I greeted Mr Harold at the bus stop yesterday. I was hired to pick him up and drop him off at his hotel. The firm that hired me was very strict on which path I had to take from the bus stop to “La Rouge” - Mr Harold’s hotel. They were also very insistent on taking no detours of any kind, including stopping for any reason other than at a stop light and even that was to be avoided at all costs. Which, I would suppose, was the reason why the specific directions they gave me, contained only one traffic light.
Mr Harold seemed a kind man. He was a bit odd, though. He was so pale that he was almost green. He was also very old. Ancient even. At least 90 years old. I picked up his bags to find that they were extremely heavy. Fortunately I somehow managed to get them in the trunk of the car and Mr Harold in the back seat. Another thing that the company made me promise not to do was roll up the partition. They probably wanted me to keep an eye on the old man in case he decided to drop dead in my car. That would be particularly bad for business, even after the large sum of money I was promised post-delivery. That’s what they called it. As if Mr Harold was some kind of an object. Ungrateful grandchildren - that was the only sane explanation I could think of.
I followed the directions perfectly - I swear. Nothing was supposed to happen. How could I have predicted a car crash in the middle of my path. I had to take the detour, there was no other way. Driving down the busy boulevard though, I had to stop at a crosswalk, because an old city grandma had decided to cross. She was the most hunched over person I had ever seen. She was barely walking. Honestly, I expected her to just die any second. Every single step for her was a will-I-won’t-I-die moment. So there I was, stuck, expecting the granny’s death. I looked in the rear-view mirror and Mr. Harold was gone. He had disappeared into thin air and all I could see was the open trunk of my car.
Today, in the newspaper, I saw Mr Harold’s picture under the headline “serial killer Robert Donavan escapes prison two days before his execution”.
I have no regrets. My life has been one long episode of “How to get away with murder”. I honestly don’t know how they managed to build a case against me. I was perfect. I am always perfect. Who would suppose that that slut would be so curious. I slipped for one second and it costs me everything. The bastards finally got me.
No one ever calls me. I didn’t expect it to be so entertaining. Finally something stimulating. At eighty-three an idiot would think of me as old. Well, I guess the person on the other side of the phone wasn’t a complete moron. Everything went as they said. The keys were by my door at the exact time. No one stopped me walking out. The clothes were waiting in the first car. The bus tickets were handed to me by the driver along with the bag. A driver met me at the bus stop. But the driver didn’t go where he was supposed to. Something was wrong. They lied to me! The fucking bastards lied to me! My hands started shaking, preparing to reach for the drivers neck, when he stopped. I took the opportunity and left the car. I got the bag out of the trunk. The thing was so damn heavy.
The driver’s last work day he picked up a serial killer from the bus stop. The serial killer's last work day he saw the suits