I’d say I’m not a bad person, but neither of us would believe that.
I’m scared of the day I’m all alone, but that day is already here.
My name is _______. This is my story and my confession.
He is a good friend of mine, or at least he was.
5 years ago he passed away. No one knows why really. The press covered the story, sure. But they got bored when all anyone found were dead ends.
No one knew what happened to him. But I know. I know how he was killed. I know what I believe. I believe what I know – He was murdered and nobody question those they needed to the most. People were too trusting, I suppose.
His death in his profession, I guess was unsurprising.
But it wasn’t as much his death, as the person behind it who surprised me.
Ch 3.
His muffled cries of panting pain still rung in my ears. It was the first time he seemed vulnerable to the circumstances, a victim of the poor man’s madness.
He deserved it, he too was no less than a killer
He had killed her only a while ago, and someone had to return his favour.
Wrapped hands around his neck turned his skin to a brittle blue. His eyes were lost, deep and tinted, unable to stabilize from seeing this betrayal.
He choked on this vengence.
Not helpless.
He could have fought back.
But he knew. He knew the pain in the eyes of the man who stood before him.
He knew it, and perhaps he pitied him enough to let go.
After a while, the grasp fell and as his lifeless mass hit the ground, his steady grey eyes stared deeply. Knowingly.
He was gone.
But so was she.
My wife was dead.
And now a friend.
I have nothing left.
I am sorry. I really am.
I am sorry I killed him.