“Some musicians are still, like, about it, you know? Like Rick Ross or whatever.”

“Rick Ross? You think Rick Ross is an actual gangster?”

“Yeah man. You can tell in the music. He means what he’s talking about.”

“Are you fucking retarded? You think a multi-millionaire rapper is going to be selling drugs? Genuinely that’s what you think?”
The conversation from earlier in the night was looping through my head. My friend is a fucking retard. Stupid fucking cunt. No fucking grip on reality. Why is this guy even my friend? He just believes everything he hears? That’s the kind of people I surround myself with?

He had fallen asleep in his room a few hours ago. I hadn’t been able to. Pure rage-fuelled adrenaline had kept me awake the way a fever does. Stupid fucking cunt. I had done a few laps of his apartment to pass the time. He had never stirred when I went into his room. Deep sleeper, I guess. Maybe when you live in a cartoon reality, the transition between waking and dreaming is easier.

I thought about smothering him while he slept. I’m bigger than him, so even if he woke up, I reckon I could get the job done. What then, though? I just leave a dead body in his apartment, I guess. If he was reported missing and the police broke down the door, maybe they’d think it was natural causes; dumb enough to stop breathing in his sleep and just never wake up. I’d have to be careful, though; can’t break his hyoid bone. Police know that’s what happens when you strangle someone.

Chop him up, maybe, or wait ‘til the next night and drag him out to somewhere and dig a shallow grave. About 200 feet from his front door to the nearest bit of grass, but it’s got pretty high foot traffic from crackheads at all hours. I wonder if they’d snitch. Crackheads hate cops, right? Maybe they wouldn’t snitch. Police would arrive to find an empty apartment and figure he’d just left.

No, the risk would be too high. Some people are born just to die, but it wouldn’t be me that did it, not tonight. He’s my friend! I can’t do that. I was on my next lap of the apartment now. On the floor next to his bed, he’d left his phone. I could smash it, but that’d probably wake him. I had a better idea; I’d pour water on it. Short-circuit it. Next time I reached the kitchen, I filled a plastic cup with water.

I crouch-walked into his room, my heartbeat thumping in my ears. Stupid fucking cunt. My hip mobility is dog shit. Each step took about five seconds. I reached the phone. I poured a bit of water on the screen and the sound of the droplets hitting the glass was louder than I expected. I couldn’t stop now, though; I had to empty the entire orange plastic cup.

I sat back on my heels and looked at what I’d done. His phone was now sat on a dark damp patch on his dirty grey carpeting. I hope it’s broken. My Achilles’ were cramping; I needed to stretch my legs back out. Couldn’t make it all the way to the door crouch-walking how I’d come in. Very carefully, on all fours, I made my way to the door, orange cup in my mouth so I could distribute my weight properly on all four limbs. I rounded the corner of his doorway back into the hall. My eyes had adapted to the darkness in his room and the light in the hallway nearly blinded me. I sat with my back to the wall for a moment allowing myself to calm down and my pulse to slow. My eyes adapted. I stood upright and walked over to the kitchen, placed the plastic cup back, and then walked over to the lounge where I was supposed to be sleeping. I sat on the couch and then it occurred to me that I could no longer spend the night here. He was going to wake up the next day, find his phone broken and his carpet damp, and put it together. How was I even meant to talk to him? I was still furious. I wouldn’t be able to apologise for breaking his phone.

I went back to my laps of the apartment, skipping my visits to his room. It was too stressful now. Kitchen, hallway, lounge. It wasn’t a big apartment. Kitchen, hallway, lounge. On my fifth lap, I decided to peek into his room to see the progress of my project. Whether the carpet was still incriminatingly damp.

As the water had been absorbed into the carpet, it had spread outwards. His phone now sat on a patch about as big as a basketball. But that wasn’t what had drawn my attention. The light from the hallway, coming in through the crack in the door, was bouncing off of a few beads of water on the screen. The water was beading on its fucking surface. Is it waterproof? It probably wasn’t even damaged. Fucking idiot. The circuitry would be fine.

