Disclaimer: Alright, this is all mine. This is also NOT my usual style. For some reason, this idea came to me, and I wrote it down. This is the most morbid piece I have ever written. I hope you like it. Please don't use this to judge me, as I said, this is not my usual style, and it is the most morbid thing I ever wrote. I hope it stays the most morbid story I ever write.

Walls and bars, bars and walls.

They keep him imprisoned.

They do not let him out.

He paces in there, day and night.

He gazes at the stars.

His is a dull life, and when he eats, he looks normal, when he sleeps, he looks normal, and sometimes I almost think he's sane. Then he remembers. Then I remember.

He is crazy. He knows it. I am crazy, I know it. We both know.

I am Michel Aggat.

He is Michel Aggat.

We are one in the same, and we are crazy.

He opened the door to admit the little girl into his home.

She stayed outside for a moment, and asked politely for her ball, which had bounced into his yard.

He said she may come out back and get it.

She retrieved the ball, and, again politely, asked to use the bathroom.

He agreed.

She walked through the kitchen, into the bathroom.

He got his knife.

He drove his white pickup truck.

To the river, down to the river.

He wrapped her in a white sheet. White, like her skin, pale as death.

He dumped her into the river. She floated for a while.

He left.

We reached our home.

When we did, there was a neighbor asking about his daughter, a beautiful little girl with golden hair.

She brought a smile to everyone's face, especially when she laughed.

A beautiful child.

We didn't know where she was.

Of course we didn't, we are not murderers.

We were worried, we wondered if the body might show up.

We drove back down to the river.

But where was the shovel? We had left it near the water, planning to bury her later, after the river had washed away our crime, after all the crimson was gone, and only the pale of death remained.

They were looking now.

We could hear the dogs barking.

The dogs were in our backyard.

They smelled her.

But she was not there.

She was wrapped in white, pale as death, floating in the river.

They came to the door, they asked a few questions.

We answered vaguely and pleaded a headache.

They asked to come inside, we said sure. We forgot.

Forgot to wipe the blood away.

It was all over the bathroom, it turned the toilet water red.

Bloody handprints smeared the walls.

The echo's of a little girls scream could almost be heard.

We forgot.

We took them to the body, what choice did we have?

It was bloated from the water, and all of the crimson still wasn't washed away.

We were guilty, because her golden hair was still encrusted with blood.

We found our shovel, it had fallen behind a tree.

The dogs found our knife, buried beneath that tree.

Her parents, they were screaming. We can still hear it.

The trial barely took a day. We didn't say anything. Our lawyers did the talking. Whatever we said made no difference.

They locked us up.

Walls and bars, bars and walls.

They keep him imprisoned.

They do not let him out.

He paces in there, day and night.

He gazes at the stars.

His is a dull life, and when he eats, he looks normal, when he sleeps, he looks normal, and sometimes I almost think he's sane. Then he remembers. Then I remember.

He is crazy. He knows it. I am crazy, I know it. We both know.

I am Michel Aggat.

He is Michel Aggat.

We are one in the same, and we are crazy.

We are also murderers.

The river washed away most of the blood, but not all.

Our crime still exists.

We are still guilty.

And the thousands of other nameless little girls, are finally safe.