I don’t know why I’m here. There is no hope. Every time I get out of my bed, I know how my day will go. I will simply get up, lazily put on my work clothes, sleepily drive, arrive to work, sit on my chair, staring at my laptop screen, and look at useless data. Every single day, the same thing happens over and over again. One day, I decided I had enough. I refused to get out of my soft, comfortable bed. I was not going outside to drive on the icy roads, nor would I endure the nearly intoxicating smell of chemicals that, for whatever reason, always filled my car. And just like that, all the pain was over.
I lied in bed for a few hours, thinking about my future and my life. No one loves me. Nothing I do is ever fun. I need to do something...but what can I possibly do in Alaska? It’s just a cold place of death.
I decided to turn on the TV. It was so cold that even indoors, the TV was beginning to form icicles, and they grew from the sides of the TV, looking downwards. The ice shimmered and the light reflected burnt my eyes. I was too depressed to get rid of the ice shards, so i just dealt with it. I reached for the remote that was to my left, lying horizontally on top of the drawer, waiting to be picked up. I reached over with my right hand, trying to grasp the remote. I failed, and fell downwards, looking at the messy floor. My nose was now bruised, but I decided to get up and do something. I got rid of the mess in my room. After the deed was done, my clothes were organized by size in my tight closet, my seven pairs of shoes, one for each day of the week, sat alongside the closet. I swept my floors, and vacuumed the dust that was now piled up, mocking my filthy ways. I suddenly felt good.
I walked over to the closet, and put on my jacket that lied deep inside it. I grabbed my Thursday shoes, and painfully put them on my feet. As I walked, I felt the shoes crushing my feet. They begged for freedom, but I needed warmth and my feet would be trapped. I quickly walked downstairs, opened the door, walked out and shut it behind me.
I explored the outside. The air was cold and the smell froze my nostrils. The snow was dropping down, but not flakes at a time. For some odd reason I could never really understand, the snow fell piles at a time. Very often, the snow would crush someone, leaving them lying under the heavy cold snow, dead. I was very fast, so I could easily escape these falling piles of death.
Suddenly, my phone rang. I attempted to grab my phone, but my gloves disabled me from doing so. I had no choice but to take off the gloves and go back inside. I rushed home, took off the gloves, and answered the phone.
“Who is it?” I asked. I didn’t get many phone calls, so it seemed kind of weird to receive one.
Then I heard a familiar, depressed voice. “Come quick. Your father is dying.”
It was my mother. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up, then sat down. I put on my gloves again although I’d immediately take them off in the car. I got in the car, and smelled the vehicle. “The smell of ice filled the car and my nostrils breathed in the cold air. I started the car, and, sitting in the uncomfortable chair, adjusted myself. My jacket seemed heavy and filled the majority of the seat. I took it off and threw it to the back seat. I started driving, and, looking around the road, I witnessed many advertisements promoting food franchises among other things. The icy roads made it hard to swivel the car, or make any turn for that matter. However, being used to the streets, I was able to manage the otherwise deadly road.
…
Then I arrived into the hospital. I calmly walked over to the receptionist and told her who I was here to visit. She then permitted me to enter, and I did likewise. When I entered the room, I looked at my father, lying there helpless. His old, beady eyes begged for survival, but he was helpless. His wrinkled, innocent face began to move as he spoke. “Son...son...son.” He uttered. “I don’t have much time. But I left you in my will. Gonna receive my entire fortune!” A smile started in my face, then I began crying. My dad attempted a smile, and it was beautiful.
“I love you, father.” I cried.
“I love you, too, son.” My dad responded. “Can you promise me one thing?” He asked.
“Sure, anything.”
“Could you…” He never spoke again.
“What father?!” I screamed. “What do you want? I’ll do anything!” I knelt in the agony of his death. It had been peaceful for him, but now my heart was screaming.
“Look on the bright side, honey.” My mom said, hugging me. “You inherit a million dollars!”
