Maybe it’s the way that I pierced the knife into her, a little too much to the left to her heart, that didn’t kill her instantly. She only gasped with a huge shriek, which freaked me out. Her right hand immediately wrapped mine, which holds the handle of the knife. I felt the numbness creeping. My hands were shaking vigorously. It’s cold, but not ice-cold and I couldn’t feel my fingers at all. And it felt cold, but I thought to myself that maybe it was the blood gushing from her torn veins, dripping to my hand. I was really on my nerve. After all, it was my first time killing something bigger than a mosquito. We waited awhile, but there was no scream. My left arm was behind her back holding her body. I let her down easy, sliding the knife out bit by bit; or at least I tried to. What we didn’t think about is that as she lost her consciousness because the loss of blood, her feet could no longer hold her body. We should have done this with her lying down, I thought to myself.
I laid a white fabric –which quickly turned red from the blood– over the stiff, cold, inert flesh and bones of her, lying on the Persian carpet in her room just by the now-bare bed.
The room was peculiarly silent. I was still catching my breath. My heart was pounding like medieval war drums, and my hands were shaking like a rabid dog.
All that was happening in the room reeked a particular smell. Time was not ticking as it used to be. It had become slower, and slower, though never to the point where it stops completely.
It took me around seven minutes to finally be able to move my legs. I made my way outside the room to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of red wine from the counter, and went outside to the porch. When I arrived at her house about two hours ago, I lit a cigarette and forgetfully left it burnt on the ashtray. It’s still there but had burnt its way up to the filter so I threw the butt far to the street. Nobody’s around, so I guess it was fine to litter.
The time was three a.m on a particularly chilly day in December –because it had rained all night long. The streetlights were fairly dim, even I couldn’t see a thing from two house away. Somehow I felt that it was safe for me to keep sitting on the dark porch like this so I lit another cigarette and drank straight from the bottle.
Sitting still is hard, especially if you had just killed a person three minutes before. All the things you had read and watched at this point always end up at the same conclusion; no murderer is left uncaught by some form of authority. My feet was moving up and down, up and down. The fingers of my left hand tapped five times per second while the other hand was holding a cigarette which once again I left burning, leaving a trail of blue smoke over my face.
What if somebody caught me, I thought to myself. They might saw me with my hand dripping blood, caught me, pinned me to the ground. Police would come, saw the body lying on the floor of the bedroom, put me all over the crime scene and matched the blood on my hand to hers, and threw me in jail. Or I might saw them first and leaped on running as my first reflex, and they would get suspicious, and caught me, pinned me to the ground.
But what if nobody caught me?
Two hours ago, She called and asked me to come over. I lit a cigarette just before I went inside her house, left it burning on an ashtray at her front porch. She told me, “I want to die, now.”
Right now?” I asked.
“Just, I want to die, now. You owe me a favor remember?”
“I know, I know. But you didn’t even give me time to prepare or anything.”
Maybe it’s in the way she said it, indifferent and well-thought-out, that I didn’t think of saying no to her request. She said words that were almost interchangeable with anything else but an invitation to murder.