1 Haunted by a shadow
His hands trembled with belated remorse. Slowly, his hauntingly tight grip started to loosen. Clink. The sound, barely louder than a whisper, screeched through his mind, echoing into every corner and crevice of his guilt-ridden psyche. His eye caught sight of his own reflection in the knife on the floor. Bleak. Ghostly. As if the colour had drained from him and fed into the dark crimson pool rippling across the concrete floor. The bags under his eyes had long since doubled over in deranged madness, beating out the flush of his cheeks for occupancy of his sagging face. A flash of blue and red lights overtook the area. The screech of sirens shook the world.
He awoke to his sweat-drenched sheets that clung to him like a layer of putrid, rotten skin. The dream. That dream. Again and again it came to him, feeding his insomnia, ripping his hopes for a peaceful rest to shreds. The tears in his eyes had crystalized, temporarily rendering him trapped in the darkness of his own mind. Painfully he ripped his eyes open, taking another scornful look at the unyielding world that seems to be so driven to inflicting endless suffering upon a broken man. He tossed himself out of bed, revealing his body. Thin. Pale. Malnourished. Any doctor would cuss him out for his level of selfcare. He wobbled his way over to the bathroom.
The icy water burned his fingertips with the frosty morning air. His erratic, shaky breaths cast a fog onto the treacherous bathroom mirror. In it, his overgrown hair hung like greasy black vines across his tired, hopeless face. He looked nothing like his former self. He barely even resembled the man from his nightmares. He focused his twitchy gaze on what he had come to accept as his own silhouette. "This has to end, Barry. We can't keep going on like this." His voice, scratchy from lack of use, sounded hesitant. He waited, but no response came. "Then that settles it."
Walking down the street, his coat pocket felt heavier than any item he'd ever had to carry in his year as a construction worker. Every step brought him closer to where it had happened. Every step brought him closer to where it would end. The thick morning mist served well to hide his own misty eyes. Every step called the memories rushing back. Her face. Her smile. Her terrified screams as he grabbed the knife from the drawer. Every step brought back his long repressed feelings. His anger. His feeling of betrayal. The hatred he held for the man he had found in her bed. He didn't fight the memories. Not this time. It would all end today, one way or another.
He slid the key into the lock. He tested it with his boney hands. "They haven't changed the locks yet," he quietly remarked, as if talking to his own shadow. He made his way to the kitchen, where the floors were near spotless. There were no signs of the home ever having housed a crime. He entered the garage through the kitchen. On the floor, spread out like a sinful shadow, was a large dark stain. "Cleaners can only do so much." He sat down at the stain's center, reaching into his coat pocket. He paused a moment, remembering how everything had happened. "I wanted to hurt him, the way he had hurt me. Why did you have to jump in the way?"
From his pocket, he produced a large kitchen knife. "Involuntary manslaughter. That's how the court ruled it. The sentence was light." He continued speaking as if someone was listening. He tightened his grip on the blade. "But you wouldn't let me off as easy." He plunged the knife deep into his stomach, mustering the last of his feeble strength. "Maybe now you'll let me sleep again."
