The Murder
The silence of the night was punctuated by the crunch of the man’s footsteps on fallen leaves and the cautious thud of his boots on the along the forest path. The young man flinched at the sound of rustling leaves, fearing he would be discovered at any moment. He dragged a heavy burlap sack. Every once in a while, when he could no longer bear the soreness in his arms, he paused to wipe the trickles of sweat from his brow and let his shallow breaths even. Then he started along the path again.
After a while, the trees began to thin out, uncovering the silver moon that illuminated the shores of the lake. The man heaved the sack into the lake and watched it in a trance. He desperately wished it would sink more quickly. To his horror, the sack seemed to flail in the water, as if making a final struggle to stay afloat. He waded into the lake in a panic and forced the opening into the water over and over each time it emerged from the surface. In the lake’s broken reflections, the man saw himself beside the bathtub, repeating the same motion. His hands dunked the bag more fiercely and the memory shattered. The sack gasped for a final breath of air, then grew still.
It was cold. He had not registered the cold earlier. The man shivered as he dragged himself back onto land. His clothes dripped with water and clung to his skin. The November breeze chilled him to the bone. The young man curled himself up on the shore and hugged his arms around his body in a futile attempt to keep himself warm. Then he wept in relief. It was over. No one would ever have to know.
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