“One...million...dollars?” I asked. Then realized the bait. “NO! I don’t want the money! You take it! I just want my father back!” I weeped in physical and mental agony.
“Son, it’s yours. After you get over your father’s death, you may claim your money from the bank.”
“Oh...Ok.” I responded, getting up. “I’m gonna go now.” I pointed to the door and exited. In attempt to not make a fool of myself, I stopped my weeping and I slammed the door in anger. Anger builds up pride. It gives someone respect!
…
A few years had past and I had gotten over my father’s death. I was rich! It wasn’t all good, with muggers trying to do their job, but I got by.
By then, I had met someone. Work wasn’t necessary for support as I was a millionaire. So, I was able to spend most of my time with my wife.
“Ahhh, good morning, honey.” My wife spoke, stretching her arms across my face.
“Good morning!” I was delighted with my rich, simple life.
“What’s for breakfast?” She asked.
“The house is making us 10 pound waffles.” I said, casually.
“That’s nice. Isn’t it great that we got a smart house?” She asked, seeming thankful for our gifts.
“Yep. Sure is great.” We continued our small talk.
“Do you ever think we should just, you know, give it all away?” She turned and looked at me, innocently. “We can lead simple, middle-class lives. We don’t have to be the rich, spoiled people of this society.”
“But honey…” I started. “Don’t you like the life of no debt, no worries, and many pleasures?”
“Well, obviously. But there are people out there that need money. Too much money corrupts a man, and the constant financial struggle would gives us something to do.” My wife had an interesting point.
“You know I love you. And trust me, this is the best for us as of now. Tell you what. Why don’t you donate to charity?” I recommended. “You’re always talking about the fact that we should earn money instead of just have it. Why don’t you get a job, make money, and give it to charity! That way the poor are happy, you feel you’re working for the money, and we’re still rich. Everybody wins!” My persuasion kicked her, and she couldn’t get back up.
“You know what? That’s a good idea!” Her voice was suddenly high. She was being sarcastic. “Why don’t I just leave you -- it’s not like you want me anyways!” She was angry. I enjoyed her anger. It made me laugh, and as she unsteadily got off the bed, she quickly left the room. “I’m gonna go now...you know, do something with my life. I’m done with the lazy ways...I’m done taking the easy way out!” She slammed the door...and eventually I was asleep. 
…
After I woke up, I had decided that my wife was right. I can’t take the easy way out. I have to do something with my life. All because I was fortunate enough to receive a large sum of money doesn’t mean I should just lie down and enjoy life.
I had now owned a mansion, and had allotted to me a few hundred acres of land. I smoked hundred dollar bills, and I’d sometimes use my money as napkins as I was too lazy to buy any. Then I realized...all of this is my father’s. I didn’t earn anything. After I’m gone, this will just be a valuable fortress that my dad bought.
So I got up, and looked for my wife. “Where are you?” I called. “By the way, I decided to do something with my life.” I kept looking. Frightened now, I dialed her up, and kept on hearing the rings of my phone. Then I heard her phone. It was vibrating under the curved staircase, underneath the trenches of the mansion. I ran down the stairs. Grabbing the railing, I ran, “I’m gonna build some homes for the homeless with my acres.” I said. “That sound good?” I kept running. “Hey. I’m sorry about earlier. You’re right. It’s no fun doing nothing with my life. I got to do something.”
I had reached the end of the curved staircase. I walked through the basement, and experienced the frightening horror of a dead body. It was a woman, tall and pale with long, blond hair resting gently on her shoulders. Her arms lay there, sitting on the ground, harmless. Her blue eyes were dilated, unmoving. She was wearing nothing but a robe and undergarments. Then I saw the dagger. The dagger had pierced her stomach in such a delicate way, her skin was soft and lumpy, yet she didn’t move. The dagger, when the head of it was tilted, read “C.J. Mannings”. I had just realized...my wife was dead!
…
“Hello, 911.” I called.
