Pinwheels are interesting things, aren’t they? Little pieces of thin plastic folded a certain way and attached to a stick. When you blow on them, they start twirling around uncontrollably, blending all their colours together.

(“Just answer the question, Ms. Brice.”)

He had to pay. It was all his fault. The bloody idiot! If it wasn’t for him Tyson would still be here, telling the story of that eighteen-inch trout he supposedly caught- the trout he never had evidence of, but enticed us with nevertheless. Oh, how he loved telling that story! Alas, he will never tell it again, and it was- it still is- all his fault.

He heard the truck coming. He heard our shouts for him to move, to get on the sidewalk, but he refused to listen. He thought he would be smart and move at the last possible second. I guess they were both idiots, but that doesn’t make it any less of his fault. If he had just listened to us, Tyson wouldn’t have had to run into the street to save his sorry ass.

It’s karma, really. He deserves what I did to him! Tyson is gone- trampled by a semi that was meant for him! If it weren’t for his damn stupidity, I’d still have my fiancé! I’d be married right now! I’d be with the love of my life! I was doing the right thing and you know it! You all know it!

It wasn’t that hard to do. I knew where he lived already- hell, he had lived across the street from me for twelve years. Ever since I was thirteen. I knew the whole layout of his house. Every room, every window, every inch of it.

I figured I’d do it during the day. I don’t know why, there was just something oddly intriguing about the day. I’ve never heard of many pre-meditated murders occurring in daytime.

Everything was set. That day- July 13, 2001 if you must know- I left my house at exactly 4:04. I know that because that is Tyson’s birthday: April fourth. Anyway, I strolled over to his house, punched in the security code (I had procured it when his family went on vacation one year and I agreed to look after their wretched dog), and then proceeded into his house. I sat on the couch and made myself comfortable, though one can never really make themselves comfortable in the house of the person responsible for the death of one’s fiancé.

Getting impatient I took out the syringe and studied it. I held both ends and slowly spun it around, reading what it said. I don’t remember what it said; I wasn’t really interested in it- just bored.

I was brought out of my trance by the jingling of keys. I heard the door open and the sound of his boots lightly treading the floor. I knew it was time.

When he saw me he jumped slightly, then eased up after he realized who I was. I stood up and walked toward him, syringe in hand. He tensed up again.

“What’s that?” he asked me feebly. His voice even cracked a little.

“This? It’s potassium,” I replied, smiling at his confused and scared expression.

With that, I plunged the needle into his neck and pushed in the syringe. He gasped and fell to the floor. I bent down and pulled out the syringe, grinning to myself.

As I walked out, something caught my eye on the kitchen counter. A neon-yellow and lime-green pinwheel. I plucked the flashy contraption off the counter and blew on it. It started spinning, meshing together the colours, creating a green and yellow swirl. Pinwheel in hand, I calmly- yet cheerfully- walked out of his house to my own; the green-yellow swirl still present in the welcoming breeze.