• It was a cold and lonely night when it happened. I was typing away on my typewriter as the fireplace shifted the shadows on the walls. Outside of my small haven was a horrible storm that made itself known from the constant billowing winds and the rain that pelted my windows. But I ignored it as my mind was only occupied with creating my newest story for my small town to read.

    But as I was reaching the hero's climax, a loud pounding echoed from my door. I looked at the wooden structure, then back to my typewriter. The paper curled around the roll was almost filled with black text; I yearned to fill the rest, but my heart edged me towards the door. With nary a sigh or sob, I hurried to my door, calling out, "I'm coming."

    As I scooted into my slippers, I scurried to the door and swung it open to find a poor soul standing upon my doorstep. He was a tired man clothed in only scraps of cloth that clung to his skin. "Come in from the storm." I beckoned, "Come in and warm up; I am not as cold as Mother Nature." With a hoarse word of thanks, the poor man shuffled into my home, dripping rain upon my floor.

    "Pardon my curiosity dear man," I asked as he settled down into my chair, "But why is a man such as yourself in a storm such as this?" The man raised his head, and I saw that he was more battered than I thought. A long scar started from his forehead and raced down across his lips, and continued down into his clothing. "I was looking for something I have lost long ago." he croaked, "Something dear to me as life is dear to all man. I thought I find it if I look hard in the rain, but I have not. It is possibly washed away forever."

    "Think not of the negative, my dear friend." I encouraged, "Your lost item may very well be where you least expect it. But what, pray tell, did you lose?" The man told me, "It was a musical pocket watch that my wife had given me so long before she left me. She gave me such a treasure just to remind me of how lucky I am to have her. But, with one boat trip to Paris, I lost her to a rich aristocrat. Now I am forced to wander."

    To be quite honest, I am sorry for the poor man. But I could not help but to dig even deeper into his crumbling life. "Why did she go to Paris in the first place?" I asked. He glared at me, anger flashing in his eyes. "She went there to get away from me." he growled, "I was working hard to please her, to live up to her promise that we would get married when I earned enough. But she was impatient and left for Paris when I was only twenty dollars away!"

    "Forgive me, dear sir." I apologized, "Please, forgive me for making you so angry." But instead, he rose from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at me, saying, "She left for a b*****d like you! Rich enough to buy the moon! I can tell that you are wealthy, so it wouldn't matter if I take something of yours!"

    I backed away from the old man, pleading, "Sir, please calm down! I am not as wealthy as you think. I am merely a book writer, nothing more! Take all you want, but it will not get your old life back." But the old man merely chuckled, asking, "Did I say I was going to take one of these material things? No. I am going to take your life."

    "WHAT?!" I screamed, but he withdrew a long knife from his shroud, and then charged at me with an inhuman scream resounding from his throat. I panicked and leapt towards the side, watching him stab the wall by mistake. I crawled away towards my writing desk, where all of my papers and my faithful typewriter rested. I envied my tools as I staggered to get into a standing position as he wrenched his blade free. My hand went backwards and felt my paper weight as it rested on a stack of new papers. As the beggar charged again, I picked up my paper weight and threw it blindly, watching the object hit the man in the middle of his head, leaving a small bump on his head. With a slight moan, he held his head weakly and fell to the floor, the knife stabbing the carpet from where it hit.

    With a nervous step, I carefully made my way to where the poor soul laid, noticing the lack of breathing. I tried to shake him into consciousness, but he did not move one muscle. I killed the man with a simple blow to the noggin. Now what shall I do?

    Before my heart started to quiver and pound, I picked the dead man up and carried him outside into the cold, stormy air. I know where exactly to dump this body; behind my house, a few steps away, is a river. I just toss the body there, and he shall be swept away to who knows where; preferably the ocean if I am lucky. And sure enough, with a few slick steps, I found the river, raging furiously as its girth has increased because of the rain. With a quick prayer, I toss that body into the waters, and watch the corpse disappear into the dark, muddy waters.

    I know it is a sin, and I know it was heartless. But to be quite honest, it is the law of man. Only the strongest and smartest survive.