“Yes. This is 911. What’s your emergency?” That same phrase.
“Someone stabbed my wife to death!” I said, bluntly.
“An’ what you want us to do about it?” The operator said, lazily.
“What do you mean? Get some investigators or something. Do your job!” I grew ferocious.
I began hearing the sound of a mouth crunching on snacks. “Well, if she’s already dead, what’s the point? Jus’ dump the body and clean it up!” He sounded too relaxed.
“Sir, there’s a potential killer on the loose. The dagger that she had been stabbed with says ‘C.J. Mannings’. Any idea who that is?” I asked. The phone cut.
I started swearing. “You know what? If these lazy cops won’t help, I’ll figure this out myself!”
Well, it can’t be that hard. C.J. Mannings is a name of a person nearby. I pulled the dagger out of the stomach of my wife forcibly, and, as a result, some blood from the dagger splattered on me. “It’d be smart to wash this off.” I told myself, referring to the blood on my face. So, I left the cluttered, dusty, dark basement and dragged my feet up the stairs. In the midst of the stairs, I turned my head around and, finally weeping, said, “May you rest in peace.” I then turned back around and walked up the stairs.
I dialed the cops again. “Hello?”
“Hello. This is 911. What’s your emergency?” This time a woman said, almost sultry.
“Yeah. My wife was murdered and I think I know who the murderer is.” I responded, tempted to drift from the focus at hand.
“What’s your wife’s name?” She asked.
“Uh...uh...I--” I stuttered.
“You don’t know your wife’s name?” She asked, intrusively.
“Hey. Don’t judge me! I have never been good with names!”
She spoke blankly. “Really?”
“So is the whole 911 department really useless? Because I called 911 earlier today and the guy wasn’t any help at all.”
“Well--” She started.
“Listen. Her name is irrelevant to the the situation. She’s my dead wife. Send someone over here to investigate!” My sternness quickly grew to a fatal shout.
“Ok. We’ll send someone immediately.” Good job, police. You’re finally doing something right. I thought.
The call ended, and I had waited a few minutes. I kept waiting and waiting and waiting. I grew bored of waiting. “Oh my god! How long does it take for cops to travel a couple miles!” Just then I heard a knock on my door. “We are investigators here to investigate. Please open up!” They said, redundantly, yet demanding.
I opened up the door. “Ok. What’s the situation we have here?” The deep voice of the fat investigator delivered dominance.
“This right here is the dagger I saw my wife stabbed with. This is her blood. See, if you look at the handle, the name ‘C.J. Mannings’ will be shown. I believe that’s the killer.” I explained. “Come. This way.” I redirected the investigators to the scene of my wife’s death.
The basement, for whatever reason, was no longer dark and dusty like I had remembered. Then I heard the lights click. “Wow. You are unbelievable.” My wife said. “How do you not know my name?”
“I think we’re done here.” The fat investigator turned to the other investigator. “Let’s go.”
As they departed, we had other conflicts to solve.
My wife started swearing at me, and her anger was no longer funny. “How do you NOT KNOW MY NAME?” She aggressively grabbed me by my shirt. “My name is Ana! But you won’t need to know that anymore!”  Still swearing, she stormed out of the house. She left the pleasures of no work and no worries. It is her loss! I was too angry to even question why Ana had faked her death in the first place. I then realized that’s an important factor.
I ran out of my house after putting on my jacket and my Monday shoes. 
“Ana?” I called for her. “Ana? Where are you?” As I ran through the snowy outdoors, I seeked to find the angry Ana. “Hey, do you want to watch me suffer?” I asked, in attempt to lure her in. I continued to call.
“I sincerely apologize for my problems.” I finally said.
I could hear her in the distance. “I forgive you!” She called. She then ran to me. “We gotta talk.”
