The Murder

I am changing my name. I am not currently aware to what—all I know is that it’s going to be different and then I am leaving this country as soon as I can. I already have my plane ticket ready—it is a twelve-fifteen American Airlines departure to London, Britain. It is the closest flight I could schedule to the period of time that is right now—just mere minutes from eleven-thirty p.m. I look to my side and see that my single brown work suitcase is ready, filled with clothes, money, and other necessities needed to start my life in England. In my right hand happens to be my passport.

My old name inscribed into my little booklet? William Alexander Hawthorne. Age? Thirty-one. Location? Colorado Springs, Colorado—soon to be somewhere overseas if I am not caught.

Caught, you ask? Yes, caught. As soon as the police arrive and find the murder victim’s cold, dead body on the ground, you can be sure I will be their prime suspect. However, let me put it to you that I am more than just an innocent bystander: I am the murderer.

A surprise, yes? Then let me tell it to you again: I am a murderer. I am a bloodthirsty, ruthless son-of-a-bitch murderer, and the only reason why this is so is because of a crazy thing I call love. I didn’t ask for much. I gave out my affection and all I wanted was the same in return. But did the wretch give it to me?—oh no! Of course not. That’s why I killed her.

The wench’s name? Caroline. What she did that infuriated me so? Slept around with others. And that’s what caused her downfall this fine Thursday evening.

I remember the past few hours perfectly, as if I were reliving them again and again. It was late on this summer Thursday when I had arrived home, absolutely tired from the long drive home on the highway. I was dreadfully tired and bed sounded like a heavenly paradise to me. That was to be the first thing I did when I arrived at my suburban dwelling: sleep.

Upon entering my house, I slowly plodded to my room. I noticed that before I entered my bedroom the door was closed. It was indeed quite odd, because normally my love would sleep with it open for the thoughts of robbers and burglars breaking in were rather scary. Oh well. Perhaps tonight there was a hint of courage in my companion’s soul. I opened the door, absolutely careful not to make too much noise. However, much to my dismay, I did not have time to wake my mate. From the moment I stepped into my bedroom, her head popped up from underneath the covers, her eyes wide and frightened.

I looked to her side. A man came up next to her, all the while trailing her neck with butterfly kisses. Sensing that his partner was no longer interested in the fun they were having, he turned his head forward. I returned his scared stare with a strong glower of my grayish eyes; I recognized this man as David.

“You son of a bitch,” I said to her, my voice unusually calm even though I was filled with hot rage. “How could you do this to me?”

“Please, William,” Caroline pleaded, sitting up in bed. I took this time to notice that she was stark nude. “Try to understand.”

“There is simply nothing to understand here,” I replied and with that, I turned on a heel and strode out the door. Thoughts ran through my mind. How could this happen? I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I was a good man. Did all of this need to occur?

I came up to the closet and I slowly opened the white wooden doors, searching for something that would show them the seriousness of my anger in one explosive moment. What I found was a simple black pistol, and next to it, cartridges. Oh yes, this will certainly show Caroline a thing or two about love, seeing that the wretch doesn’t appreciate it to the extent that she will sleep around with other men. I started loading the weapon leisurely as she and David came up to me.

“William,” she whined once more. “Stop this madness. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“No,” I said, pushing the nozzle of the pistol against her forehead. “It wasn’t.” And with that, I simply pulled the trigger and shot her. She fell to the ground with a loud thud, blood spewing from the wound. I felt no emotion whatsoever towards the dead Caroline, but when I turned to David, it all came to me as a large wave.

“How could you do this to me?” I cried again. “I loved you! We were perfect together.” My mate said nothing to me; he seemed to be calculating a lie that would sound valid. After a while he said:

“I’m sorry, William.”

“‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough.”

“Are you going to shoot me, too?”

Is that all he cared about: his miserable life? What about me? There was indeed no way this relationship was going to work out. I tossed the gun to the side.

“I can’t kill the ones I love,” was the last thing I muttered to him before calmly walking out of the house, grabbing my suitcase on the way. From that point in time, I slid back into my car (still adorned in my work clothes, nonetheless) and went on a long and lonely drive. Lonely—that is what I am now. Lonely.

On the road I thought only of my lost love, David. I thought absolutely nothing of that wretch Caroline, who he seemed to favor over me. It then occurred to me that the police could be coming over to the scene just as I sat, thinking and driving to myself. If captured, I would have to face years in prison—something I truly did not deserve. So that is when I concocted the plan to leave the country. I withdrew a large sum of cash from my banking account and then went about buying more necessities—such as clothes and the airline ticket—using cash so they couldn’t track me. Then I rented a shoddy motel room for the night before I departed for my big flight.

And that is how the story revolves back to this current time I am reliving this. There is nothing more to do or tell here. I continue thinking about the thought that started it all:

I am changing my name.