A Guiltless Murder

Today, just before I had eaten lunch, I killed someone with whom I had made no prior acquaintance, whom I never laid a single eye upon save for one instance while inhaling coffee, but who I despised greatly for their acts of evil, and yet in whose shoes I had greatly wished to be, providing that I could afford all that entailed. They deserved it, of course, and I find my emotions and my corroded soul void of any feelings of guilt for their loss, for they deserved it and I hated them so. When the officers arrived, I surrendered my bloody hands no longer free, registering the smoking barrel guilty as I, to be sure, but they needn’t to have neither me nor it as I was told, for a HERO they called me today. Of all the people who one can label this, they designated me as such for my noble actions, for the caring nature of my mind, and for the superior pedigree I was sure to own, which could possibly signify and thereby lead to my single act of bravery. But I was at a loss of their ignorance, of such petty misnomers that they used to close the case so prematurely. I was guilty, guilty as anyone who commits, unknowingly, a grand atrocity for “the greatest good,” and for their malevolent and irrational intentions no longer devious. By protecting and serving this greatest good, they neglected the value of good, contently surmounting my deed instead over its truest label: MURDER!

A few weeks prior to the murder, my brother had arrived concealing a message of the utmost importance. She was dead, and the funeral would be tomorrow. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that one death lead to another for the simple reason that this was not true, but in my conscious and ignorant spirit, this is just the way it happened. As I was saying, my brother had given me the news, and I eagerly asked, perhaps with too much zest, if it had been mother’s deathly tidings that had bid intrusion on this day so desiring of my work and careful dedication, but, alas, this seemed not to be the case as he simply shook his head. “Sheila” was the only word that escaped his ivory grasp, and, at once, I continued with my progress, writing three more sentences while, in shock, my brother couldn’t help but stare. Following a short spell of deepest thought unbeknownst to me, for seldom had I heard my brother make a single, logical rebuttal, a flurry of inquiries and pleas hovered closely above my crowded workspace, shadowing my Zen with its mighty mass, until a shower of honor and duty poured freely, disabling my resolve and dampening my air. After all, Sheila was dead, and that was that; I would be forced, by custom, to appear, to mock nay mourn, at the community’s loss.

Arriving at the funeral with bloodshot eyes from a sleepless night in pursuit of art, my true calling, I seemed to fit in with the mourning crowd. I cowered away from these blubbering masses, being readily sure to keep an eye on anyone desiring a hug while I stole glances at my watch. To my greatest shock and dismay, I was confronted by Donna, who had been a mutual friend of the departed and me. Donna did what she did, which was to begin our conversation with the latest news and gossip of fellow classmates who I no longer knew or cared about, but, nonetheless, I acted abuzz for this useless information, knowing that it saved me from conversations with the others. When I finally sensed that Donna was about to suffocate due to lack of breathing, I made ready my inquiries as to her brother’s drug habits or anything else but her feelings on Sheila’s death, but I noticed that I had erred, on account of my sleepless night, I figured, and saw for the first time that Donna was speaking to me as a friend and not a messenger, a friend not an enemy. No doubt she felt sorry for me, and I assure you, dear reader, that I had never encountered her at a more vulnerable moment; deciding that my soul would not rest if it were to retain ethical innocence, I deemed it my ressoodocks, as it were, to seduce her at her time of weakness as to ensure that my visit to the untimely dead whore’s rotting corpse would not have been a waste of my time. Yet I was once again deceived by her unintentional wit as the expression on her face signaled not the ceasing of useless dialogue but a new wave of insolence and petty cerebration, and I knew, at once, that she crammed this useless jabber into my mind, in order to appease the troubled one of her own, something which I found to be quite selfish not to mention impertinent. I allowed her to continue, however, seeing that she was still driving off other people approaching me to give me the unwelcome pat on the back, possible words of wisdom, sorrow, or some horrid combination of the three, and, imagining the carnal possibilities her lips could provide, I steadily undressed her with my mind. But she wouldn’t stop talking, so I finally cut in, as I should have long ago, and bade her bluntly my request, half hopeful that she would be disgusted and storm off madly thereby adding my startling, tactless perverseness to her long, steady stream of gossip; however, she accepted my offer, implying not so subtly the desire of a war of attrition, so we hurried away, and I satisfied myself with the knowledge that I would never see Sheila again.

