57 plus 49: Time For A Murder

Posted: 5 October 2021 in 57 plus, fiction, writing
Tags: , ,

Something different this week and next. Oh, it’s still Tuesday, and you’re still getting a ‘tale from the fiction vaults’.

But not fast fiction challenges, this week nor next; something else entirely.

I stumbled across the stories for today and next Tuesday while searching for something else, and I reread the stories and enjoyed how I played with the reader’s expectations for today’s.

An odd tale, but an enjoyable one I think.

So, this story was entered for an online thing. It didn’t make the cut, but I still like it.

I hope you do…


 

Time for a murder

 
 
1920

The decadent music was louder than I’d like, and the girl was quieter. She died easily enough, though, and I was pleased that everything had gone to plan. Almost everything, I hear a small voice in the back of my head, almost everything. I wish I could sleep though. I’m very tired. Killing people is exhausting. Who knew?

1921

I can still hear the man breathing his last. It haunts me and taunts me whenever I stop thinking of anything else. I shake my head, trying to clear it of the noise and the static. Everything snaps into focus for a moment and then… that damn breathing, like it’s inside my brain.

1922

The older woman died almost instantly. Almost. There was hardly any blood though. I’d learned more by then. I never even thought of her again, almost forgot how it felt to kill her so smoothly.

If only the man’s laboured breathing wasn’t drowning my soul. In and out. Fainter but still there. In and out.

1923

I think about how I planned the murders; seems so very long ago now. I knew each of their routines, how they all led their boring, silly lives. No more.

SHUT UP!

1924

Why won’t he shut up? It’s like he’s right next to me, sitting on the chair. I killed him on the floor. He should still be there. But that bloody, liquid breathing. The same day and it’s all I can hear right now. Dammit, shut up.

I concentrate on the the satanic symbols I painted on the wall in their own blood, the wealth of evidence I planted so that locals will be blamed for the murders. And for a moment, the noise goes away. Then it returns.

1925

I can’t think of anything else now. If I close my eyes, I hear the rasping breaths; if I open them I see the blood. So much blood.

I need help. I know that now.

1926

Of course, that was a fanciful thought; no-one can help me. I’d have to tell the truth, explain everything. They’d never understand, never appreciate why I killed them. They’d be jealous, anyway. I have to take care of this myself no matter how long it takes.

1927

Finally, the breathing stops. Finally, I hear nothing. I close my eyes. Christ, I’m tired. Then I open them. Silence. At long last. Silence.

I glance at my watch.

Eight minutes. Twenty-eight minutes past seven in the evening.

It took him almost eight minutes to die.

I giggle softly to myself and then leave.

Happy new minute, everyone. Happy new minute.

© Lee Barnett, 2013


 

See you tomorrow, with… something else.

 

 

Fifty-seven more days. Fifty-seven more posts. One fifty-seventh birthday just had.


Just dropping this in here, as I was asked by message the other day: the best places to contact me outside the blog are via email at budgie@hypotheticals.co.uk and @budgie on Twitter.


I’m trying something new with this run. I’ve signed up to ko-fi.com, so if you fancy throwing me a couple of dollars every so often, to keep me in a caffeine-fuelled typing mood, feel free. I’m on https://ko-fi.com/budgiehypoth

This post is part of a series of blog entries, counting up from my fifty-seventh birthday on 17th August 2021. You can see the other posts in the run by clicking here. (And you can see the posts in the run counting down to the birthday here.)

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