The Murder(8)
Author:John Hansen

    No, I don’t,” I retort vehemently, groping for the kitchenknife behind me.

    Honey…” she says compassionately, cocking her head to theside as she calmly studies me. My fingers touch the cool metal of theknife. I pause quickly, take a deep breath but in the heat of themoment, snatch the knife, aim it at her horrorstruck face and powerit through her chest.

    Now you’ll never leave me,” I whisper as she fallsgracefully to the floor, her face filled with alarm. Her lusciousblonde hair billows majestically as she falls, just before it ispinned beneath her head. I breathe, clench my knife and stare at herblood on my hand in a mixture of awe and disbelief of what I haddone.


    My father found me in the very same position, the same dilemma. Ihadn’t moved. Petrified. Transfixed. My face deathly white. Myfather decided to assist me since I was just a child – his child –and he refused to allow me to go to prison, though he probably didthis for his own gain; if I was in prison how could I partner withhim at his firm? He dumped the body, destroyed the evidence andadministered a shot that caused me to forget the whole event becausehe did not want me to suffer from the trauma and guilt for the restof my life. After all, that would cause me to become an unsuccessfullawyer. The police pulled my mother’s body out of the Hudson a weeklater but the investigation revealed no evidence. Just a dead bodyand a stab wound. And me, well, I continued life merrily, with norecollection of that tragic day. But that tiny seed of evil wasforever planted in my brain – lurking, waiting for its discovery…


    ******


    I stood there, grasping the bloodied knife and staring down at mydead father in disbelief. I had murdered my father. And I hadmurdered my mother. All for nothing. For absolutely nothing. I hadmurdered my mother. The words were a poison, seeping into my brain. Ifelt dizzy, faint, sick to the stomach. I had an overwhelming urge tosimply throw up. The poison engulfed my cerebrum, destroying allmemories, thoughts and emotions. No one else did it – not myfather, not my neighbors, not some random stranger. Just me. Ihad murdered her. And the realization – the poison of theinevitable truth – acted as a lobotomy.

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