Chapter 2 I Killed My Neighbor

Jane's POV

I felt my body heavy with exhaustion, the weight of childhood trauma replaying itself alongside the pressure of my current situation overwhelming me. I let the tears flow until my eyes were dry and swollen, my chest aching with each breath.

Eventually, the sobbing subsided, and sleep pulled at my consciousness once again.

This dream was more chaotic and twisted than any I'd had before.

I felt myself floating in a pitch-black void, suspended in nothingness, surrounded by strange sounds echoing around me.

Water falling on stone in a steady rhythm. Then footsteps—slow, deliberate, getting closer. In the darkness, a camera made sinister clicking sounds, capturing something I couldn't see.

And underneath it all, a low, rhythmic breathing that seemed to vibrate through the darkness with an unmistakable sense of threat.

The breathing grew louder, more urgent, until I could feel it like a cold wind against my skin.

Then came a sharp, metallic smell—unmistakably rust and iron—that made my stomach churn.

Suddenly, I "woke up"—but not in my apartment. I was back in that night, that terrible night when everything changed.

I found myself standing in a dimly lit entryway, my bare feet on cold tile. Weak light from the hallway seeped under a door, casting eerie shadows on the walls. This wasn't my apartment—this was Michael's place. The air was thick and suffocating, filled with a nauseating mixture of scents—the metallic tang of blood, the acid smell of sweat and fear, and underneath it all, something that reminded me of death itself.

But what I saw when I looked down at my right hand made my world stop spinning.

I was gripping a kitchen knife so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The blade gleamed dully in the weak light, and drops of dark red blood were falling from it to the floor. Each drop hit the tile with a soft sound that somehow seemed deafening in the suffocating silence.

"No..." I whispered, my voice shaking with disbelief. "This can't be happening..."

My hand shook so violently I could barely hold the knife. I stared at it in horror, trying to understand how it had gotten there, trying to remember picking it up, trying to recall anything that could explain this impossible situation. But my mind was blank—nothing but burning panic.

I forced my fingers to open, and the knife clattered to the floor with a metallic crash that echoed off the walls.

The sound seemed to snap something in my mind. I stumbled backward, my bare feet slipping in the spreading blood. The walls felt like they were closing in, and my vision blurred with panic. I couldn't think straight—couldn't breathe properly. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, and I found myself pacing frantically around the small entryway, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of terror and confusion.

That's when I saw him.

Michael Washington was lying on the floor just a few feet away from me, and the sight knocked the breath right out of my lungs. His dark eyes were wide open, staring blankly into nothing, his face frozen in an expression of terror that would haunt me forever.

His white T-shirt was soaked, dark stains spreading from the gaping wounds in his chest and neck. His life had poured out onto the floor, forming an ever-widening pool of crimson.

"Michael!" I cried out.

I wanted to run to him, to help him somehow, but my legs felt like lead. My body was frozen with terror, every muscle locked in place as my mind struggled to process what I was seeing. The wounds were too deep, too severe—even in my panicked state, I could tell there was nothing left to save. He was really dead.

I stumbled backward, my whole body convulsing with fear. Why was he dead? I never wanted to hurt him. He had been good to me, one of the few bright spots in my life. Why?

This man who had been my kind neighbor for the past two years, who cared about me, who was always willing to help—he was dead. Really, truly dead. And here I stood, covered in blood, the weapon that had killed him lying just feet away.

"I didn't..." I tried to speak, but what came out were broken sobs. "This isn't real. This can't be happening to me."

But no one answered my desperate questions. The entryway was empty except for Michael's motionless form and the pool of blood slowly spreading toward my bare feet. The silence was complete except for my own ragged breathing.

I needed to know what had happened, but I knew with absolute certainty that I could never kill anyone. Not me!

"It wasn't me!" I wailed, a sound of pure desperation that seemed to come from the very depths of my soul. "I never hurt anyone! I don't even remember coming here!"

My cry echoed in the hallway, loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the neighbors. Within seconds, I heard a door opening somewhere down the hall.

"What's going on out there?" came Mrs. Patterson's voice from 7B, sharp with annoyance that quickly turned to horror as she stepped into the hallway and saw the scene. She shrieked, "Murder! Everyone come quick! There's a killer! Call the police!"

Soon, people were crowding around the doorway. I pleaded that it wasn't me.

But the evidence was right in front of me—Michael's lifeless body, the blood-stained knife, and my own blood-covered hands. If I couldn't explain it to myself, how could I explain it to anyone else?

That's when I heard the sound I'd been dreading, cutting through the silence like a blade: sirens. Distant at first, but getting closer every second. The wailing grew louder and more urgent. Through the window at the end of the hallway, I could see red and blue lights flashing alternately against the walls.

As the sirens became deafening and the lights outside grew brighter, I realized this wasn't just a nightmare. My real nightmare was just beginning.

The truth burned in my chest—I was innocent. But how could I prove that when everything pointed to my guilt? Pure survival instinct kicked in, and panic flooded my entire body.

I stumbled toward the door, my blood-soaked feet slipping on the tiles. I had to get out of here, had to escape before they found me. Maybe if I could run, I could figure out what really happened, find a way to prove my innocence.

I need something... anything to protect myself... The thought flashed through my panicked mind as heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs outside. Without thinking, my fingers—clumsy with fear—fumbled for and gripped the knife handle again. Some primal instinct was telling me I needed to defend myself from what was coming.

Heavy footsteps were getting closer every second. I couldn't make out what orders they were shouting, but I knew they were coming for me.

But when I reached the door and yanked it open, I found three police officers standing there with their weapons drawn and pointed directly at me. Their faces were grim but professional, showing not a trace of mercy or understanding.

Behind them, I could see Mrs. Patterson from 7B. Her face was filled with fear and disgust, her finger pointing at me accusingly.

"That's her!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "That's the psycho who killed him! I heard terrible screaming, and when I looked, she was right there standing over his body, covered in blood!"

More neighbors had gathered in the hallway, their faces showing shock, fear, and anger.

"Murderer!" someone in the crowd called out.

"How could you do that to Michael?" another voice demanded. "He was such a good man!"

"She's sick!" Mrs. Patterson's voice rose to a hysterical pitch. "Look at her! Look at all that blood!"

The hallway erupted in angry voices, all directed at me. I could hear their accusations cutting through the noise:

"I always knew something was wrong with her..."

"Writing those twisted stories..."

"Michael tried to help everyone, and this is what he gets..."

"Lock her up and throw away the key!"

I stood there—my hands trembling uncontrollably. The hatred from the crowd hit me like a physical force, their words heavier than any blow.

"Don't move!" one of the officers barked, his voice cutting over the noise. "Drop the weapon!"

I stared down at the knife in my hands, suddenly aware of what I was holding. The blade gleamed in the hallway light, still stained with Michael's blood.

"You're under arrest," the officer continued, his gun never wavering. "Put the knife down slowly and get on your knees."

I wanted to shout that I was innocent, that I didn't remember anything, that someone had to believe me. But as I looked into their cold, unforgiving eyes and heard the neighbors' continued accusations and curses behind them, I knew it was already too late.