Sex with Donna was alright I guess, but it would have been better had her flow of useless babble not mutated into a river of tears. Still, I had the opportunity to busy myself with trying new things, and I resolved to prolong the inevitable catharsis as much as possible, sensing that the revelation of having scored so easily would be outdone and laid to waste by more back-fence talking. After all that worrying, though, the bitch wouldn’t talk. She was just lying there, smoking a cigarette, perched in a position of indifference to my existence, which was alright by me, yet I knew, I assumed, that were I to leave then, or even stand to fetch so much as a glass of incredulously needed water, that I would receive a seismic wave of shouting undeserving of me. Finally, I surveyed the room, and discovered that there was no television, no radio, no books or paintings, just an undersized bed and a broad depleted of any noticeable sex drive. I attempted to sleep, and, difficult as that was due to the lack of blankets there, I closed my eyes, allowing the warmth of my unconscious mind to consume me, before I heard Donna mutter something in the distance: “pregnant.” That was all I caught, but I didn’t care at that point; tired like I had never been, I was determined to sleep, desiring that silent solitude more than anything else. Yet she said it again, and again, prodding my aching sides as I fought even harder to ignore her. When she poured water on my face, I woke up with a start, pissed off like a martyr who burns in hell, and I told her not so delicately that I didn’t care about this word or whoever it concerned and that I saw no point in her worrying about it either because she was not pregnant nor had she ever been. Indifferent to her tears, I cursed her for having intruded my slumber, because I contented myself with the knowledge that nothing was so important that she should force me up like this. Nothing at all! But then she said the word that brought us together, that one word that, up to this moment, had caused me to feel an unknowable, angered pathos. Sheila had been pregnant, and I didn’t know if it was mine. Thereafter—and even I still have trouble in understanding this—I asked Donna to lie with me, to cuddle with me, and I questioned her of many things about this and that, about her life mostly. For the first time in years, I knew I was happy, and, in that cold empty room, on a bed not made for two, I felt warmth in all places with my naked flesh pressed gently against an old, ragged afghan.

The next week flew by almost uneventfully, but, I must, of course, confess that I was spending more and more time with Donna. I even went so far as to give her a key to my apartment, and she stayed over the whole weekend, which was nice, though I should have spent more time cleaning up the place beforehand. Work even seemed like a less of a chore now that it was not the only thing that occupied my life, and I even managed to submit my latest project a week before its deadline, which almost never happens for me. Sheila no longer haunted me as she was dead, and that was that; her blue eyes, those deceitful blue eyes, neither anchored themselves in my dreams nor did they stare me down whenever I would lie alone in my dark, cluttered room, whenever I was so sure that I heard a noise, but never brave enough to turn on a light. Whose fault had it been that we broke up anyways? I mean, yeah, she was married at the time, separated even, yet she told me earnestly, staring me dead in the eyes with those beautiful blues of hers after I had met her step-father, she told me that she wanted to have my kids, that we’d have beautiful children, and I am sure that we would have had she not gone back to her husband, the idiot, who could never appreciate her the way that I could. I wondered then if I had seen him at the funeral as I certainly meant not to avoid him, for I had nothing to fear, so I could have quite possibly overlooked him, but, perhaps, he noticed me and, knowing damn well who I am, he skirted off, none so eager to run into me. Of course, all those mental exercises meant nothing because that day was a new day, and Sheila was dead, so it didn’t matter why it all ended anyways. Right? Then my phone rang.

