It had to have been Murray. Murray, who many fleas and vermin alike had parasitically taken a liking too since they had met. According to the townsfolk, his entire family had been the same. The same strange eyes, forever out of focus. The same vacant, cave-man expression that only seemed to deteriorate if he was speaking, which wasn't often. He must have taken it all. Everything in the food storage fridge had been taken. The padlock had been broken, and of course the rumors that Murray was an expert lock pick only confirmed my suspicions. I'd walked in the previous morning, and it had been abundant with my own harvests. Thirty pounds of watermelons, submerged in ice so cold that they were guaranteed to stay fresh for at least a year whether or not frostbite claimed its opportunity. Twenty two pumpkins from the fall, plump and hidden behind closed metal doors. An amusingly large plethora of every kind of grape imaginable, scattered amongst the apples and oranges, also birthed from trees I took years to nurture and grow. From the ceiling I hung my tools, all golden and shining from years of hard work and experience. My expertise and skill were unmatchable by any in the valley. During each season, the bare fields from winter would become full of every type of fruit imaginable, a forest, if you will, of nourishment for those who lived near. It was a very risky business. One summer, typhoons swept through, claiming every plant on the farm, shredding that useless rotting barn between two plots on my farm and devouring the grass for my livestock. It rained constantly, and when it had settled, I ventured out into my stockroom and, mouth agape, noticed that nothing had disappeared. But Murray was mightier than a typhoon, it seemed. Murray had left me with nothing. Not a single pear, plum, apple, or any of my prized hybrid plants. No Melotoma, Tataro, Potomelo, Berrytoma, Dhibe or Dhilon to be proud of. None of my fantastic Yamato sandwiches or my family's famous Berryber Jam that was a childhood favorite. The large cupboard in the corner had been reduced to a pile of splinters, and as I stepped forward I realized he'd not only destroyed my grandmother's china cabinet that I put all of the best yams in, he'd also taken the large copper tub sink right out of the cabinet, which he'd proceeded to turn into a pile of rusty pipe. It was all gone. My tools were gone, thirty years I had spent breaking my back had been transformed from hard work to meaningless. Outside, the stench of burning grass was overpowering. The large barn my great grandfather had built still was sweating smoke, and the unmistakable odor of what reminded me of charred steak hung in the air. The trees that had once stood so proudly outside my house now were in a tangled mess on their side, roots ripped from the ground somehow. It was still only dawn. There was an ominous wind that was blowing gently in the breeze, towards Murray's house. He would have already fled town, gone up the hill towards town where he'd hitch a ride with some stranger out of there. His family will not even have known. I ventured into what was left of my house, stepping over the glass and splinters in the floor, scooting past the overturned dresser and gently pushing the door to the kitchen (which hung off its one remaining hinge) open, allowing it to finally give in and fall to the floor with a loud panging noise. What did it matter, I had nothing anymore. With a small smile, I reached into the open drawer and my hand closed around the shaft of a large kitchen knife. Turning around, I walked noisily out of the remnants of my kitchen and stood in the direction of Murray's house. His family would have to pay for the generations of my family that he'd insulted. They would still be asleep, the world would still be asleep. But I was wide awake, and soon, the Murray family would be sound asleep forever.