{"id":126,"date":"2024-06-27T16:44:19","date_gmt":"2024-06-27T16:44:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mich.ahvmeene.com\/?p=126"},"modified":"2025-08-24T23:10:47","modified_gmt":"2025-08-24T23:10:47","slug":"the-hardest-thing-to-do","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/2024\/06\/27\/the-hardest-thing-to-do\/","title":{"rendered":"The Hardest Thing To Do"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

What<\/em><\/strong> should I eat\u2026 What should<\/strong> I eat\u2026What should I eat<\/strong>\u2026<\/em> The same question keeps torturing me over and over again. It\u2019s not like ordering food was that hardest thing to do before arriving here. It was always \u201cPizza!\u201d Or \u201cChinese food!\u201d Either way, eating the same thing every. single. day. since starting to live here has made it exactly that: the hardest thing to do. <\/strong>I keep thinking how any moment now, the big guy in uniform will arrive and ask me what the hell I want to eat. What do <\/strong>you want to eat, Malcolm? <\/em>Fuck. I have no idea. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Remember when we used to be kids and our parents curiously asked us what we were going to ask Santa for Christmas? And even though you asked for a million things during the year, when it came down to that moment, your mind just went completely blank? That is me right now. And just like younger me, it feels like this moment is decisive. Crucial\u2026 Fatal<\/em>. You think I\u2019m exaggerating? Bare with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was the hot summer of 68\u2019, exactly seven years ago. I was nineteen -yeah, the age of stupidity at its finest-, hot, skinny, tall and fit. Basically all that socially mattered at the time. Chicks would drool over the thought of kissing me and the guys- well the guys as well, to be honest. I mean, who wouldn\u2019t want to kiss Malcolm Smith? I myself would practice in the mirror and blush. The point is, all that mattered was the stupidly hot Malcolm with his stupidly hot smirk. And well, yes. The booze, drugs, sex and parties as well. Like I said\u2026 stupidity at its finest. If someone would\u2019ve told younger me where I\u2019d be in seven years I prolly would\u2019ve laughed my ass off. I still kinda want to. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, anyways, back to my story. Young Malcolm\u2019s life wasn\u2019t as perfect as I\u2019ve described it before, and much less as everyone else thought it was. I wouldn\u2019t describe it as euphoric or exotic or thrilling. I\u2019d much rather describe it with the only three words that can strike home: an ugly tragedy.<\/em> You see, one does not always get to where they are by themselves. Sometimes they get a little help. Wait no, let me rephrase that. Sometimes, someone, <\/em>gives them a little help. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don’t wanna start this off with the typical \u201cit was a hot Friday night\u201d, but well, it was<\/strong> hot and it was also Friday. So here we go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a hot, Friday night and I went to the store to buy the booze and you know, all the other shit you\u2019re supposed to buy for a party to actually make it one. The parties we had were never in the same place. Always in a different house or outdoor spot. Though there were two things that I knew for certain about them. Number 1: I always went. Number 2: I knew everybody there. And that\u2019s exactly why, when I saw him, I instantly knew something wasn\u2019t right. So, my plan? Keep an eye on him. But especially\u2026 Keep an eye on her<\/strong>. I know, you are wondering who I\u2019m talking about. Let me introduce her to you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sylvia Dorchester was the love of my life. It wasn\u2019t attraction, no. I had never felt such feeling in my life. That\u2019s why I knew it right away. It was love. I loved<\/em> her\u2026 I adored<\/em> her. The only problem was that, of all the girls I had met in my life, she was the only one who didn\u2019t like me. I hadn\u2019t confessed my feelings to her but I knew she didn\u2019t like me, for every-time I was near her, she looked at me with disgust. Can you guess how that made me feel? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

