AMANDA DAVIS
I killed a man.
The surreal words fill my mind, echoing in tremors that weaken my body. Wide-eyed, I stare at the body lying in a motionless heap at the bottom of the stairs, disbelief clinging to me in scattered thoughts and anxious breaths. As reality starts setting in, I gasp silently, covering my mouth to stifle a sob.
It can’t be true. He can’t be dead.
But I can see it’s all too real. In his neck, twisted and crooked sideways to an impossible posture. In the sickening crack of broken bones that sounded just as he landed on the hardwood floor after bouncing down the steep flight of stairs. In the pooling blood that’s slowly seeping from his head, gleaming burgundy under the yellowish light coming from the floor lamp by the door.
A noise outside startles me. Someone’s coming. I freeze in place at the top of the stairs, my fingers white-knuckled on the handrail as the footsteps draw closer. Then, in the dark frame of the living room window, the profile of a woman appears, her face dimly lit as she passes by. Without turning her head to look inside.
I breathe.
But I also realize someone could’ve seen what happened. A passerby. A neighbor. Anyone.
I force some air into my lungs to steel my fraught nerves. Still holding on to the handrail for support, I climb down the stairs, careful not to slip, as if his fall could repeat somehow and seal my fate in vengeful symmetry, my body next to his. I hold my breath as I approach, senselessly hoping he’s still alive, yet fearing it. When I breathe again, the metallic smell of blood invades my nostrils, filling me with dread.
I rush to the window and close the blinds, then peek outside between two slats. The street is eerily deserted and still. For now.
Crouching by his side, I feel for a pulse with frozen fingers. Touching his skin sears me, prickling the back of my head as if he could snap out of death and grab my shaky wrist.
There’s no pulse.
His golf shirt is soaked with blood at the collar and smells faintly of aftershave, although his face
shows a two-day stubble. His skull is fractured where it must’ve hit the edge of a step, the indentation clearly visible through his buzz-cut hair, despite the bleeding laceration. Reluctantly, I slip my fingers sideways and trace his neck, wincing as I find the protruding vertebra—a sign of a fractured cervical spine that resulted in a fatal spinal cord injury.
He died the moment he hit the floor.
I’m more than qualified to come to that conclusion. It doesn’t change how I feel, though. Unsure of myself. Scared. Unsteady. My heart is racing, and my chest tightening, as if the walls of the room are drawing closer and closer, about to squeeze the life out of me.
The sound of an approaching car makes me rush to the window. It doesn’t slow down until it reaches the corner and turns, tinting the darkness of the small, suburban street with hues of bright taillight red.
I turn on my heels and stare at the body, unsure what to do.
His eyes are still open, as if looking straight through me with hypnotizing, dilated pupils. It chills the blood in my veins. I crouch down and close his eyelids swiftly, barely touching him with the tips of my shaking fingers—eager to put some distance between me and him. I stand quickly and step back, unable to take my eyes off of him. Part of me still expects him to get up and grab me, slam me against the wall, then put his hands around my throat and squeeze until my world goes dark. Just as his is now.
But he doesn’t move. He’s dead.
I killed him.
The enormity of what I’ve done weighs heavily on my heart. How could I let this happen?
It seems I had no choice, and yet, the truth is that I had a choice, and I made the wrong one. That life-altering choice didn’t happen a few moments ago, when I pushed him down the stairs.
No.
It happened earlier. Much earlier.
And now, I have to deal with the consequences of what I’ve done.
My first thought is to run, to put as much distance as I possibly can between me and the body lying on the blood-soaked floor. But there’s no running away from this. Not right now. Not without a plan.
Walking backward, my heel stops against the bottom step of the staircase and I nearly trip. I let myself slide down and sit on a step. For a moment of respite, my elbows rest on my shaky knees and my face lands in my hands, hiding from the grim sight.
Perhaps I can stall things for a few days before they come for me, because I know they will. Clinging to that glimmer of hope, my mind starts working. I raise my weary head and look around, looking for anything I could use to buy myself some time. There isn’t much.
One thing’s certain: I have to get rid of the body.
I need help.
He’s massive, at least six-three and well-built, weighing perhaps two-forty. It’s what I liked about
him…the strength, the agility, the apparent stamina and self-confidence. However, I’m not nearly that tall, and I’m one-forty at the most, on a bad, bloated day. I reach for his leg to test my strength, but stop before touching his ankle. It’s pointless to even try. At work, it takes six of us to transfer a patient of his size from a stretcher onto a bed.
I take out my phone and turn it on. The bitten apple lights up white on the black screen, then vanishes, making room for a picture of my son. Tristan just turned nine; we took this pic last summer on the Santa Monica Pier. Seeing his piercing blue eyes touched by his enchanted smile brings the threat of tears to my own eyes.
What if I lose him? What if they lock me up and I never see him again?
I can’t bear the thought of that. A hollow, burning ache opens up in my chest, swallowing everything.
No… I can’t lose my son. That won’t happen. Whatever it takes.
I push the grim thoughts away and breathe deeply while typing in my phone’s passcode. Tristan’s face disappears off the screen.
It will be all right. But the words I’ve told myself fail to reassure me.
As the screen fills with apps, I realize there’s only one person I can call for the kind of help I need. The one person I’d rather never call or see again. My fingers falter while retrieving the name from the contacts list.
Hesitating, I give the fallen body another look, desperately wondering if there’s any other way.
There isn’t.
I brace myself for the questions that are about to come my way like machine gun bullets, merciless and cold and ripping through me in rapid-fire sequence.
Then, I make the call, knowing that as soon as I share what I’ve done, there will be no turning back. My entire existence will be at the mercy of someone else. Someone I know I can’t trust.
As the line rings in my ear, I reflect bitterly on the last few weeks, and on everything that’s happened.
I never wanted any of this.
All I wanted was a damned divorce.
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