An Unfortunate Affair Sample
Sarah, just killed a man
Wrapped my hands around his neck
And squeezed ’til he was dead.
If anyone had told me two months ago that I would murder a man and casually sing about it, I wouldn’t have believed them. Impossible, I would have insisted. But here I was, whispering my creative lyrics to the tune of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Where was the panic? The cold sweats? How had I contracted this levity? Doubtless, I was in shock, and the full extent of my actions would only hit me later.
It was easier than I’d expected. In spite of his inebriated state, Trevor had put up a fight, but he was no match for my muscular arms, my hands of steel. All those hours I’d spent in the gym had paid off.
I glanced furtively in both directions to confirm no one had observed me snuffing out a life. Then I inspected my handiwork. Trevor’s once handsome face looked grotesque in the darkness, a sight that would delight Halloween enthusiasts but churn the stomachs of the squeamish.
I pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pocketed the cash and credit cards, leaving the wallet open by his side. The scene looked as I’d intended — a mugging gone wrong. Next, I used my handkerchief to wipe off everything I’d touched so as not to leave any fingerprints. Surprisingly still calm, I stepped away from the body and exited the narrow alleyway back into civilization.
A few people milled about, mostly partygoers and others who had drunk themselves silly on a Friday night. No one noticed me, as far as I could tell. I turned left and continued on, tossing Trevor’s cards in a trash can a block away. At the next block, I almost tossed his cash as well before thinking better of it. Waste not, want not. The proverb ran through my head, and I figured, why throw away three hundred dollars? It’s not like anyone could trace the money back to Trevor, and the crisp bills would certainly help with my Glenfiddich fund.
It wasn’t until I returned to my car that everything sank in. I sweated. My heart hurtled into a nervous gallop. The image of a drunk, unsuspecting Trevor floated before me, cracking one last dirty joke as I led him into the alley. The confusion on his face when I grasped his neck, the alarm when he realized what was happening. The futile struggle.
I took a few deep breaths, checked my face in the rearview mirror, and admonished myself to calm down. He deserved it. You’re safe. No one knows you did this, I convinced myself. Once I was in a condition to drive, I headed home.
Wrapped my hands around his neck
And squeezed ’til he was dead.
If anyone had told me two months ago that I would murder a man and casually sing about it, I wouldn’t have believed them. Impossible, I would have insisted. But here I was, whispering my creative lyrics to the tune of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Where was the panic? The cold sweats? How had I contracted this levity? Doubtless, I was in shock, and the full extent of my actions would only hit me later.
It was easier than I’d expected. In spite of his inebriated state, Trevor had put up a fight, but he was no match for my muscular arms, my hands of steel. All those hours I’d spent in the gym had paid off.
I glanced furtively in both directions to confirm no one had observed me snuffing out a life. Then I inspected my handiwork. Trevor’s once handsome face looked grotesque in the darkness, a sight that would delight Halloween enthusiasts but churn the stomachs of the squeamish.
I pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and pocketed the cash and credit cards, leaving the wallet open by his side. The scene looked as I’d intended — a mugging gone wrong. Next, I used my handkerchief to wipe off everything I’d touched so as not to leave any fingerprints. Surprisingly still calm, I stepped away from the body and exited the narrow alleyway back into civilization.
A few people milled about, mostly partygoers and others who had drunk themselves silly on a Friday night. No one noticed me, as far as I could tell. I turned left and continued on, tossing Trevor’s cards in a trash can a block away. At the next block, I almost tossed his cash as well before thinking better of it. Waste not, want not. The proverb ran through my head, and I figured, why throw away three hundred dollars? It’s not like anyone could trace the money back to Trevor, and the crisp bills would certainly help with my Glenfiddich fund.
It wasn’t until I returned to my car that everything sank in. I sweated. My heart hurtled into a nervous gallop. The image of a drunk, unsuspecting Trevor floated before me, cracking one last dirty joke as I led him into the alley. The confusion on his face when I grasped his neck, the alarm when he realized what was happening. The futile struggle.
I took a few deep breaths, checked my face in the rearview mirror, and admonished myself to calm down. He deserved it. You’re safe. No one knows you did this, I convinced myself. Once I was in a condition to drive, I headed home.