That night I kept seeing how a stranger intensely approached her. Though it made me angry, I had to keep looking after her. I didn\u2019t know if she liked what he was doing, but I did know she was drunk and alone. Bad combination for a girl, if you ask me. After many beers, I couldn\u2019t hold it inside anymore, so I went to the bathroom to take a leak. Maybe that isn\u2019t considered the biggest mistake of all times, but it is the biggest one in my story. When I came back, I couldn\u2019t see her anywhere, and what was worst? I couldn\u2019t see him either. I went crazy looking all over the place for her, but I couldn\u2019t find them. I was losing my shit, pushing everyone who stood on my way aside, making my way through. When I finally made it to the stairs, I ran up the second floor, opening and slamming doors, screaming her name until I finally found them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was on top of her, kissing her neck and lifting her dress. They were both still fully dressed, though Sylvia was unconscious. He was going to rape her. I ran towards them and pushed him off her, making him fall to the ground. I grabbed her face gently, as if I were holding the most precious treasure of existence, realizing with relief it was safe. But, remember when I said that sometimes someone fucks you up? Well, this is that part of the story. The last thing I remember is being hit on the head and losing consciousness. When I woke up, the nightmare had started. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As soon as I opened my eyes, I felt dizzy, like I had drank a whole bar. The first thing I saw was him. Crying and crying and crying. Then, I saw Sylvia next to me. She was soaked in red with her beautiful eyes opened, looking lifeless at the ceiling. And last but not least, I saw four police men entering the room with guns, screaming and pointing at everything with their pistols. They handcuffed my hands behind my back and took me with them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2026the court finds the defendant Malcolm Smith, guilty of rape and murder in the first degree, and is sentenced to death penalty.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now you know my story. Here lays Malcolm in bed, at the age of twenty-eight, waiting for his last meal before taking his last breath. Am I guilty? No. Am I still in prison? Yes. Life sucks, doesn\u2019t it? And now all I have left is a miserable last meal. This is what my life has been transformed into. A fucking ugly tragedy. Exaggerating much now? I don\u2019t think so. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMalcolm.\u201d His voice echoes inside my small cell. \u201cWhat do you want to eat?\u201d He finally asks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll be a pizza for me.\u201d I say without hesitation, just like when I was a kid. Just like I used to tell mama.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They do give me my pizza, I\u2019ll give them that. It is a nice, round, big and smelly one. It smells like home. It looks like home. It tastes like home, too. I make that moment last forever. I wish my mama could be here with me. I eat every piece like it is my last, until it eventually is. Hell, what now? <\/em>I gently place the last slice on the cardboard box, thoughtful. I won\u2019t finish the pizza, no. That way it will be like this moment can last forever. It will never be over, because I never ate the last slice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

They take me there. I have seen my inmates being brought here many times before. They never come back, of course. But every time they left, after a few minutes it started smelling\u2026 different. Just like it smells when I step inside the room. It\u2019s a suffocating place and a wooden chair lays still in the middle, waiting for me. The men drag me there, and I obediently sit down. I\u2019m not fighting them. What for? Nobody can escape from their fate. They tie me up and put something on my head. Then, they leave the room and close the door. From where I\u2019m sitting, I can see a big glass in front of me from where I imagine they control the chair. A few seconds pass and the door behind the glass opens, letting one of the guards in. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSomething you\u2019d like to say before we start?\u201d One of them says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Actually, I do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Dear reader:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\u2019m just fucking with you. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Things aren\u2019t actually like that. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The way it all went down that night? I just told you the story I presented to the court. The \u201cstranger\u2019s\u201d real name is Malcolm fucking Smith and he was the bitch\u2019s boyfriend- I mean Sylvia. My name is Dean Mann and I am the actual stranger in the story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That summer night I was the one trying to approach Sylvia, but Malcolm wouldn\u2019t let me. So I did what had to be done, ya follow? I knew she was too drunk, so she didn\u2019t have much option when I took her upstairs. But then the fucking asshole showed up again and pushed me to the floor. He did that. To me. After that, I hit him in the head. Then I started making love to Sylvia. When I was about to finish, I felt dizzy- I had been drinking too much. I was going to pass out but Sylvia woke up and started screaming. You must know the rest, don\u2019t you?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All I did in court was lie. I didn\u2019t say I was Malcolm Smith like in here, no. I\u2019m not that fucking stupid. That part of the story was merely intended to play with your head. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I guess altering the order of the factors really\u00a0doesn\u2019t\u00a0<\/strong>alter the final product, does it? I was sentenced to die anyway. And, at the end of the day, lies always come to light.

But, do I regret what I did? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, reader, what do you fucking think?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes I do, officer.\u201d I say, head up, smile on my face. \u201cI murdered and raped Sylvia Dorchester.\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

What should I eat\u2026 What should I eat\u2026What should I eat\u2026 The same question keeps torturing me over and over again. It\u2019s not like ordering food was that hardest thing to do before arriving here. It was always \u201cPizza!\u201d Or \u201cChinese food!\u201d Either way, eating the same thing every. single. day. since starting to live here has made it exactly […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":199,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[17,12,15],"class_list":["post-126","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-suspense","tag-drama","tag-mistery","tag-suspense"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/126","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=126"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/126\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":863,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/126\/revisions\/863"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/199"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=126"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=126"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.writerspeak.org\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=126"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}