The Carter Hollow Murders

"Macbeth" - Second Official Murder

I knew there was a shed behind the basketball courts. I unlocked it only two periods after deciding on how to kill him. I hadn't had anything to control the stress building up inside of me. I had considered getting something from the drug dealer I had spotted on campus, but thought otherwise of it. This was a better decision for me.

I had the gloves on, pure, white glove that fit my slender hands perfectly, and went well with the uniform. I pulled my socks up above my knees. Getting blood on socks is one thing, but blood on your skin meant having to shower it off. And risking someone seeing it. Which I why I went with gloves and socks.

My hands were shaking, unusual for a simple routine like this. It was the best way to cope with all the stress, to show that you had control over something. You had control over someone's life.

He was shooting hoops when I saw him. The sun was just dipping into the horizon, and dusk was setting. I had watched for a while, waiting until his friends left, and he was alone in the basketball court. Popular jocks made me sick, they were all assholes with the iq of a loaf of bread. Yet here they were, at a prestigious school like Carter Hollow. They didn't deserve to be here. They deserved what I was going to give them.

"Oh, uh-" He had finally noticed me, and I flashed him a curt smile before walking toward him. The boy- Matthew Jackson- seemed to be more confused with every step I took. "Do you-" I took the ball from his hand with ease, pressing it between my own. I subtly clicked off the little cover for where the bump would go, pressing on the ball to let out some air.

"Your basketball seems a little flat," I stated, tossing it back to him, partially deflated. He felt it between his own hands, furrowing his brow in confusion. Night was starting to settle, and I didn't want to waste more time talking to the boy than I had to. "There's a shed in back where we an get you a new one." He seemed to understand, just barely, which proved gloves in the bushes.

I left him in the shed, leaving the door slightly open, and walked around the back, shedding my white gloves in the bushes. I would collect them later, but for now, I needed to get back to my dorm without letting anyone see my bloodied clothes. Or I needed and excuse for the blood.

I walked past the shed again, I peered into the doorway. The blood was dark, and glistening in the sliver of moonlight creeping through the crack on the slightly ajar door. The word on the frills hockey stick was still legible, to my knowledge, and Matthew Jackson was still most certainly dead. His shirt was soaked too now, the warm red liquid everywhere. Whoever discovered him would sleep with nightmares for weeks afterwards, I was certain of that.