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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1180536-Paint-It-Black
Rated: · Short Story · Fantasy · #1180536
I'm not really sure what I think of this.

They’re trying to kill me. It started a while ago but only did I realize it these past two weeks. The Blue Prius driving by every night at precisely 9:30 pm caught my attention. Then it was the strange calls to my office everyday, every hour on the hour. It would ring twice. I’d answer and no one would be there. My suspicions grew over the next few days when I saw the man. The thin man with the blonde beard and grey overcoat. He seemed to appear every where I went. That’s when I knew.
I did the only thing I could in this situation. Told my one and only confident my wife, Mathilde. We talked it over analyzed, analyzed all the facts I had assembled in those days. It was shocking, Mathilde thought I was crazy. She said”You’re overreacting, being a bit paranoid.” At that moment I had a fleeting thought my lovely Mathilde was apart of it. I should have realized it sooner. Of course she was in on it. She was the person closest to me. A smooth tactic to destroy from the inside but I would not fall for it. I knocked Mathilde to the ground, using my hands. Then I placed a pillow over her face. When I removed it there was no more life inside of her. I then did the hardest thing a man can ever do. I killed my children. I did the same to little Alexis while my only son Jack quivered in the corner. When her body was lifeless, I rushed over to him and did it all over again. This was the worst part of it all. This is where rationality disappeared.
If they wanted me badly I suppose they must have transmitters tracking my every move. Time to dispose of all electronic devices. I unplugged all the phones in our home. Broke the television into pieces, followed by breaking the computer. If I needed to know the weather or the news, I could poke my head outside the window and sneak out late at night to snatch my daily paper. Next was my cell phone. I threw it into the river. I was hesitant to throw it away but it would be another way for them to find me. Before cell phones people left their houses without any connections and were fine. I should be too. I assume they must know I am on to them. Now for the last stop my office.
I wouldn’t tell anyone there I would no longer be returning. It’s possible that one of my co workers could be working for them. I could not take a chance like that. My computer must be destroyed. My boss told me I looked a wretch and should get some help. This is exactly what I was doing. As I walked into my office there was a picture of Mathilde and I with the kids. I was struck with a feeling of grief, but I did what I had to.
Now that I am home I can start to prepare for when they come. First I blacked out and boarded all the windows up, cut my power, made sure I had enough food to last during my seclusion. While I was doing this someone kept ringing my doorbell. When I went to look through my peephole they were gone. They like to play games. I finished my work and went to rest on the couch. That’s when I noticed it on my right arm. The scar and it was fresh. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner. The electronics would have been too obvious. The Tracking device lied inside of me.
I grabbed a sharp blade from the kitchen and pressed it against my flesh. Slowly I cut around the scar. Blood was everywhere and the pain was mind numbing, but I had to keep going. I completely removed the patch of skin. I fingered around the inside of my arm. I could feel all the blood and then I felt it! I ripped it out; it was a small black chip with my blood all over it. I placed it on the kitchen table and smashed it with a hammer. It was the one Mathilde had bought me and my name was engraved into it.
They must know I found the device and will be coming for me soon. I must flee. I plan to burn or cut out my fingerprints so no one can trace me. You can’t kill a man who never existed to begin with. I will kill, maim and destroy anyone they send after me. My only regret is that Mathilde had to be one of them.
© Copyright 2006 Marissa Zelig (marissafaux at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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