I had been promenading down the street with Donna, looking for a place to eat, when the annoying sound blasted from my jacket pocket as the cool, spring rain showered from the heavens. We hurried into Joe’s Pizza, and, while Donna ordered us a couple slices, I answered the phone even though I didn’t know who was calling. A man’s voice came on the other end, deep and murky, pleading with me not hang up as he had very important information to give me, and, at that point I recognized the caller as I had heard that voice before, from somewhere so long ago, yet I, against my will, I was too afraid to ask. But, oh, if I only would have, how this story would have changed because he gave such a grave, monumental detail, a detail that I myself would have never believed before, but this voice was so reassuring, too reassuring, or maybe it was just because I wanted desperately to believe in it since I needed to believe in it, I needed to understand it all. I had nothing in my life, dear reader, except for the work that drained me and Donna, who was good to me but who could also run out and die like Sheila had not too long ago, so, left to my own devices, I would have to take these words for fact, and, on that fateful day, my life had once again been altered by the unexpected tidings of fate. The hidden voice spoke so simply when he told me that Sheila had had a child, a baby girl, and that the child was mine, though how he knew I couldn’t say as he hung the phone up soon afterwards.

Tricky trouble brewed just then in my mind, which was very unsure about how to handle the situation, and this, among other things, put me at a moment of dissatisfaction with my actions being the result of my mind’s decisions. Also, it was still raining hard outside, and I wanted to go out and run around in it, and soak in what it means to feel, what it means to have, and what it means to know. Scantily clad Westport women scurried from corner to corner, the cold rain serenading their bodies, and I desired nothing more than to chase after them, and to soak in those rain drops. But there was the problem of Donna, and that she was there next to me now, holding the pizzas, expecting a kiss from your narrator, dear friends, and I didn’t know what to do! I mean can you seek to find it in your soul’s capacity for understanding to see where I am coming from here, with this complete stranger here with whom I had been wasting so much time, and, all the while, all the very long and wasted, numerous moments spent talking to her, trying to live within and without her soul, and I didn’t even know if I could trust her. A cop now peddled by the open window, casting me an odd glance for the stupid, dumbstruck expression I was sure to have had while looking out that open window into the rain drops, and the puddles, and the women out there, and he was judging me for that, for being scared, the fool, the blue-striped fool, shooting glances at my storm of anxiety, my lighting of synapses! Didn’t you know, good sir, that I, yes, I am father newly to have been found, but had, as of that moment, no clue of how to function as such? And now Donna had arrived and she wanted to talk about this and that again, discuss more and more things, attempt to reach new intellectual boundaries, to explore each others’ souls, and I just wanted to go home and make her as to get Sheila and my baby, my sweet baby girl, who I called Maryanne, off my mind. My aching soul protested while Donna spat out word after word, and I wondered then why, for all that time I had spent with Donna, why I did not ask her, or why she said nothing to me about the girl and her pedigree, and at that moment, at that very moment, I cursed myself, my foolishness and my petty loneliness which had plagued me with a lack of foresight the likes of which I had not epitomized since moments spent with Sheila.

I knew though that I couldn’t keep my emotions hidden much longer from Donna, keen as she was, and, before too long, I think that she sniffed them out. So there we were, munching on pepperoni pizza while each of us thought that they couldn’t trust the other, and all that built-up happiness from that week had rapidly decayed because of a phone call. If I had not answered then everything would have been fine, but, damn my luck, I answered the phone, and there we were. I debated leaving that instant, to throw down a ten-spot and call us even for the week, but I assumed she would follow me like a lost dog, who’s not really lost but just needs to talk more and more about her feelings, and I forget what she said at this point in the conversation because I was thinking and thinking away, and she looked so angry then, I didn’t want to interrupt her, but then she stopped. She asked me what I was thinking about as a smile crossed her face quite placidly, and I was stunned. It was beautiful. So I told her what had been troubling me, what the stranger had said, and I conveyed to her quite strongly just how angry I was with her, the coward, using this information to get to me, and not being brave enough to tell me that the kid was mine, throwing me for a loop like she had, and I knew, as she did too, that I was just pissed at myself, but I couldn’t let her detect that or she would win. Her eyes changed so severely, and I could smell the fear just permeating deliciously through those pours of hers and I had won! I was victorious over her! But the victory was not as sweet as I intended, and, indeed, I was more the loser than before, for I knew then that she was innocent and I was the prosecutor without a case, the judge gripping a noose, and I hadn’t even given her a jury. We both sat there unsure what to do, so I decided that this was the moment I needed to prove to myself that she was not my remedy for loneliness, for ten minutes prior I was on the edge of my seat ready to flee, now I was caressing her hands, looking into those green eyes of hers, noticing just then how gorgeous she really was and how lucky I was to have her in my life. Later that night, we were laying in my bed, smoking cigarettes the old fashioned way, and I told Donna that I wasn’t going to be around much until I found my daughter (but I implied that she could stay at my place if she wanted) and she understood me.