Next time I reached the kitchen, I got the same cup and filled it up again. I wouldn’t fuck up this time. I had learned. I got back to his door, slowly opened it, and got down on all fours again. This was better than crouch walking. I put the cup in my mouth like I had done last time. The spit I had left on the cup from my last exfiltration was now cold and viscous. I crawled over to the phone and made much better time than my first trip. But I had overfilled the cup; now there was a trail of little droplets and damp patches from the door to the bedside. I silently prayed they’d evaporate before he woke up. They probably would. He doesn’t wake up ‘til past noon. Stupid fucking cunt.

I figured that to break the phone, the water would have to get inside it. I set the cup down and carefully pulled the charging cable out. The port to the phone was exposed now. I could strike. I sat back cross-legged and carefully poured the cup into the charging port. The water poured down my hands and into my legs, soaking my crotch. To be safe, I poured a little extra on the charging cable itself and the plug socket, then plugged it back in. I left the way I came in.

I was getting good at this now. He was so lucky I had decided against killing him. I could’ve done it so easily. Back to the lounge. I took my clothes off and put them on the radiator to dry and did a few more victory laps of the apartment, my crime scene. I was a poltergeist. He was so fucking stupid; maybe he wouldn’t even put it together. “Oh man, your phone broke? Fuck. Maybe you did something to it last night?”.

I reached the kitchen and refilled the orange cup. I drank deeply and smiled. Cup back in the cupboard. I passed his room again and figured I’d take a peek. I’d see what it looked like now.

I cracked his door open and checked on my friend. He was still sleeping. Idiot. I tried to see the phone, but there were no telltale water droplets to guide my eyes. It’s already evaporated, I guess. I felt vindicated and triumphant.

A tiny bit of yellow movement caught my eye. My eyes playing tricks on me, the light from the hallway causing some weird local mirage. Then it happened again. A flicker of yellow, by his bedside. As my eyes focused, I could see it clearer. A flame. A little flame illuminating his cheap Chinese phone charger, perched on its white plastic. I deduced it was the beginnings of an electrical fire.

Fuck. I closed his door and my blood started rushing again, so fast my vision blurred and I had to sit down. What can I do? Wake him up and tell him I tried to sabotage his phone? He’d never forgive me. I can’t do that. I made my way back to the lounge and the couch. There was so much water on the floor, right? That’d put the fire out. Maybe his charger would just melt. In a way, that would be even better. Not only had I destroyed his phone, but his charger, too. Maybe there’d even be a neat little singe mark on his wall that he’d have to fix.

I resumed my laps, again avoiding his room. I knew that it’d be okay. The fire would extinguish itself. That probably happens pretty often in situations like this. My clothes were still nowhere near dry enough for me to put them back on and leave. I was stuck here. I kept walking for around 30 minutes. I wanted my clothes to dry. I wanted to leave.

My clothes were still soaked, but I reckoned 30 minutes was enough time for the fire to go out. I peeked in his room again. The fire had spread to a plastic box he keeps near his bed. Plastic smoke is completely black. The atmosphere in the room had stratified, like how oil and water separate. From the floor to around four feet above it, the air was clear and looked normal. Above that, though, the room was clouded with thick smoke. My friend was still in bed, motionless, in the smoke zone. The carpet was catching, too. Was he dead?

I closed the door again. He was probably already dead. This is what I had wanted. No need to even dispose of evidence this way. The perfect crime. He was dead and there was nothing I could do now, even if I wanted to. Stupid fucking cunt. If he wasn’t dead now, he would be soon. Nothing I could do about it. Some people are born just to die.

I gathered my things and put them in the backpack I had come with. My clothes still weren’t dry. I put on my shirt. Is it enough to just cover your genitals? Would I get arrested for public indecency? Would I get put on the sex offender registry? I put my underwear on and hurried out the door.