Can I?

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. I count. I briefly contemplate taking some sleeping pills, but quickly discard this idea. I prefer having my mind clear. Especially now.

No, I shouldn’t think like that. I just love being alive and fully conscious. That ‘s why I don’t do drugs or drink only occasionally and in little quantities. I just like to always know what’s happening around me, live my life experiencing all I can.

That is not the right train of thought right now.

I quietly slip out of the bed and don’t even bother with slippers. I sneak down stairs barefoot, grab my coat, and get in the car parked up front. The keys are in my pocket, where I left them earlier today. I pull my shoes on behind the wheel. I put my sedan in neutral and slowly roll down the street with the lights off until I’m far enough.

I drive in complete silence only to stop in front of the cinema. Like in a trance I enter the nearby alley.

Everything looks exactly like it did earlier today: the heaps of trash leaning against the walls, the dirty puddles and the nauseating stench. Everything – exactly the same. Except now I’m alone here. The woman and the man are not here anymore.

I walk over to where they were standing. I need to know if what I saw really happened.

The man was standing with his back to the alley’s exit. But his long black coat caught my attention. So I stopped to look. Then I saw the knife he took out of the coat’s pocket. Before I could even move, the blade slid in and out of the woman’s abdomen leaving behind a bloody smile.

I still remember the sound her intestines made when they fell to the ground. I followed their trail and noticed the couple’s footwear. It’s funny what the mind commits to memory in such situations. He was wearing elegant shoes made of black leather, embroidered with a navy blue thread, and she had classy black heels on.

Now I'm crouching at the same spot and observe the shabby concrete closely. I slide my palm over the rough surface and stand up to look at it. The colour is dirty brownish. Can it be that blood looks like that after a few hours?

I smell it, but just like in the air overall – I don’t sense any metallic aroma.

With my hand held up high I glance at the ring on my finger. It’s lovely, even in this awful lighting.

The woman had a ring. I noticed it as she was falling to the ground. The man let her head hit it with a dull thud.

The memory of how her ring reflected the dim light wakes unpleasant thoughts. Did she have a husband? Or a fiancé? She must have had someone. And now that person has been left alone. They will never know if the woman they love ever comes home, sentenced to a life of endless wait.

The man stood over the body for I while, and I was just frozen. I didn’t breath nor moved an inch. That’s when his phone rang. I recognised the tune – it was a theme from 1986’s Mission. A pen fell out of the man’s coat when he reached for his inner pocket to answer the call. He sighed and looked up unaware of the pen hitting the concrete.

Just as he was about to turn around with his ear to the phone – I ran. I didn’t turn around. I simply walked to my car and drove home to get the dinner ready. All that with just one thought racing through my mind: am I going to be next?

So here I am now. Looking for a pen. In a mucky alley. At 3 o’clock in the morning.

I search. I rummage through the rubbish.

I find nothing. No pen. No blood. No evidence or whatsoever.

I shuffle back to my car, turn on the engine and slowly drive home. Other drivers honk at me, but I ignore them, because I know that if I speed up a little, I won’t know when to stop.

The porch is dark. The lightbulb is out for a week now. I quietly open the door and step inside. I hang my jacket on the rack, my hand brushing against a black coat.

As I put my boots back on the shelf, I notice that the black leather shoes are out of place. So I move them to the spot right next to mine. Absent-mindedly I rub my thumb on the blue thread adorning them. For a while I look around, searching if any signs of disorder, but everything seems to be just how it’s supposed to be.

I go to the kitchen to start preparing a sandwich – nothing fancy, just ham and some lettuce. Not bothering with getting a plate, I leave the food on the counter in between the bites. I chew without care, because I’m not really hungry, but I need evidence. What if he woke up and noticed me gone? I could say I was in the bathroom, but what if he knew that I was out of bed for longer that it would take to use the toilet? I needed a real, credible story. Therefore, some food needs to be to be missing, and I can’t simply throw it out. He may find out if it just ends up in the bin.

On my way up I glance at the CD stand. One of the Ennio Morricone’s sticking out, so I gently push it back.

Back in the bedroom I slip back under the covers, right into his embrace.

“Hey, babe, where were you?” he asks groggily.

“Just woke up a little puckish,” I settle down with my back to his chest as he reaches and caresses my swollen tummy. “You know what the baby does to my eating habits, honey.”

He murmurs something under his breath, and snuggles closer.

I close my eyes trying to keep the gory images away. There’s no evidence. Nothing to prove that what I saw has ever happened.

I can’t wreck this blooming family accusing him of a crime like that. I can’t ruin this relationship like that. Can I?