Intent - Pt. 2 (Final)

The next few days were miserable for Robert. He tried and failed to forget about what he had read. At one point, he had ripped the pages out of his notes and burned them, but it was pointless; he could still remember every word and punctuation mark as if they had been branded onto the back of his eyelids.

It would never go away.
His breaking point came on a Wednesday evening while he unloaded the dishwasher. As he removed a fork that had fallen to the bottom of the machine, Robert's little finger caught on a vegetable knife. It did not hurt and Robert just stared at the wound-watched as the small cut welled with red, forming a hanging droplet that grew larger and larger until, quivering under its own weight, it detached and fell towards the floor. Robert heard the little 'tic' as it flattened against the ceramic tiles. The spiked blemish stood out against the white.

He had watched it as it fell, and he continued to stare at the mark by his foot for a long, long time.

Robert was very quiet.

There was no yelling...

or screaming.
Instead, he licked his finger clean and continued to unload the dishes.

Robert knew exactly what he was going to have to do.

Within an hour, Robert had lined the boot of his Nissan with black rubbish bags. There was a long knife from his kitchen draw wrapped in a hand towel and placed inside the glove box compartment. He sat down inside the car, closed the door, and then set off.

Robert drove slowly along quiet streets and back roads, eying the properties on either side of him. He saw a lot of houses, but none of them felt right. He wanted one that was somewhere dark...and very quiet.

It had been over three hours and Robert was about to drive home. He pulled into a dead-end to do a 'U' turn when he noticed the home at the end of the street. All the lights were off. Robert recognized the distinct grey-blue glow of a television, seeping through the curtains on one of the windows.

Perfect.
Robert stopped the car in front of the house. He reached over to the passenger side and opened the glove compartment. He took the knife and hid it underneath his coat-not that it made much difference-and stepped out of the car.
Robert devised his plan:
First, he would walk up the garden path and knock on the door. Then he would wait. The door would open, and Robert would pull out the knife... maybe he would say something clever. No, he wouldn't. He would just stab a few times, and then carry the body to his car.
It would all be very simple.

Robert stood thinking about this. He breathed deeply, and quickly-until his chest and nostrils ached from the cold night air.
He was going to do it, he told himself.
But he didn't move. Robert remained standing where he was.
He was lying to himself.

It was not that he didn't want to kill anyone. He did. More than anything-but it was what would happen after that kept Robert's feet stuck fast to the pavement. He would have a body. Yes. But there would be police, and they would almost definitely catch him. They would ask Robert questions, which he would have to answer. His picture would be in the newspapers. Everyone would know him and hate him.
He did not like questions, and was terrified by the idea of being known, let alone disliked.
Which is why Robert Laseki trudged back to his car and drove home, where he collapsed on his unmade bed, still dressed, and fell asleep.
********
Robert woke late in the morning. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost midday.
Robert felt tired, despite the amount of sleep he must have had. His arms were stiff and his back ached.
He rolled out of bed onto his feet.
Then, he stretched thoroughly and made his way to the bathroom.
He turned on the shower and let it run a while before hopping in. As he spread shampoo through his hair he felt how unusually dirty it was. Robert watched as minuscule pieces of grit were pulled out of his hair by the torrent of water and swept away down the plughole.
He turned of the shower, hopped out and toweled off. A dull pain caused Robert to flinch and look down at a bruise on his right forearm. It was a pale, sickly yellow, and looked fairly recent. Robert examined it with mild interest before finishing drying and getting dressed. He left the bathroom and headed into the kitchen.

He pulled open the cutlery draw and saw that it was almost empty, the knives and forks gone. Robert was not at all surprised; he was far too tired for that
Instead, Robert coughed and walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. There would be another set of cutlery in the kitchen across the road.
He locked the door behind him and crossed the street.
Robert had started to wake up properly now, and remembered the previous night: driving around for hours only to become scared and return home. To his surprise, Robert did not seem to be at all distraught by it.

What should have been a shattered dream-the shards of which gouging his psyche-was being given less thought and concern than his cutlery dilemma.

Robert walked up the front steps to the porch and opened the front door.
A faint smell reminded him that he had still not cleaned up the mess from a week ago. It was not overpowering though, and Robert walked through the house, straight to the kitchen without so much as a flared nostril.

In the kitchen, Robert tried to open the cupboard, but it seemed to be stuck.
It was up high, so Robert climbed up onto the bench to get a more comfortable grip. He gave the cupboard a sudden tug, but the handle snapped, leaving half still screwed to the door and the rest in Robert's hand.

Robert was starting to get annoyed. He took a close look at the cupboard door and saw that the tiny bumps around the edge were in fact the heads of nails. Robert was as confused as he was annoyed. He punched the cupboard once and jumped down off the bench to...

Robert paused-he had heard something. Above his head, he could make out a faint cracking.
He looked up...
***********
Two weeks later, Robert's body is found. A neighbor had entered the house to complain about the smell before she called the police. Dozens of knives and other sharp utensils, as well as eighteen bricks surround Robert's corpse. Investigation reveals that these items had been stockpiled in the ceiling above, after the fiberglass insulation and several supportive planks of wood had been removed and placed aside. It would have taken the slightest disturbance for the ceiling to give way and send the bricks and knives hurtling down onto whatever lay beneath.

Robert's skin is pallid and torn. Long tendrils of dried blood stretch from the gashes on his flesh to the floor where they join to form a dark-brown splotch.

A section of his chest has caved inwards where two ribs have snapped, and most of the fingers on his right hand have been twisted into violent, unnatural angles.
Robert's face is no less horrific. His hair is matted and clumped together with dried blood. One of his eyes is barely recognizable as any part of the anatomy, and the other is dry and unfocused-covered in dark crusted blood.
His nose has been smashed and spread across the side of his face.

And his mouth...
His mouth is untouched, maybe a little dried out, but its expression is without question.
Robert is smiling.