The next day, I went to my brother’s house, and, because he was cop, I assumed that he could help me out with my little problem, or at least point me in the right direction so that I could figure this all out and get my life back in order. Alas, he utilized all the tools in his employ, but this came to no avail as every record showed that Sheila was dead and there was only one child now, the child she had had with the husband before she met me. This little girl was now with Sheila’s parents somewhere up in New England, and I can’t believe that I had forgotten all about her, seeing that she had once been a big part of my life, but, then again, I had been more concerned with my own child than her. Her name was Wendy, and I wondered then if she knew that her mother was dead, or if she knew what it meant to be dead, other than the fact that her mother would no longer serve her cereal in the morning or chicken nuggets at night. I asked my brother about the other child, not telling him that the child was mine, and he called the same numbers, typed some more words into his computer, and he attempted not to grimace as he put his phone on the table. He told me that there had been another baby girl, but the baby girl, my little Morgan, as she turned out to be called, had died with her mother. I looked back into my memory, trying to remember if I had seen her coffin next to her mother’s, but I realized that, in my haste to make Donna, I rushed with great fury to leave that funeral home, thereby leaving my little girl alone to walk that plane of death, and she was probably scared by herself without her father there to mourn for her, to hold her hand, and I wanted so much to jump out of a window and plummet to my death but then I would go to hell and not rest in heaven with my little angel. Realizing that I was on the verge of tears, I changed the subject and asked him if he had bought any new guns recently, and I think he was so uncomfortable talking about Sheila with me that he didn’t even ask me why I made these inquiries, and, quickly, he boasted to me about some new revolver stashed away in his gun locker, where only he could access it. He remarked that it was a “dead-on beaut”, whatever that meant, but I was already miles away.

The next week passed very slowly, mostly because I occupied myself by doing the same things, over and over. I went to the restaurant, where Sheila and I once worked, and, while in that area, I drove to the indoor playground, where we used to laugh as we watched Wendy play with the other kids, and I thought back on these memories, not because I felt sorry for myself but simply due to my desire to see them again, my hope that I would see them through someone else, through some spiritual channel, but the spirits did not favor me these days and I didn’t. At nights, I would return to my apartment, and I would cuddle up to Donna and eat popcorn with her while we watched movies or whatever else we fancied doing, and she was so kind not to ask me of my progress. Some days I would cruise through the old neighborhood where Sheila used to live, and I drove passed her house, which was now for sale. I wondered then if it had been foreclosed on again or if Sheila’s husband had been so sad and morose and in love with his wife that he could no longer stand the sight of that house, day after day. He seemed almost like a person to me now that we were in the same position; the mother of our children was dead, and that was that, only he was more fortunate in that his daughter was still alive, however far away, and I’m sure that she would be returned to him once her visit to her grandparents’ was over. I never had a chance with mine.

