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.