When we arrived home, I got my explanation. “Look.” I was lead to a perfect dummy of Ana. “I’m an artist and can sometimes get in trouble with my artistry.” She began. “You see, I lived most of my life in California. I came from a very poor family, and I was taught that in order to make money, it has to be earned. So, I discovered my talent in art including paintings and sculptures. I sold those and made a few bucks. Eventually, however, a dark side of me grew. My art grew to becoming a form of con art. I lead people to believe that my sister was dead, and was able to make a perfect-looking dead replica of my sister, and through that, pity was taken and my family made ‘pity money’. My sister was hidden from the outside world for a long time. Eventually, however, people discovered my sister and we were forced to leave California in fear of jail and the such. So, to escape punishment, our family was forced to move. Now I’m here, a con artist.”
She began weeping. In my attempt to comfort her, I grabbed her and gently let her on my shoulder.
“There, there. We all have problems. That doesn’t mean they cannot be fixed!” I’m bad at comforting.
Then I noticed she was no longer at my shoulder.
"Where are you going?" I asked, peering across the room to locate Ana.
“I’m getting a snack.” She said, reaching for bread and preparing a sandwich.
“Ok. What about the dagger?” I asked, quickly reverting back to the original subject.
As she ate her sandwich, I became hungry, too. So I commanded the house to prepare me a sandwich.
“What dagger?” She asked
My jaw dropped. “That dagger is not yours?” I asked. “Then how did I conveniently find your dead doll without you there?”
“The...um, the lights were out. Yeah. For whatever reason, the lights were off. I was preparing the laundry and my art happened to be lying here.” She explained.
“Cool. One more thing,” I began. “What’s with the blood?”
“Oh. Um...we, um, I...Yeah. I had to fill my art with a red...a red, I had to fill my art with red...stuff. Yeah. That way, the body would seem more real and not just some art.” She stuttered
What was the dagger doing here, then. Could it be a sign? Perhaps there is a killer somewhere out there warning us!
“You never come down here.” Ana began. “I’m doing the laundry because I’m bored of doing nothing. You should do something, too!”
“Oh, believe me I’m definitely going to do something.” I said, seriously. As I began to stand up, clenching the knife, a large robotic arm delivered me a sandwich on a plate. “But first, I’ll finish this sandwich.” I sat back down, put down the knife and grabbed the sandwich, and ferociously ate it. My mouth rejoiced in the taste. The creamy, chocolatey -- I don’t even know what kind of sandwich -- was delicious.
After I had consumed the sandwich, I picked up the knife and stood back up, resuming my anger.
“C.J. Mannings. Know anyone by that name?” I asked.
“Y’know. I’m still upset that you weren’t able to remember my name.” Ana looked at me. “But I’ll be fine after a while.” Ana lazily walked up the stairs, grabbing a pillow that had been lying on the floor, and walked upstairs, slouching to her right. I assumed she was going to sleep.
“I’ll figure it out myself.” I said, thinking of solutions. I began walking around the laundry room, looking at things I never knew existed. There was an old, standard definition TV, and surrounded by it, I found a bunch of old, tattered up books. Some were curled to one side, and some were just worn out. I then picked up the yellow phone book.
Flipping through the phonebook, I went to the ‘M’ section and searched for ‘Mannings’. There was, conveniently, only one person with the last name of Mannings and a first name starting with a C. Oddly, though, his name appeared as ‘C’ with nothing else. His phone number was listed beside his name. Peculiarly, it was (666) 666-6666. The first three digits in our city isn’t even 666.
I dialed the phone number, and heard a deep, dark “Hello.”
“Hi.” I said, comparably casual as his deep sound frightened me.
“Your wife is gonna die!” His voice echoed through the phone’s microphone.
“I...I...Why?” Is all I could humbly mumble.
“‘Cause she killed my father.” He exclaimed, his voice still low and threatening.
“No...no. She didn’t kill anyone!” I said angrily, now clenching my phone tightly by my right hand.
“Your wife has killed my father. I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill her.” He repeated.