It was Wednesday now of the next week, and I was on wits end and would often chain-smoke cigarettes, drain coffee and Red Bull or chew tobacco because I needed the nourishment and I couldn’t sit around long enough to eat. Donna seemed tense now but still hung around for some reason, and, although I couldn’t conceive of why she would do this, I was nonetheless grateful. I now avoided my old work and the playground; the memories of our break-up flooded my mind whenever I saw the employees enter, and the children annoyed me and I felt so much like shouting at them because they didn’t know how lucky they were to be alive and to be loved. They didn’t understand the anxieties and tensions of being a father without kid, not because they were innocent but because children are just more or less ignorant and that vexed me more than anything else. Whenever I was around that house, however, with the “for sale” sign still posted in the front yard, a sense of cool and well-being espoused throughout my core, and, although I had no clue as to where to go next, or why I was looking for a deceased, little girl, I sat in my car feeling like any day my problems could just magically disappear if I were to stay glued to that spot for one more second. And if I could wait just one more minute, I knew that I could also obtain happiness with Donna. She was all I cared about now, but I thought about Sheila too and how much she had once meant, and I wondered what I would’ve said to her had I seen her before she passed. I dared not to continue that thought, seeing as she was dead and the thought perturbed me; just then, a suited man carrying two, black bags walked out the front door.

I only had one second to glance at him before his head turned in my direction, but I knew that that was a person of no relation to Sheila and it definitely wasn’t her husband. While crouched behind my wheel, I heard a car pull up and a door opened and closed quickly. I could smell rubber burning in the air as tires squealed away, and, looking up from my hiding place, I caught the car in my sights and I was determined to chase that vehicle to the edge of hell if need be. A new hope had emerged; my fate had arrived.

The car was conspicuous in the area, being that it was dark blue Ford Crown Vic, and I knew that meant cops. I followed them, nonetheless, being sure to stay out of sight, but it didn’t matter to me if they pulled me over anyways, for I had a pretty good alibi for driving this route: my mother lived down this ways. I assumed that, because we were driving on the back roads, that they were heading for a rural destination, and it surprised me when they entered a suburban neighborhood. We were a convey, it seemed, trekking through some dangerous mountain minefield; however, the Crown Vic’s driver seemed confused as left became right and right turned into left. Eventually, I had no clue where I was, except I still had that cop car in my view, and they obviously didn’t seem to notice me or they would’ve stopped me by then. A few minutes later, we entered a neighborhood that I could never forget, not even if I tried. It was like being dragged into hell, when the cops pulled into my mother’s driveway. After passing the house I had hated for years, I looked behind me and saw a sight so shocking that I thought I had drifted off to sleep and was having a ferocious nightmare: a baby in the arms of a blue-eyed mother.

Friday night arrived sooner than I would have liked; Donna was growing restless with me, I was sure, and I had no clue how long Sheila would be staying at my mother’s house. So Donna finally gave me the ultimatum I had been waiting on for some time, telling me to give up my pursuit and to just let things flow, as they always do, and good will naturally come of it. I considered this for some time, and in its own way it made sense, and she also pointed out that even if I found Morgan, it would be unlikely that I would gain visitation rights. But I couldn’t wait on fate to work things out for me, I told her, because I chose to go to the funeral and I found her, and I could’ve left her that same day but I choose to stay because I felt something there that was stronger than God and all the heavens combined. Likewise, I continued, that she could’ve left me as well all those weeks but she chose to stay. I’m not sure what to call that, but I know that it’s real and it’s important. Donna granted me just one more day to work on this, and I told her that was all I need for closure, and then we would be able to pursue our lives together, for however long that would be for us. We kissed then, and truly made love for the first time; after that I couldn’t sleep. I knew what I had to do.

It was four thirty in the morning as I parked on the side of the street in my mother’s neighborhood. I must admit now that walking up to that house struck upon me such fear of which I had never before felt. My mother was a woman with whom I had never gotten along, and she was evil in ways I could not believe. I never forgave her for anything, and it seemed like an absurd twist that I would have to confront Sheila here of all places, as though she knew I would try to find her. The law meant nothing to me now, but, then again, they were around here somewhere and that didn’t make things much easier for me. To calm myself down, I caressed the handle of my brother’s revolver. I thought to myself that I would get it back to him before too long, and I snuck into the house through a window I used to sneak out through when I was a rambunctious youth.

