to avoid feeling inherently nervous. I welcomed him inside. I mentioned that our mutual friend had not yet come home from his previous night out. I gave him a tour of the house, as he had not visited in a while. I casually showed him newly acquired curiosities and amusements. My confidence was holding firm as I led him back downstairs to the living room. He took a spot on the couch, while I, in my overwhelming self-assurance, took a lone chair, facing the couch yet nearest to the door to the garage. The make-shift tomb I had created mere moments before my guest’s arrival.
We spoke, shared stories and cheer. I was singularly at ease. Storytelling and laughing we chatted of nostalgic things. However, as we continued in our merriment, a seed rooted. As much as I had relished this opportunity to review and test the precision of my execution, I wished it to all conclude. I needed him to leave. My attention slipped as a faint noise rang out. Undeterred, my guest continued with his tale. The noise continued, increasing in volume and clarity. I jumped into the conversation to rid myself of this distraction. It pressed on, determination exceedingly apparent, until I recognized it as more than mere hallucination or imagination. The sound was real.
I felt the life drain from my face, yet I continued my dialog, if a bit louder than before. The sound grew louder still. I was helpless. It was a sharp yet ragged noise. Like some mechanical component failing its purpose. I tensed yet it went seemingly unheard by my company. I prattled on, more energetically but the noise pressed on. I rose from my chair, acting out the story I had desperately launched into. I threw my body about like I was putting on lesson of interpretive dance. Why would he continue to entertain such absurdity? When would he leave? I stomped around, trying to escalate everything being said into an argument or loud discussion. Every topic became inflammatory. What could be done? What could I do? I began using accents and swearing. I threw about accusations about conspiracies. I blamed my guest for things of which he had no knowledge. I threw my socks at him for daring to sit on my couch watching my exploits unfold like some seemingly-medicated feline. I threatened him with a spray bottle, chastising him for sitting on my furniture. I slung rudeness at his family and occupation. How is it possible he does not hear the deafening noise echoing through my house? Louder than my own ravings, it bounces from every angle right at me. He must know, how could he not? It is louder than anything I have ever heard. He dared to mock me in this way? To sit idly by while this calamitous noise permeated the walls of my home; acting as though nothing is out of sorts. He is laughing at me. I could bear it no longer, I could not stare at his fake unassuming visage a second longer. It grows louder still beyond the capacity in which my ears can tolerate.
 “Bastard!” I screamed, “No more of this charade! He’s in the trunk! In the garage, there!” I threw my finger toward the door, “his coughing! It’s the coughing of his hideous old-man throat!”