I threw my phone across the room and vowed to myself that I would find him...and I will stop him. First, though, I called 911 on my other cellphone to proclaim the threatening phone call I had received.
“Hello. This is 911. What’s your emergency?” I heard an oddly deep voice.
“I--I just received a threatening phone call. Do you want me to play it back for you?”
“No need. I have taken over the police station. Your wife is in captivity. Come here or she gets it.” He implied murder. Damn, he’s good.
I put my cellphone away, ran upstairs, and dug around my disorganized cabinet and found my pistol. I then grabbed it, concealed it, and ran down the curved stairs, exiting by the back door that was by the kitchen and unaligned with the laundry room.
“We’ll see who’s gonna die!” I said to myself, running out the door, forgetting my car.
After about a mile of tireless running, I realized I had to go back and drive to actually arrive at the police station. So, I ran back a mile, grabbed my keys which had been conveniently placed on top of the car, and quickly started the car. I backed up quickly, in a rush to get to the station. Then, suddenly…
“Where do you think you’re going?” I heard a seemingly complex British man ask. I peered to my left and saw he had a gun.
“I...I...I’ll just get out.” I said, placing my hands above my head as to prove as no threat.
“Oh no you don’t!” The British man said. “Give me the keys!”
In an attempt to stop being threatened, I tossed the British man the keys. He easily caught them, locked the car, and shot my foot.
“Sufferin’ here, bleedin’, ain’t you?” The British man spoke. “It’s too bad you can’t do nothin’ as we kill Ana!” The British man was driving in my car, holding a gun aimed directly at my head, by the mirror which was icy and attached to the front of the car.
“DON’T KILL ANA!” I screamed. “DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!”
“Screamin’ won’t do no good. Besides, we ain’t gonna kill Ana.” He paused for a moment. “You will.”
I’m not killing anyone.
Suddenly, the phone rang. “Allow me to get that.” The British man said, pulling over to the side of the road, turning himself to face me, pointing the gun more directly at me. He picked up his phone from his left pocket, and answered the call. He had also put it on speaker mode after Mannings had commanded him to do so.
“Do you got her?” The British man asked.
“Yep. She’s right here” His voice hungered for blood.
“Good.” The British man simply responded.
“You wanna see her?” Mannings referred to me. “If so, the last opportunity you get is by ten o’ clock. Get ready...cause you gonna kill her!”
“In your dreams!” I said. “I’m not killing my wife!”
“I’m afraid you have no choice.” Mannings had turned on the camera. “Either you kill her, or both you and her die!”
The British man had handed me his phone as to resume his driving.
“Isn’ she wonderful?” Mannings said, darkly.
As I stared at the phone, I saw Ana. Her white robe had been destroyed and her face was full of scratches. Right across her nose was a major bruise, bulging out like a red gusher. Her ears had been red, perhaps from the cold. She was sitting down in the backseat of, I imply, Mannings’s car. As I stared at her, I saw a destroyed woman, not my wife. The camera turned and I saw Mannings. “Every moment you don’t kill her, she will be in pain...and you’ll have to watch.”
Mannings set his phone on a place to lean on, and started beating Ana. It pained me to watch her be beaten. Every time Mannings punched Ana across the face, blood came spitting out the other side. As he kicked Ana, I screamed the same way I heard her try to scream, as her mouth was sealed by duct tape.
After every word Mannings said from then on, I’d hear a punch or a kick or a slap or some kind of physical abuse done to Ana.
“Would,” punch. “You,” kick “Like,” slap “to,” punch, slap, kick “put” the kicks continued “her” I couldn’t bare it! “out” I heard an utter scream of pain. “of” I stopped watching. “her misery” he ended the call.
Where were we to meet him?
I set the phone down, and as I tried to begin speaking, I was hushed immediately.
“Here’s how it’s gonna go down,” the British man began explaining. “I’m gonna lead you to Ana, and you’s gonna kill ‘er.”
