The Account of George Beckorth

A very short horror story with a twist

 

               There is one thing to be said for stupidity, and that is that no one suspects you of any intellect beyond the scope they imagine you to have, and this was the case for George Beckworth. George was a really dim fellow, he spent most of his time in the company of his fiancée, Kristen Stockwell, who was known by everyone (except for George) to be something of a tart. He would follow her everywhere and mingle with her friends who would often make him the bunt of their jokes…poor dear; he would laugh with them in a clueless manner. Of course, I for one, knew George to be a lot smarter than he let on, I knew this because I was just the sort of person a jovial, clumsy, and somewhat emotional man would confide in, I am thoughtful, I am calculated, and have that useful ability to keep my head about me in dire circumstances. It was from Georg’s trust in me that I knew he was very clever, he wasn’t stupid to all that was going on around him, even though that’s what a lot of people thought.

                It was a warm day in summer when I first met George Beckworth, it was in the parlor of a couple called Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, and they were friends of Ms. Stockwell. Goerge sat looking quite uncomfortable and giddy in the Robinson’s company, Ms. Stockwell sat beside him telling stories about all the little mistakes George had made since she had known him, like the time he ran over the garden-hose with the lawnmower, or how he had Hoover pockets when he went to an important job interview because he had forgotten to tuck them in after removing them from the dryer, yes, Ms. Stockwell and her friends found these stories most enjoyable to poke fun at, and George…well, he giggled at them as well, not realizing, it seemed, that he was being slyly mocked.

                While the couples had been talking in the parlor I stood out of sight, but finally got so impatient around the fiftieth joke about George’s intelligence that I entered and joined the party. No one really noticed me when I showed in the parlor, after all, I was common enough, but George took note of me, I could tell that he thought I was beautiful, I could see this certain glint in his eyes and a glow in his face as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair whenever I crossed his mind. I could tell that whenever I was around he felt stronger, as if he could take on the world, but I could also detect the sadness behind, what others believed to be, his ignorant face. I knew that somewhere in his head he kept a box that was not just locked, but chained shut, and in this box he kept all his sadness, all his knowledge, and his ability to see beyond the end of his nose. Yes, I felt pity for poor George, I would sometimes watch him through the keyhole as he sat by himself in his room, because I admired him greatly, I secretly wanted him to leave Ms. Stockwell and stay with me, but it would take something drastic to shake him from his reverie and see her for what she really was, because, you see, George is a very loyal man.

                It was on this summer day when the Robinson couple and all sat in the parlor talking of nothing significant that I first showed George, Ms. Stockwell’s true colors,  he saw that he needed to watch Ms. Stockwell carefully, because it was clear that she was flirting with Mr. Robinson, the only problem was that he didn’t want to acknowledge that Ms. Stockwell didn’t really love him, that she had merely accepted his proposal of marriage because she thought that he was a pushover. I knew that he thought she was more beautiful than me, that she hung the moon, but never fear I knew exactly how to change that.

                The day wore on and it had begun to grow dark, George drove Ms. Stockwell home and for the first time he saw that she didn’t love him, when he told her that he loved her before she went into her apartment she merely giggled and said, “Goodnight.” Poor George told himself it was all in his imagination, and that he was lucky to have a girl like Ms. Stockwell. He made his way to his own apartment, humming to himself, and that is when I first spoke with him, he saw me out of the corner of his eye as he unlocked his door in the gold light of the porch-lamp. He looked at me rather startled, but I could see that look in his face, I knew that he loved me, but he’d never admit it because George is a very loyal man. I told him that I needed to speak with him and I watched as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair, a habit that he seemed to adopt every time I was around. We went into his apartment and began to discuss things, at first we spoke about simple things, about his discomfort around other people, about his love for Ms. Stockwell, about his feelings of insignificants, and yoddy-yoddy-ya until I thought my head was going to explode, but, I remained patient, and we finally got down to important things, he began to open his eyes to what was going on around him, it suddenly struck him that it was Ms. Stockwell’s fault that he felt small, it was her lack of love for him that had made him nervous and paranoid around other people. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and I studied his face carefully, he had such an earnest expression, and he was so beautiful.

                “It can’t be true,” he suddenly said, springing from where he had sat at the end of his bed, and I was quite disappointed. “There is a logical way to sort this out.”

                George picked up his phone and called his one true love, only to find that she wouldn’t answer her phone. Determined to prove me wrong, George and I made our way to Ms. Stockwell’s apartment, we climbed the steps to her front door together, and we peered in her front window, it was completely dark outside where we crouched, but all the lights were on inside. There in her living-room we could see her, there, with a man we did not recognize. George fell to the ground and would have screamed in pain if I had not hushed him up and told him the solution to all of our problems. We waited, and waited, for hours we sat in the darkness, this was something that we had to do together, and that is when he knew that I loved him.

                Click, the door was unbolted and opened, we heard their laughing voices as they stood in the doorway, and they both thought they had fooled us. We waited a few more seconds, and when the time came we sprang from the darkness and caught the cheaters by surprise. I grabbed a lamp from a nearby table and began to pound blindly, I pounded it, and pounded it, and the lamps body shattered and my arms prickled and tingled as exposed wires grazed my arms, my hands blistered and bled from having grabbed and broken the light-bulb, but I just kept pounding, and pounding until my arms became fatigued and tingled so much that they couldn’t function. I wiped my fingerprints off the lamp with my bloodied shirt, thankfully it was a black shirt so you couldn’t see the stains, that’s one thing one must remember when murdering someone, and that is to dress accordingly. I dropped the lamp wearily beside my betrayer. The police are trying to pin the crime on me, but everyone who knew me thinks that I’m just too stupid and jovial to commit such an atrocious crime. All I can say for my betrayer is, well, they she thought could fool George Beckorth, but she couldn’t fool me. As I stood in that apartment, still bloody, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I nervously ran my fingers through my hair. The good old George will never leave me, because George is a very loyal man.