The Tell-Tale Face

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I am not crazy. They say I am, but I’m not. They call me crazy because I can see things other people can’t. Is that my fault? Now let me tell my story. I’m a caretaker; I took care of an elderly blind man. He was 80. His face bothered me. Even though he couldn’t see, that face seemed to follow my every action. Every night I would walk in his room and stare at his face with a flashlight; since he was blind, he did not know. Jeremy, the old man, was sick, and he often asked me to do wash his face. I did. But once, that face so troubled me that I stuffed a rag in his mouth. I told him it was accident, but it was not.
That very night, he went to sleep. I stared at him the whole night using a flashlight to illuminate his hideous face. During the night, he heard the flashlight click off when my batteries died. He knew it was me, but I escaped. The next day, he asked if I had been in his room. I said no. He called me a liar. Then he tried to call the police. He never made it to the phone. I acted quickly, throwing a knife at his face. It stuck there like a dart on a dartboard. His shrieks weren’t nearly as loud as my laughter. I tied him to his wheelchair. Then I poured hot water on his face. I tortured him for two days. I pulled his limbs off. I decapitated him in the basement. I put his dismembered corpse in dryer.
The police came to the house. They asked questions. I answered them calmly. Then I started seeing the old man’s face everywhere I looked—in the mirror, on the wall then, and the old man’s face even appeared on one of the policeman’s faces. I was about to confess, but the
Officers left before I could blurt it out.







Two weeks later, a neighbor came over to talk. She asked me if she could wash some clothes because her machine was broken; I said yes. When she was about to dry her clothes, she saw the old man. His face had so haunted me that I had forgotten about his mutilated corpse. She ran upstairs crying: I swung a sledgehammer at her face. She died. She wouldn’t be needing those clean clothes after all. I dismembered her. Then I put it in the washer machine.
Unfortunately, a neighbor had heard her crying and screaming. The police came to the house; I didn’t want to see them, but I invited them in for some coffee. I put poison in it, but before they died, I confessed to the murders. I laughed as they writhed on the floor. It was so funny that my heart began to hurt. My heart started beating faster, faster, faster, and faster then when I thought my heart was going to burst. The last thing I remember is calling 911. The rest is history. I was saved, but now I spend my time here in solitary confinement.





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