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642 Things to Write About

By AG Stewart All Rights Reserved ©

Poetry / Other

Prompt #83

PROMPT: Write a scene that begins: "It was the first time I killed a man."

It was the first time I killed a man. He lay face down in a puddle of his own blood on the shag carpeted floor. The blood would stain, I knew, but I hardly cared at this point.

Scott would be happy now.

I stared at the body for another long moment, then came to my senses, knowing I had to retreat. Someone would have heard the gunshots ring out.

Carefully, I slipped the gun back into my holster and gazed around the room. I knew enough to not leave a trace of evidence. Satisfied that there would be nothing that could lead back to me, I slipped out of the room the way I had come – the back door. The grass was wet with dew now and it gathered on my shoes as I walked. I slipped over the back fence into the alley. There was nobody in sight in either direction. I turned left and walked at a casual pace. Reaching the end of the alley, I turned right. There the vehicle waited. My partner sat in the driver's seat, anxiously tapping her fingers on the wheel. She jumped as I opened the door and slipped in.

“Is it done?” she asked, her voice hushed and her eyes wide.

“Drive,” I ordered simply. It was enough of an answer to her question. She turned to face the front and started the car. We rode in silence to the edge of town. It was only a five minute trip. It was there she let me out.

“Remember. Not a word,” I requested.

“Of course,” she replied, her self-composure back.

I nodded and without a second glance in her direction, headed toward the abandoned shack that sat a hundred feet back from the edge of the room. The door was rusted shut and I had to shove to get it open. There was no light as I ventured inside.

“He's dead, I presume,” a voice echoed from the blackness surrounding me.

“Of course. I wouldn't dare show my face here otherwise,” I replied.

“Good. So you do have some brains in that head of yours,”

I didn't bother to reply to the taunt.

Lights flickered on around the room and I found myself surrounded by men, all dressed entirely in black. Standing at the head of the circle, facing me, was Joseph. He lips were quirked up in a smirk and the scar that covered much of the left side of his face seemed to distort him even more in the dim light.

He walked toward me and held out an envelope. “Your next mission,”

I took it without hesitance and tucked it away in my pocket. Joseph stepped back and I nodded, then turned and left the abandoned shack again. The road was clear as I started up it. It was a three mile walk back home.

I found myself suddenly exhausted and longing for my bed. Tomorrow would be an exhausting day. After all, it wasn't every day that there was a murder in the small town I lived in, and as head detective, I would certainly be assigned to figure out just who had killed Scott Smith.

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1. Prompt #83
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