As I sat, waiting to be driven, I played back everything that had just happened. I played back when Mannings violently beat Ana. I will get my revenge. I thought.
In my attempt to escape, I quickly grabbed my gun which i had previously grabbed, and shot the gun of which the British man had still been aiming at me. As it fell, it rendered useless. I heard the car stop, and as the British man stood up and turned around, revealing his full body to me, I was intimidated. The man, although short, had full muscles where his veins were visible and blue. He had tattoos of snakes on his arms, and his thick, brown eyebrows were squeezed tightly to his eyes in anger. His fists which were aimed at me, were preparing to eat. BAM, and I was down, lying on the back seat, clenching my stomach where blood seeped to the leather of which now had the smell of blood. The cold blood hurt my nose every breath I took. Yet, I endured it.
“Now I recommend you don’t do anything funny lest I squash your skull like an apple.” The man lost his British accent. He was faking it the entire time.
I tried to reach for my gun which was only along my thighs. It shouldn’t be too hard. One shot should do it. The British man was still standing, preparing to exit the car. He opened the side doors of the tall blue van and exited.
I shouldn’t have let him get away. I thought. “Hey!” I called out, remembering the money I had.
“Hey!” I called again, this time with an answer.
“What do you want?” I heard the bald man grunt.
“How ‘bout you don’t make me kill Ana and I offer you all my money.” I started to make an interesting point.
“How much we talkin’?” Mannings’s assistant grew interested.
“I could give you one million dollars if you let me and Ana go.” I bluntly stated.
“Hmmm one mil? How do I know you ain’t lying?” Mannings’s assistant came back in the car, but this time, he sat in the backseat. “A man could tell how rich one is by their home. Take me to your home, he commanded. Also, I don’t want any funny business, so give me your gun.”
That seemed fair. I handed over my gun and walked over to the driver’s seat of my car.
As I drove home, not attempting to do anything funny, I heard the phone ring. This time, however, it was my phone. I picked it up and responded, continuing to drive.
“It’s 9:55. Where are you?” I heard Mannings say, angrily. “I guess you want her dead.”
“No...no. Listen. I’m taking your assistant here to my house. You see, I got a big house, and instead of killing Ana, perhaps I could give you and um…”
“Alfie.” Mannings responded. “His name’s Alfie.”
“I could give you and Alfie here the fortune I received from my father and you can let me and Ana go. That work for you?”
“Why you taking Alfie to your house for?”
“He wants proof that I’m rich,” I simply answered.
“Ok. Here’s what I need you to do, though. Meet me at the bank -- there’s only one in the area, so it should be fine -- and retrieve ten thousand. Give it to us, and--”
“But I got the money at home.” I responded. “I don’t trust banks.”
“Then go home and I’ll be waiting for you there. Find your stash of money, we’ll take it, and you can have Ana back.”
“It’s a done deal.” I said, easily. I’d much rather trade one million dollars for my wife’s safety. I thought. Besides, as she said, it is better to earn money then to live like a lazy man who doesn’t accomplish anything.
I continued driving home and after about twenty minutes, I arrived at the house.
“This doesn’t look so big.” Alfie sad. “You lied to me.” He swore at me, and then I began to speak.
“Don’t worry. It’s much bigger in the inside.” I said, opening the door.
I lead Alfie to the main stash of money which was oddly organized in one room. The room was literally filled with stacks of hundreds all around.
“Help yourself.” I said to Alfie. Mannings was beside him, too, holding Ana. He had followed Alfie and me to the stash. He dropped Ana. After a few hours had gone by of them loading the money to Mannings’s car, they were leaving, and after they were invisible, I heard a gunshot. I suppose there is now only one person that has the money, now.
Ana and I were safe at home. We had lost our money, but we had received each other. I now realize it is important to earn what you get and not just get it. Both Ana and I got jobs to earn our money, and life was good. Sure, we didn’t spend as much time with each other as we used to, but the time we did spend together was very valuable and more appreciated. Basically, life was good.