Victim, Witness, Murderer

He woke up in his night suit to find himself dead. Dead. Killed. Murdered. In cold blood. By his best friend. His inner self.

Ian was a lad of 14, and was the world's biggest introvert. No friends would he accept, whatsoever happened, and, all the more, he was an orphan with no property to his name, and without a single living relative. He lodged as a paying guest with the stingy amount of money his father had left him. But he was happy. Until today.

His inner self had killed him and his self-trust. He had seen himself get killed. He had become a witness to his own murder. He had seen his inner self pick up the weapon called sight and throw it at the beautiful girl passing by. And the weapon hit him. In the heart...

He was twitterpated to death. And this was the murder mystery of Ian, whose witnessed had died before the incident, and the accused was the same. And so was the victim. But all three were still alive. the witness, the victim, and the murderer were still alive, but lost. In thoughts of her. Of her beauty and charm and attractiveness and prettiness and pleasantness and comeliness and allure and loveliness and heavenliness and voluptuousness and winsomeness and grace and elegance and exquisiteness and splendor and magnificence and grandeur and impressiveness and picturesqueness and gorgeousness and glamour and formalbeauteousness. And his inner self.