Day 139 – Murder on the Mind

This day was originally meant to be part 6 of the Half Hour Hitman series. However, not only did my “d” key fall off and proved impossible to put back on, but my graphics card spazzed out and now it won’t turn on properly. So I had about half an hour to write all this. Apologies. I was half way through the other one, I had to think of this one in about thirty seconds.

 

Word count: 797

 

Pete’s shadow loomed over the body, the shadow of a dripping knife in his hand. He could not quite believe he had done it. The planning, the devotion of an idea driven by anger and hatred had finally come to a fruitful end. The body, though not yet cold, was lifeless. The brain was dead, a deceased prison of thoughts and memories that would never be released.

Pete could not deny himself the pleasure of his hard work. Perhaps a tiny portion of his mind crawled with guilt, but he would suffocate that for now. This moment was for the glory of the deed and to bask in the contentment that he had created.

Soon the police would be around. They would discover the body and then they would trace the evidence back to someone. Pete needed to ensure that that person would never be him. Still, though, he had to fight the notion of not receiving the recognition for the killing; he the silent worrier with no friends, no family, no wife and no life. He was no longer the garbage that everyone thought he was. He was no longer the pathetic scum that scanned their shopping at the supermarket. He was someone now – he was a murderer and he had killed one of the most hated men there was.

Pete stepped over the body to pour himself a glass of water. The struggle had been thirsty work. If he hadn’t have knocked over the table lamp, it would have been a quick and clean kill. Now there was blood everywhere – though at least he had no intentions of cleaning it up.

The victim’s wife was out of town. She had no idea what her husband was. No one knew except Pete. Pete flinched at the memory of that night. Flashes of dull street light and streaking car lights mingled with intense darkness, mud and bushes; sweaty hands clamoring over him and a heavy, panting breath just behind his ear. Every day since, Pete had felt sick to the stomach of what had happened, but still he never spoke of it to a single sole. The event twisted and turned his insides like a skewer on a fire. His fear warped to rage and anger, loathing and an explosive venom.

Years it had taken to track this man down, years. Pete never thought he had any chance of being successful in his intent, but tonight had proved him wrong. Tonight he could finally be victorious. All those nightmares would end; all those tortured dreams, those fearful nights walking home alone; no more.

Pete washed the glass and wiped the taps: no remains. The sound of a lock opening hit his eardrums. He panicked. The front door opened and closed, accompanied by the sound of rustling bags and shoes being taken off. Pete was in the kitchen – there was no way out save to go through the murder scene itself.

Seconds later a woman appeared in the doorframe to the living room and stopped and screamed at the horrific sight. Her gaze rose towards Pete, who was lingering in the gloom of the kitchen. She bolted back out the door. Pete ran after her.

Her hand was on the door knob already, but Pete snatched her hand away from it.

“Get – away!” she yelled, her words were sodden with shock.

They struggled for a moment, but Pete eventually overpowered her, crushing her to the floor and lying on top of her. The poor woman’s face was red and blotched with her husband’s blood – no doubt smeared on from Pete’s clothing.

“Please don’t kill me, please….” She sobbed, “Please, please, please don’t kill me…”

Pete pondered his options. As far as he could see there were only two; one of which was the right choice and one of which was the mad choice.

“Your husband raped me,” he admitted, the words somehow easier to leave his lips than he would have thought.

“No, no, no, no, no!” she shook her head in violent disbelief.

“Yes he did, and now, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to make sure you don’t tell a single soul I was here…”

“Please – no, I believe you! I won’t tell anyone! I promise, please, please, please!”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you.”

Pete cast aside the knife – she should feel no pain, as she had done no wrong – and carefully put both his hands around her throat till she struggled no more. Once her last breath had left her lungs, he got up and examined the mess that he had caused. Reassessing his earlier planned intentions to leave the place as it was, he put his hands on his hips and looked around.

“Now, where would they keep the mop?”

 

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~ by S.G. Mark on February 23, 2012.

One Response to “Day 139 – Murder on the Mind”

  1. not bad for 30 sec thinking time.

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