A Non-Regret

While moving out of my dorm room a week ago, I found a whole stack of my fiction writings I don’t even remember anymore. Most of them are just doodles, none of them are proper start-to-end stories (I still have trouble finishing stories). I won’t be able to transcribe all of them, but I’d try to pick some of the better ones and put them on my writing doodle blog.

This one is pretty loaded with descriptions for the heck of it–the kind I’d call a garbagefic, but after typing it out and making some minor editing, I think it’s pretty good? Lemme know if you want me to continue it.

A Non-Regret

It had been a week since the incident, the accident, but every morning he still opened the newspaper with trembling hands. He scanned the pages, read quickly, and afterwards, nervously, he’d put it down and picked up the next one. He kept the TV for entire days, always tuned to the news. None of us had the heart to change the channel, to hide the papers, or even to tell him to sit down, relax, and forget everything about what happened. None of us told him that everything would be fine because we didn’t believe it ourselves.

The police investigations had found no clue, no fingerprints, nothing in the way of DNA leftovers. They knew the murder weapon was a knife, but they couldn’t find it. They wouldn’t. I buried it deeper than anyone could find, in a cemetery on the other side of the town. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could incriminate him in the murder.

It had been a week. We’ve all forgotten it, or tried to, at least. Every morning he read the papers with his nerve wrecked, and every night he still spent an hour washing his hands as if he could still feel the blood on them.

But the people, as people do, in a city as large, bustling, buzzing as ours, have forgotten it faster than we could. The papers had stopped mentioning it, the news had carried on to more recent matters. It seemed no one will ever find us.

And then a woman came to our house.

She was middle-aged. Not as pretty as she could have been, but her eyes were still sharp and alert. Her attire was simple, unremarkable. A blouse, long skirts, her blonde hair was not arranged. She knocked on out front door early in the morning, earlier than was usual for the city to rise, and whispered that she knew one of us killed her son.

I was the one who opened the door, and her sudden accusation struck me wide awake. I asked, stammered, what she was talking about.

“December 22nd,” she said. “My son died. Stabbed at his chest. By one of you. I want to know why.”

I stood there, speechless, as she glared me down.

“May I come in?”

I let her walk pass and take a seat on the nearest couch. She watched, assessed the entire room like a hawk. I stayed standing on the doorway, unsure whether to call for help or to arm myself.

“You,” she said in the silence that followed. “I don’t think it was you who did it. Did you?”

I was nervous and scared and my head was a mess. All I could do was shaking my head.

“I don’t suppose. But you know who did it,” she went on.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was too early to wake him up, too early for anyone to be up.

“And do you? Do you know why my son was killed?”

I flinched. There was a dangerous edge to her voice. I didn’t know who she was, how she could find us, what she might want from us. Too many thoughts were flying in my head.

“It was an accident.” I found my voice at last. “An accident– Your son, my friend– Neither of them are supposed to be there.”

An accident?” Her voice was a knife pressed on my neck. “He was stabbed four times in his chest. And that was an accident?”

Her voice was calm as steel, the tone of her voice was calculated, and I was sweating like a cornered dog. “He was– My friend was acting in self-defence.”

“Oh what a coincidence,” the woman hooted. “So did my son.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to her. Above, the clock tick-tocked to the next minute without missing a beat.

Finally, she stood up and walked to the door, leaving me standing, trembling, too nervous to do anything about it. She was shorter than I was, but I felt small and weak as she glared down at me. “I see we’re not on speaking term at the moment,” she said. She pulled something out of her blouse pocket and pressed it to my hands. It was sharp, metallic, but I could not look down to see what it was. “We’ll see each other again. I’m sure.”

She walked past me and out the door. Before she walked away, she said, a last note without turning around,

“I know what you are.”


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