#500WordsaDay #writingchallenge #shortfiction
I’ve tried this before and after a month or so I stopped. I have been feeling creative but without an outlet so I pondered if this could be a good time to start up “500 words a day” again. Nothing too hard, should take about eight to ten minutes.
Inspirational photo source:
https://unsplash.com/photos/FlwhX4vtzt0
THE WINDING ROAD
The day was cold, in a windy-freezing-your-snot kind of way. Luckily I had taken the Subaru. That hippie-mobile that seems to say “I’m cool and can go off-roading and stuff” while still being practical enough for a trip to the grocery store. The car - despite all the commercial proclamation of the thing’s off-road prowess - slid and was difficult to control in the near foot deep snow that pockmarked the high mountain road we traveled.
I checked the rear mirror and eyed my companion. He did not move a beat. Which was good, considering I had killed him an hour ago.
Now, before you get all high-and-mighty with me, start spewing morals and ethics, or even -god forbid - start quoting the Bible, let me explain. I did not plan on becoming a murderer. I fell into the position quite accidentally.
Fifteen years ago I was in the last year of college and still lost as to what I would do with my life. I had been to a party in search of a mate for the evening, an unsuccessful venture I might add, and ended up wandering in a drunken hazy back to my apartment. Having lost both parents the previous decade to an automobile accident I was poor and living in a not so savory part of town. The locals called the area the “Dregs” if that helps explain the condition in which I was living. It was a cold night and I had a stocking cap on and my hood up to fend off the freezing weather.
I had stumbled my way around the dark streets for some time before I wandering into something straight out of a horror movie. On a side street, an alley really, a man was stooped over a body. In his hand he held a knife, dripping with blood. Had I not been intoxicated my senses and mind would have instructed me to run away, likely screaming like a little girl. Instead, and without a thought to my own welfare, I charged the man.
We collapsed in a heap and through some twist of fate I ended up on top with his knife in my hand. I stabbed and thrust I don’t how many times before I realized what I was doing. The man’s chest was red and looked as if an animal had been chewing on it. Blood was everywhere. The lady screamed when she saw what I had done. A moment later and she disappeared down the street, yelling for the police. Not even a thank you.
The next day the newspaper told the story of some deranged madman who had saved her from a potential murderer. The man had been named Timothy Shorts and a serial killer, prowling the streets for over ten months and claiming twelve known victims. The author of the news article painted the ‘savior’ - me - as a vigilante out to do what the police had been unable to do.
That, as they say, was the moment it hit me. By day I am a boring banker, hacking away at a keyboard but at night, at night I become another completely different. Something dangerous to the criminals of my city.
And that is how I ended up with a dead William Arnold in my backseat...
