Day 136 – The Thing About Neville

Written in about 25 minutes.


Word count: 854



The thing about Neville was that he was short, weak, bearded and lazy. He did not know anything of exercise, but he was not fat by any means. He loved his food and his computer games even more. He did not really have very many friends as he was sometimes socially awkward even in small groups. He did not like spicy foods and certainly would never have ordered an Indian takeout. Neville, at the age of forty-three, was a virgin and had never even kissed a girl. He was not gay or A-sexual, he was just scared and never acted on impulse. He was also not the most attractive man in the world.



So it was a surprise that Neville was found standing with bloodied hands and a knife dripping with blood over the body of a gorgeous promiscuous nineteen year old. She had been in his bedroom in his flat on a Saturday night. He had walked in to find her already dead and had pulled the knife from her stomach.


However, when the police turned up seconds later, this act was seen in very much a different light. His hands were cuffed and he was thrown in the back of a police van within a few minutes and his free-of-charge lawyer shook his hand as he stepped out of the van at the other end.


The night had all been very surreal. Neville had protested that he knew nothing of the woman; that he had never even seen her before, let alone met her. He had described how he had left his flat for about half an hour to get some supplies from his local shop. He had described his life of no friends and no life outside computer games. He had described how even in his job, he worked from home.


The investigators were not buying it and for hours they interrogated him without so much as a break for water. He was thirsty, hungry, tired. He was as confused as anyone and was sick to the pit of his stomach. His sleeves still had blood all over them. He thought he stunk of death.



Neville was charged, trialled and thrown in jail. The jury had agreed in unison of his guilty status. Fourteen years he would be given, with the potential to apply for early release after seven years. Neville was locked away for a murder of a girl he had only learned the name of two days after he was arrested for her murder; a woman he had never met and for a reason that no one could fathom but simply assume.



But three years later Neville was not dwelling. Neville had been pumping steel in the jail gym every day. He had made no friends. He did not speak to anyone. He sat alone at every meal time. He kept himself to himself. Without computer games, he read. He read newspaper after newspaper and was allowed on the internet at least twice a month to check the news and world affairs. It was in this time that Neville had learned all he had needed to know. He had metres of notepad paper detailing how it might be done. He had his plan intricately designed. It was fail-proof.



Three years later Neville was not in jail. He had not applied for early parole, but he was standing outside the house of a Mister James Letterman. It was a sunny day and there was a light summer breeze in the air. He had just finished eating his Twix. He had enjoyed it very much.


Scrunching up the wrapper, he knocked on the door of this lovely suburban house. It had a neat little white fence around it. The garden was decorated with shrubberies, heathers and patches of colour. The owner was clearly a keen gardener. He seemed to be clever with a pair of scythes.


A shadow appeared on the other side of the frosted glass and shortly after a fumble of keys and chains, the door opened and revealed a man in his late sixties at a conservative estimate. He wore glasses and his skin was greasy. His naturally white hair was smeared in badly dyed brown.




“Mr Letterman?”




“May I come in, I wish to discuss something concerning someone you used to know.”


“Uhm, okay…” the man let Neville in.


His kitchen was tidy. The front door led right into it. Everything had been put neatly away. It was painted a light shade of green. It was pepperminty. The man clearly lived alone, though.


Neville stopped midway through the kitchen and touched his finger on the table, stroking it slightly. Neville could sense James Letterman behind him, sense he could made realise what was happening. From within his pocket, Neville clutched on to the handle of a sharp knife.


With a quick, slick movement he had swirled on the spot and thrust the knife directly into the stomach of the man.


As blood spurted out of James Letterman, a look of guilty surprise glazed over him.


“This is for Natasha Hammersmith, you murderer.”

~ by S.G. Mark on February 20, 2012.

2 Responses to “Day 136 – The Thing About Neville”

  1. EnJoyed it, but needed a litl more at the end.

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