I'm taking an online short story course, and the final project is to write a short story. I am going to have several friends proofread it, of course, but would also like some of you guys to give me your thoughts about it. I'm looking for clarity. It's not quite finished, just a rough draft. It's 2000+ words long, no title yet.

The Story:

Tick, tock, tick, tock. BONG! I spring out of my desk chair. The grandfather clock in the living room had startled me. It’s the night that gets me; I should have taken a nap earlier. As I peer at the clock on my desk, I become dismayed. It’s only 1 am. I’ve only been here for an hour? I suppose that was a good wakeup call. To me I may have been better suited sleeping. This job is tedious, emotional, and downright an inconvenience. Everyone had told me that working with clients in a group home would be easy, but I would like to disagree. These nightshifts are horrid. I’m almost a watchdog; the stress is almost as bad as being a paramedic! I have to deal with my clients’ night terrors, panic attacks, delusions, and all sorts of madness! Heaven forbid both clients freak out all at once.


Not too long after I thought of this I notice one of my clients crawling around in the kitchen. “Paul, what are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping until I come wake you up at 7! Get back to bed!” Pauls says, “The enemy! Come on guys! Them terrorists are right up ahead!” Oh great, he’s reliving one of his memories from Iraq. This could get ugly; I have to convince him that I’m on his side. Again. “Paul, it’s me, Martin, from your old platoon! You’re in no danger here!” Paul says, “Imposter!” Paul lunges at me with a butter knife. I quickly jump out of the way and run into the living room, searching for the medication bag. “Get back here you scum!” yells Paul. As I find a low-grade tranquilizer, I only hope that he did not wake Rick, the other client. “OW!” Paul had jabbed the knife square into my left shoulder. I quickly turn around and stab him with the tranquilizer, after which he falls to the ground. “Son of a bitch!”


After I had carried Paul to bed, I knew that I needed to take care of my wound. Even though it was just a butter knife, Paul was a very strong man. I pried the knife out, and quickly stopped the bleeding with the supply of gauze in the first aid kit. I’m not too worried about the wound. Thankfully he did not wake up Rick.


It’s 2:30 am now, so Paul should be out until the morning. I should call for the police, but here in Insut, Montana, they wouldn’t be here for at least an hour. I guess I can fend for myself until then. Ashley, the other worker, should have given Paul more medication prior to bedtime, so that he would stay fast asleep. This was key; as his post-traumatic stress disorder along with mild schizophrenia is a double dose of torture for me. And what’s worse is these attacks and night terrors have happened at least a dozen times in my one month being here. I ought to put him down for good. Yeah, that seems like a good idea, but somehow I resist. Paul is 25 years old, and had been in Iraq for three years. I am also 25, but only spent six months in Iraq. Paul had just been released from a mental hospital a couple weeks before I started working here. He’s the main reason why I’m here; to help him out. I should ask how long he was at the mental hospital before I took this job. I bet they baited me in so no one else would have to deal with his night terrors. Noon could not come soon enough, when I would be released from this torture.


While I was nodding away while reading my favorite short story, The Tell-Tale Heart, the clock woke me up again. 3 am. What is there to do? I should have completed college. That’s where I read this book the first time. What a genius, the killer in the book is. But he is surely insane. Why do I always feel as if my clients are out to get me? Hopefully this book isn’t giving me any devilish ideas. I hate this job. I hate my clients. It seems like my clients always are difficult for my nightshifts. It’s good pay, but working 84 hours a week isn’t ideal. Maybe it will pay off in the long run, hopefully before one of these crazies kills me. It’s not like I have a social life. All of my so-called friends are too good for me. No girl is ever interested in me. Maybe it’s because I’m quiet, reserved; calculated.


It’s at this very hour every night that I want to end their lives. They are suffering, and even worse, a danger to me. I could write this off as self-preservation, saying they attacked me. But that always gets messy, and I would get 25 years in a rotting cell. I must think of a way to do this deed without a trace. Yes, the idea is in my mind now. Premeditated. Oh how sweet the idea, and how accidental these murders will be. Oh yes, this is going to be very fulfilling indeed. U will surely get better clients then! All of these values have made me surpass the tempting stage. I’m going to do it. Right after I wake them up for breakfast. Right before I put them to sleep for their everlasting nap. This precision will not falter; it will be perfect. As I laugh to myself, I realize that I’ve discovered the perfect crime.


I’m waiting for Rick to wake up. It’s 3:30 am, and he usually stirs right about now, babbling about how god is talking to him and how I should repent. He’s crazy! Last night he said I should pray by the blood of Moses spilt by the blade of Uhr. I have never even heard of that, and religion just turns me off like no other! I wonder what it will be tonight.


