The following story is inspired by this poem by Markus Røe:
Life is a funny device, the way a simple action can complicate everything.
There was a clown living in my closet. A clown, a real clown. It walked and talked, hell, it even breathed.
I always slept with my back to the closet, but ignoring the clown only served to make things worse.
The skeleton under my bed groaned and rattled its shattered bones, screaming and begging for mercy like the day I took its life.
Weeks prior, I sat in a dark room, tears staining my shirt. The light bill wasn’t paid and I had to carry a candle everywhere. I drowned in debt, and the danger of eviction hung over my head. The landlord pounded on the door like a one man SWAT team. I didn’t have the money, and asked him to give this starving artist some more time while my paintings sold. He stormed his way into the apartment, raising his voice and making threats. After that, I just… lost it.
I googled “How to get away with murder” and did what the helpful articles instructed. And that’s how I wound up with a skeleton in my bedroom.
The clown in my closet might have been a sign I was crazy, or a slice of karma there to bite me in the ass.
Although the landlord was no more, his skeleton was very much alive. It taunted me through the day, but that was nothing compared to my trouble at night. When I tried to sleep, the moans and groans grew louder, even louder than the day I killed him.
To achieve sleep was to win the lottery, but I never escaped the nightmares. Blood blinded my vision while bloodcurdling screams of loved ones deafened my ears; Family, friends, and children alike. Unbridled rage consumed me and I killed them all. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. I awoke the same way every time, my bed a swimming pool of sweat and the skeleton rattling with laughter.
And then one night I couldn’t take it any more. I shot out of bed, the floorboards squeaking as I approached the window at the far wall.
I kicked through the window and peered to the New York City lights below me. The wind violated my clothes as I jumped off the ledge.
My body was a potato splattered on the concrete, awaiting the flood of news cameras and police tape that were sure to follow.