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Chapter 1-

Jack ran down the hall, clutching his dagger tightly. He watched the blood of the man he just killed drip off of the tip.

Millions of questions ran through his head as he darted into a room.

Why did he do it? How did they know it was him? Who was this man he just killed?

Jack took one last look at the dagger. He saw his reflection. His face was coverd in blood and shame. he couldn't stand to see his own face anymore. He couldn't live knowing he was a horrible murderer. He took the dagger, pointed it straight at his heart, and stabbed himself.

Ten minutes later, the door to the closet he was in busted down. Three cops rushed in and saw Jack laying on the cold cement floor with a dagger in his heart and a note in his hand.

"To whom it may concern,
My name is Jack Ferguson. I am 40 years old. I've worked at the Hotel Robinson since I was 22. Tonight I killed a man, and I have no idea why. I saw my own reflection and couldn't stand it. By the time you read this, I will be dead. I cannot live with the knowledge that I have taken a life. All I can remember is waking up in a room with a bloody knife in one hand and a dead man at the other. Tell my family I love them. I know I would have been condemned to death, so this is just speeding up the process a little.
Goodbye forever,
Jack Ferguson."

The cop who read the note was in shock."Poor chap. He's gone and killed himself over a murder he didn't commit."


Chapter 2-

3 Days Earlier.
Jack Ferguson had just gotten off of work at the Hotel Robinson. He had been working there for quite some time, almost 20 years.

He was driving home when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and it was his best friend Norm.

"Hello?"
"Hey man, wanna go hit the bars this weekend? We need to get drunk!"
"Haha, sure sounds fun."
"Alright, see you this weekend."
"Bye."

He hung up and kept driving. He smiled, and looked ahead. They've had this conversation hundreds of times, but it's never happend.

He thought, 'He says this every weekend. If I had a dollar for every time he's...'.He slammed on the brakes and swerved to the side of the road.

He got out of his car and walked over to the old man standing in the middle of the road.

"Are you ok? You really shouldn't stand in the road like that, you could get hur-..."

"I'm already too hurt to care..." the man interupted. "I'm tired of this...nice meeting you." He held a gun to his head, and before he could pull the trigger Jack ran over and grabbed the gun from him.

"Hey hey hey! Suicide is never the answer, no matter what the case! I'm sure you can work it out!"

"No..no..you don't understand...and don't you talk to me about suicide...you'll kill yourself before the end of the week."

The man walked off, his pajama pants dragging along on the ground. He was barefoot, and his feet were white as a ghost. He wore a white t-shirt with mud on it. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were missing a lens, with the other one cracked. Jack got back into his car and disregarded what the man said. He just drove home, and tried not to think about it.