Why

It was the night of November 13, Wednesday. Inside the humble abode a man lay cold--he was dead. Around the corpse were blood--the color red covered the walls and basked the floor. There was chaos, & the man in the middle of the hallowed room played asleep, oddly, with a smile on his lips. It was raining outside but in every droplet a voice seeped, a voice that no longer bleeds from pain or hate, but a voice that shouted how happy he was from the euthanasia that was bestowed upon his poor soul.

The people around the vicinity were shocked; they never knew how a man with an ideal life concluded his with such cruel fate. They never said that it was a suicide; everybody suspects a foul play. What would you expect from a man with a rich lineage of aristocracy, the best upbringing, that was the best gentleman of them all, who showered his domicile with his wealth, & a man of faith? Surely, his neighbors thought, he was friendly & that no other man--or men, as they presume it was a gang--could bear a grudge to him. Only the insane could be mad enough to have that rancor to a perfect man, they say.

But there was I, who saw him everyday in his front yard, couldn't expect less. I knew there was something wrong. Somehow, there was that darkness hidden in his eyes whenever he greets me with the almost ritual of "Good Morning there!" He was waving, with a mighty glee in his lips, but with a hoarse voice, almost as if being heaved by gravity.

It changed, from what I remember, some day in August. I was awakened by a screech--very unusual to a good car handler like him. He tried to turn, but unfortunately hit a garbage can full of stray cats. Finally, I can hear, he was able to settle with his car, the conclusion I got after the familiar sound from his car beeped. And there was rest.

From that day forward, he was lost; I was certain he is. He walked as though deep in thought, whenever he strode with his cane, going on with his rituals. Sometimes I see him seated on his garden swing, looking up the sky, gazing and wondering. He was sad, and it was evident.

Now he slept. I wish I could have comforted him. The only dilemma my mind can think of was: did he plan this, or was it a murder? I couldn't presume.