“Repent, my child! You have sinned greatly against Lord Gazill, the god of living spirits! Pray to me, and all is forgiven!” yelled Rick at Paul’s door. Oh shit, I cannot let him wake up Paul. This happened last week and they nearly killed each other, and I suffered a broken rib. I hate this part, because just like Paul’s delusions, I have to play along until I can reach a sedative. Luckily I already have one since Rick seems to be on a routine. I walk up the stairs into the hallway, slowly of course. “Who art thou, your holiness?” Give me a break, I just about puked saying that. Rick yells, “My argument is not with you, Lord Shintar. It is with this peasant Tyrael. Leave us, or feel the wrath of Lord Gazill!” It’s like he takes this shit from video games. I mean, come on! It’s ridiculous! He doesn’t deserve to live. “Let me help you, maybe I can lend an extra ear.” Rick throws a lightbulb at me, striking me in the chest. “I will strike thee with yet another lightning bolt if thou defies my wishes again!” yells Rick with overpowering zeal and emphasis. I quickly run and give him the tranquilizer, and like Paul, he falls to the floor. “Stupid fool. You do not deserve to see anymore of this life. I will be glad to be rid of you.” And so I carry him back to his bed.


It’s 7 am, and for the past few hours I have not gotten any sleep. Vivid images of violently murdering my clients have popped into my head. I have to resist these, because my plan is perfect. After all, having paramedic’s training I can simply hook them up to IV’s full of their medications to take them from this world. I’ll just say that I gave them too fast of a drip. I mean, they won’t know the difference. I laugh to myself. Only time will tell. Now it’s time to wake them up.


7:30 am, and breakfast is over. Paul and Rick thank me for breakfast, and I give them their daily medications. They thought it highly unusual that I gave them that and an IV drip, but I told them that the IVs were there to make them healthier, and lessen the burdens of their diseases. They bought into it quickly, and fell fast asleep. Forever. Now it was just a waiting game. Waiting to call the police. I’ll be sure to do that at 9am, when my clients didn’t wake up and I found no pulse on either of them.


It’s 10:30 am now, and the police are searching the house for any sort of evidence of foul play. I just hope I can keep myself calm while being interrogated. I’m so happy to hear the coroner pronounce the two dead. It brings joy to my life, and I like it very much so.

When the two police officers got tired of looking for clues, they sat at the dining room table, right across from me. As the police are questioning me, I notice two men pacing behind them. One of them is in a soldier’s uniform; the other in a religious robe. What? How could they be here? I killed them just a few hours ago! I am certainly not seeing things! They begin to whisper into both officers ears, pointing at me every now and again. Are they accusing me? I did not do such a thing! The officers keep blankly staring at me. Their mouths are moving but I can’t hear any words. I can only hear the accusations of the two men behind them. BONG!

It’s 11:00 am, and the police officers have gotten tired of looking for clues. They sat across from me at the dining room table and started to question me. This is odd. “Why are you questioning me twice, officers?” Did I just wake up from a dream? Was that real? I have no idea what is going on! The officer on the right says, “So the coroner says that you did nothing wrong. Well, you did make a mistake, but there wasn’t much you could do to prevent it. You were asleep, right?” Was I asleep? Did I actually go through with this? I have no idea what in the world is going on right now, and I’m being questioned by police! Then I saw two men walk into the room, one in a soldier’s uniform; the other in a religious robe. “Tell them. Tell them what happened, Martin Shattir. You killed us. You even told me I do not deserve to see any more of this life,” said the one in the religious robe. Can the officers hear that guy? I mean, come on, he’s crazy! “Are you alright, sir?” inquired one of the officers. “You keep on mouthing words, but we cannot read lips.” “What, what do you mean? You can’t see the two guys behind you? They keep whispering in your ears and pointing at me.” The officers disappeared into thin air for a minute, and the reappeared. They got up and went into the living room, to speak with one another privately. What was going on?


“Martin. Martin wake up. It’s time for your morning medication,” said Gladys, my caretaker. It had been seven years since I had been put in the mental hospital, and last week I had finally been released to live in a group home. “Thank you, Gladys.” Gladys is always a relief. I hate the night, and seeing her lets me know that it is over. I always relive that graveyard shift in my dreams. I can’t put together what happened after I put Paul and Rick to sleep. They were really there when the cops came and questioned me. I’m convinced! “Time for you morning nap, Martin,” said Gladys gently. As I drift away, I had forgotten to count how many pills were in my cup today. Oh no, not this. This is what I have feared the most. I remember now. She gave me fifteen pills, not seven. This is not good. Did she find out about what I did?