24 Hours

As of May 4, 2014, I have 24 hours to live. I’m going to become a serial killer. Now, we’ve all heard the question “if you had 24 hours to live, what would you do?” People always ask that. They think of all the things they’d do like skydiving, bungee jumping, or telling people how they feel. But I’ve got a better idea. I don’t have anything to live for. So why not do something… spontaneous? It’s easy enough, really. I’ve had time to think about it, to prepare. It’s almost comforting to know that if I get caught, I won’t have to deal with it for long, I’d be dead. The worst part is already over, accepting that I’m going to die. This last day, I want to do something that matters. Something that will make people remember me. I have to act fast. The house is cold. I’ve always liked it that way. Dim lights and creaky floors, like the house is as old as me. It’s comforting. . Some people don’t like it, those who’ve come over sometimes ask, “Do you hear that? It’s so quiet here.” I’d just laugh it off. But now, the silence feels like a weight. Every creak, every soft shuffle of the floor beneath me, a reminder that I’m here, alone. Right? I’ve lived here for years, yet there are times when I swear I hear footsteps, or a door opening.  Just a feeling, like someone is watching from the corners of the rooms. Not that I ever cared. It’s just me and the house. I grab my keys. The door shuts behind me with a soft thud, the sound echoing through the empty house.. I drive fast, too fast. It’s thrilling, really, dodging traffic, barely swerving around pedestrians who never even look up. I don’t need anyone to see me. I just need to get to the store. The parking lot’s a mess. I pull into the first spot I find, not bothering with the lines. Walking through the aisles, I feel eyes on me. But I don’t look. Don’t need to. I know what they’re thinking: There’s something off about this one. I can tell. I’ve always known, but I’ve stopped pretending it bothers me. I’m fine.  Just keep moving. Find what you need. It’s hard to explain. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. But I know I have to do it. Everything feels... right, in a strange, detached way. Almost like I’ve been preparing for this without realizing it. I pick up what I need—a few things from the shelves, my hand trembling slightly as I toss them into the cart. There’s a strange satisfaction in the weight of them. I turn down an aisle and spot them. Three. Perfect. They don’t even notice me, just keep walking, oblivious, until I gently pull them along, guiding them without a word. They don’t protest. No one questions anything. People never question anything. Not until it’s too late. The worst part is that I’m not even worried. I just... do it. When I get back home, the house greets me with that same familiar, musty cold. The bags feel heavier now, not in weight but in... expectation. I feel their presence, the victims waiting. I take them inside, setting them down on the kitchen table. Every step is a loud thud against the floorboards. It’s almost comical how loud they are, like the house is complaining. But I’m used to it. It’s always like this. I head upstairs, avoiding the worst creaky spots. There’s something about this place. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always been careful around certain parts of the house. But it’s just me, right? No one else here. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’ve lived alone for so long, yet there are nights when I hear things. Footsteps, sometimes. Or a faint whisper from behind the walls. It’s always just in my head. I know that. I can’t afford to be crazy, not anymore. But... was I always alone? I push the thought aside. Focus. Downstairs, I open the fridge. The cold air hits me, sharp. I know what I need, and it’s all here—everything prepared. The tools I’ll use. Everything for the process. It’s time to begin. I arrange the victims, setting them out carefully. The cereal boxes are a little crinkled from the trip, but that doesn’t matter. They’ll serve their purpose. I set each one in front of me, the soft rustling of the paper like a whisper, like they’re speaking. “Well then, you’re all ready for your final meal,” I whisper to them. “I’ve done everything just like we talked about. You’re going to make me famous.” A soft, high-pitched voice replies, “You’ve got it, boss. They’ll never see it coming.” I grin. That’s the thing—people never see it coming. Not when you’ve made all the right preparations. I reach for the knife. It’s sharp, ready. My fingers curl around it, and I bring it down, methodical. Smooth. The boxes collapse under my hands, as they should. They’re just victims. There’s something almost beautiful in the simplicity of it. The process. The work. I continue. The kitchen light flickers on, and I see it laid out before me: a bowl of cereal. Just like I promised. It’s hard to explain why I feel proud. It’s just a bowl of cereal. But it’s perfect. I lean in close, examining the texture of the flakes, the milk just starting to soak in. This is it. This is my legacy. I’m a serial killer. But not in the way anyone would expect. Not with blood. Not with screams. No. I’m the Cereal Killer. The clock ticks on. But I’m done now. I sit there for a while, just staring at the bowl, pushing the spoon around. It’s strange, really. All of this, just for a bowl of cereal. But there’s nothing satisfying about it. Something final. The more I think about it, the more the thought sinks in. I really haven’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t murder. No one’s been harmed. The cereal’s not alive. It never was. And yet, something about the ritual of it feels so complete. So right. Maybe it’s the fact that I took control, chose who would be the victims. Maybe it’s because I’ll be remembered for this. The Cereal Killer. The clock ticks down. There’s not much left now. I  pick up the spoon, eyes glued to the cereal in front of me. There’s no noise in the house, other than my breathing. No movement. Just me, sitting on my uncomfortable chairs in the cold kitchen, with a bowl of cereal. And the silence. The silence is the loudest part. I lean forward, and for the first time today, I feel something like peace. Maybe acceptance is the right word. The soft clink of the spoon against the bowl echoes in the quiet. The world outside doesn’t matter anymore. I try to not think about it. It’s just me and the cereal. No guilt. No judgment. Just... me. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone. But I’ll leave this behind. This moment. This story. I’ll be remembered. Maybe not as I wanted. But remembered, nonetheless. And that, I think, is enough.