And in the dead of night, he sat there: beads of sweat trickled from his brow, face contorted in the most agonizing form the human anatomy could allow, and his body did tremble as if the ground on which he stood was being torn asunder by the titans themselves.
Yet one thought still raced through his mind that robbed him of peace: what of the body, and the traces that would lead back to him? Time was his oppressor, as was his own conscience which seemed to damn him to the lowest pit of hell. He paced incessantly, leaving a mark upon the floor where the remnants of his horrid crime did lay, untouched and unhidden from mortal eyes that could easily see what he had done.
Dawn was coming. All he had was a few more hours until the truth was to be revealed. He paused to compose himself, but he knew what had to be done: “Not a soul should know of this. I bring this secret to my grave”, he said to himself as the cock started to beckon the new day.
Then, after what seemed to be an eternity, he made his move.
The more effort he tried in moving the body, the heavier it got; what looked like a hundred and thirty pounds seemed to be a ton for him, and time was running out. He knew that at any given moment, the door could burst open and a slew of people would be illuminated of what had occurred. The light of the study lamp flooded the room with a ghostly white glow, animating all the items that were sprawled across the room. It all seemed hopeless in his eyes-the promise of escape, a life of innoncence-if not for the idea that had risen from his still racing mind: slight-of-hand and deception. “None saw the crime take place, none have been informed yet for no news of the crime have reached those on the outside; ‘slight-of-hand, deception’”. Those were the words that traced his lips as his eyes searched for tools to aid him in his new quest. Then he saw what he needed: the belt that hung from behind the door; the blanket under the bed, still drenched in sweat and blood from their struggle; and, the bloody wedge that ended such a young and promising life.
Graced by this knew surge of adrenalin and excitement, he felt as if he was a man beyond equal. In a series of fluid motions, he had already wrapped half the body with the bloody sheet and firmly secured the blade upon the right hand in such a way that he would be absolved of any sin that may be thrown against him. The leather from the belt wrapped itself tightly around his neck, irritating the skin and giving him a burning itch which he could not save himself from. “Better this momentary nuisance than a hangman’s noose”. T’was a joke only he could savor, and savor it he did. After a hearty laugh, he got back to the mission at hand. The wounds he inflicted on his own body (coupled by the ones from his bout with his now deceased companion) could be enough to save him a case against the court; a plea of “self-defense” would still be plausible, given by the amount of physical trauma on him and the lack thereof on the other. “I still have a chance”, he mused as he set the stage for his greatest performance yet.
Just as soon as he had lied a few feet from the corpse, hidden in the shadows, repeating his alibi in his head, heavy knocks fell upon the door and then, the shouting of people from beyond the barrier. Not a moment later, in came the team of the Emergency Response Unit, alerted by neighbors who complained of “shouting and of a loud ruckus” that came from unit 9. The gurney was wheeled in as the medic checked for signs of life, while the police secured the perimeter of the room.
"I have done it. Soon I will be free once more! THE PERFECT PERFORMANCE!", he thought.
He heard a deafening roar, of what he perceived was an invisible audience that has just witnessed greatest unravel in-front of them. Soon though, he felt something was amiss.
Minutes have passed and still, still, not one of the men and women that stormed through the door has been alerted of his presence. Seconds he has allowed to pass, and still all were oblivious that he was just lying there—waiting. “Am I that great a performer?”, he thought. But the wait was too unbearable now.
"Here I am! Wounded and bloodied, but alive! It was him-HE did this!! VILLAIN!”
And yet scream as he could, he could not hear his voice; only the screeching siren of the ambulance, the noise made by the police and EMT’s that were abuzz, doing what they trained for.
"Here! HERE!!" (Why can’t I make a sound?! And…why? WHY CAN’T I MOVE?!!)
His limbs were frozen in place, and so was his gaze—and then, he saw the dreaded sight.
He felt his heart stop, his breath held in its place.
As the body was placed on to the gurney, a medic had accidentally knocked the head to one side- the side that showed him the face of this mysterious fellow that, just a few hours ago, gushed blood from its neck—on the same area where he had felt that burning itch which pestered him a while ago.
His mouth gaped open as he stared at the person he had struggled with, and it was as if he was staring at a mirror.
"Self-inflicted, single slash across the jugular. Slow and painful, gruesome; dramatic. Befitting a performer of his calibre", said the detective as he took a swig of whiskey from his pocket flask.