The house was empty, though I felt the presence of something moving, and I was vaguely aware of what it was. I thought I had made my intrusion quite peacefully, but apparently I made a noise, and Morgan started to cry. Startled, I hid behind a couch, anticipating the S.W.A.T. team to arrive to check what was the matter, but only Sheila walked through the narrow hallway, wearing just a t-shirt like she always did, and I felt that presence again of something moving deep within this house and I knew what it was: familiarity. I remembered times when I would come to her house, and she would be wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and we would play with Wendy and it was fun. It was the familiarity that I had loved so much about Sheila, which drove me to care for her, that had driven me crazy when we had split. I missed it so much, and, as much as I cared about Donna, I have not come to feel that way with her. I missed that familiarity, and I pulled out the gun as I ascended the stairs, making sure not to step on any sensitive areas. I could smell her perfume, that luscious perfume that I bought, and it amused me that she still used it. With the safety off, I rested my finger next to the trigger. Sheila had left Morgan’s door open, so I scooted right in without a sound. I was only happy when I knew she was dead, I thought to myself. Her being alive has caused me undue pain and misery. I attempted then to close the door, but something blocked the door’s gait. When I looked over to see what it was, a dark, bulky figure shoved me, causing me to lose my balance, and a knife pierced my left shoulder.

I must have blacked out for a second, because, when I came to, I was lying on the floor, blood gushing out of my shoulder, and Sheila and Morgan were screaming loudly. I finally looked at my assailant, now that my eyes had adapted to the darkness, and saw that it was Sheila’s husband with a knife pointed at Sheila and my little girl. I realized then what had been going on, what I was too lonely and stupid to see before. Sheila obviously had her and Morgan’s deaths faked, granting custody of Wendy to Sheila’s parents, in order to escape her husband. Sheila’s husband decided to use me to get to Sheila. Of course, it was he, who had called that one day and told me that Morgan was my kid. I even speculated that he had told my brother about Sheila’s funeral, hoping to draw me out of hiding. It all made sense and fit together nicely, and he now was going to kill Sheila because I was damned fool. I led him there. Suddenly, I remember that I carried a loaded weapon, and I let loose, putting three bullets in his head. It was a “dead-on beaut” indeed, I chuckled to myself. After this, I jumped up and (perhaps the moment had gotten to me or adrenalin rushed throughout me so fast that I was steadily growing brain dead) hugged Sheila and Morgan. They were safe at last.

Today, when the police arrived, they asked us to give them a statement and, although she knew better, Sheila lied, telling them that I had come here to visit my mother and walked in just in time to save her and Morgan. The only truth of the matter is that I am registered to carry a concealed weapon. I was taken to the emergency room, where I was patched up, and Sheila entered the room soon afterwards. For minutes, we didn’t talk; we just stared at one another, knowing that the next words could define the rest of our lives. She told me that she often thought about me, and that she wondered how things would’ve gone had we waited before we started dating. I agreed, of course, and told her how sorry I was for my selfishness, because, so often, I had blamed her for the ills of my life and I had no right to do this. Also, I told her how happy it had made me when I found out she was dead, but now she was alive and she would have the rest of her life to find happiness, which soothed me. Sheila then asked me if I would like to get back together with her, and I didn’t know what say. I loved the feeling of familiarity; that was great. But I had to tell her the truth: I never loved her. Also, I told her about Donna and I, and she seemed happy, I suppose, but, if knew women, I wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place. Finally, I asked Sheila if Morgan was my daughter, and she wrote a reply on a piece of paper.

Now, I am sitting here at Cascone’s with Donna. I have just told her everything that had been going on, everything that I told you, dear reader. She seems annoyed, of course, that I almost killed one of her best friends, but, apparently she’s impressed by the level of humanity I possess and she’s glad that I ended up doing the right thing, I suppose. So we may get married or we may not. Perhaps we’ll grow old and senile together, or maybe we’ll hate each other after a year or so. It doesn’t really matter to me; we’re happy right now and there’s not much in this world that’s better than true happiness. Oh shit. I almost forgot to read the note: “no.” Oh well, at least I got away with murdering that prick.