Crime Suspense Fiction

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

I was hallucinating.

That’s the only logical explanation for what I was seeing on the streets. Two dead bodies, one male and one female, laying in front of me, their throats slit and their eyes still wide open in fear.

Where am I, anyway? My mind was a fuzzy mess of unclear thoughts and muddy memories, and it was so hard to sort through them. There was a gaping hole in it – I went to work. I came back. I found my friend, Sarah, at my house. She was holding a Ziploc bag full of a white powder. Going to the Royal Oak. Inhaling the powder with Sarah. I remembered Sarah teasing me because I was a man and I was dancing, my feet feeling like they are going to fall off, wildly screaming the words to the song being played.

And then – nothing. Nothing, until then.

I stared and stared at the bodies. I imagined screaming for help, but I decided against it. I felt empty, like a shell of the previously colourful human I was. My eyes caught a silver flash on the ground before me – it turned out to be a knife, the blood on it glinting. I touched the dark crimson, and my fingers came back wet. Fresh blood.

It was a miracle I managed to hobble back home and burn my bloody clothes - my head was ringing and I felt dangerously on the edge of fainting.


I reach for my coffee, hair tousled and eyes drooping. I haven’t moved at all since I woke up, apart from to make my daily cup. Then I sat down at the exact same spot I had slept the whole last night and this morning, and rested my back on the couch, too hangover to do anything else but to play the events of last night in my head.

I was definitely hallucinating. Yep. There was no other logical explanation.

I reach for my phone in my pocket, only to realise that it had probably slipped out and smashed while I was partying last night. Groaning, I stand up on my weak legs, and walk unsteadily to the home phone that was about three metres away.

When I reached it, my legs felt like jelly, and I was ready to pass out again. Cursing and trying to steady my voice into something interpretable, I dialled 911. The line beeped three times before it connected.

“911, what is your emergency?”

I gulp, taking a deep breath in, feeling like I was going to faint, and retold the entire story – but I left out the drugs, and the drinking until I was puking.

I hang up, the female dispatcher’s pleasant voice still ringing in my head. And yes, I puked again.

A few days later

I read the article over and over again.


I feel faint. I rest my forehead on the cool window, replaying the events over and over again in my head.

The polished surface reflects the full moon above me. I stare at the sky, unfeeling. A lone thought pops up through the mud, clear as the white light bathing me from above. It’s too bright, my mind whispered, wait.

So I did. The moon is soon covered by clouds. The light had been snuffed out, and it is almost as if the sky could read my mind. I move forward, feeling like a mechanical, unalive thing, the knife in my hand no longer reflecting light. It looks beautiful but deadly.

I wonder if it’ll destroy me as well as my prey.

I crouch, moving forward slowly. The woman laughs, her golden hair pouring back as she tilts her head to the sky. The man catches her upward gaze. He kisses her gently, first on her forehead, then on her cheeks, then on her neck. The woman smiles, reaching for the man. They were both barefoot in the garden. He laughs, a low rumbling sound of pure joy, and the woman turns around to face him fully. Their faces are full of wanting.

And that’s when I pounce. I grab the man first, pulling his arms behind his back and twisting. He grunts in pain. The woman starts screaming, begging for help, falling to her knees on the grass. Her hair had turned dishevelled and her eyes were red rimmed and quickly tearing up with fear. I slit his throat, staring at the knife as the blood spurts out and splashes on my wrists. I barely feel the stickiness of it. I let go of his arms, and he begins to thrash, the gash on his throat bubbling with crimson. He falls to the floor.

The woman truly screams now as she saw her partner dying on the floor, the red spreading, staining his blue shirt. She kneels at my feet, begging for mercy, and I let her believe that I was really that soft-hearted and stupid to let her leave alive.

When her eyes begin to shine with hope, I drive the dagger home. Her warm blood spills, staining the green grass. I hear her crying and writing with pain, but all I can think is I have to clean this mess up before anyone notices. I drag the corpses to the alley nearby and leave them there. I hope that the pair gloves I was wearing were sufficient to hide my fingerprints. I leave the knife too – it can’t be traced back to me anyway since it belonged to a dead friend. Ironic, really.

It was only when I had gone home and burned my blood-stained clothes that the full extent of what I had done hit me. Right in the face.

I had killed. I was a murderer. I was a wanted criminal.

I wonder if I will be caught, if they will hold a trial for me.

If they do, the guilt and grief build inside me won’t hold any longer.

The dam will break.

I will confess.

I will be locked up.

I will die.

I fall to my knees, crying freely now, staring and staring at the dead bodies before me. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

Tears trace a wet trail down my face yet again as I remember Rosella. How close we were. And what I had done.

I noticed her in high school when we were in Year 9. We started out as acquaintances, then friends, then best friends. And then we got serious. From Year 10 to university, we were total sweethearts. We had built a future on dreams for the both of us.

And then the proposal came. We were at a fancy restaurant somewhere. She was eating. I knelt, opened the box, and held the ring to the spot where it caught the light and sparkled.

I was certain that she would accept. That she would be pleasantly surprised, kiss me, and say yes.

But she only stuttered and made an excuse to go to the bathroom. After I had waited awkwardly for thirty minutes, I knew she was gone.

Then she decided to mock me by sending me a wedding photograph of her and her new boyfriend – husband now, I guess. And the text she sent along with the photo just reinforced her clear message.

I found my match. Have you?

The next message:

Oh, sorry. I forgot. How silly. Of course not. Who would want to be with you?

I was so despaired, angry, and enveloped in grief that I had texted Sarah to come over that day before leaving for work – just to forget myself, and reality. Even if it’s just for a few hours.

Come meet me at 6.30. Bring goodies.

And then… Things had gotten out of hand. My head was pounding. I was driven by impulse. When I saw her and him in the club’s garden, I had snapped. The knife my friend gave me was still in my handbag, just in case of emergencies – if someone attacked me.

Never did I think that I would be using it to attack someone else. That I would be the predator.

Sighing, I walk over to the home phone on the wall the second time this week.

“911, what is your emergency?”

I let loose a long breath, the words flitting out of my mouth.

“Hello. My name is Keaton Chavez and I’m here to give myself in. I confess to the murder of Rosella Evergreen and the unidentified man.” 

July 30, 2022 01:07

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