Crazed Clown

      I am not crazy.  That sentence is plastered in my brain after years of constantly reassuring myself with it.  As I rinse the blood off my hands, I start to question if it is true.  

      I look into the bathroom mirror and am startled at my own reflection.  The bright clown makeup I had so thoughtfully applied this morning has been distorted and mangled.   My masterpiece has been ruined.  I want the man in the mirror to go away.  I need him to go away.  I know all control was lost when I see the shards of mirror land at my feet.  My hand throbs, but the mirror man is gone so its okay.  It is all okay. 

       When I was a kid,  I absolutely adored clowns.  Everyone did.  Thats why I did what I did.   Children need to be taught to be grateful.  When a child is not grateful, like stare at there smartphones instead of witnessing the wondrous joys of a hardworking clown,  they should be punished.  I just punished the children for them.  I am not crazy.

      Would crazy people take the time to carefully capture thirteen kids without being witnessed once?  No.  Would crazy people be able to hide thirteen bodies without a single one being discovered?  No.  

      So I, am not crazy.