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The Day That You Died

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Oh, how I loved that day, the day that you were killed at my hand. You were simply playing your guitar by the side of the road, looking for any common stranger to give you a small coin. That day, you weren't making much, you were getting pennies really, the highlight was the two pound coin that some suit had thrown in. But you, dear stranger, perfect stranger by the road, your day was to become a singularity of perfected awe.

I watched you from the opposite bench, as you strummed at your guitar, playing some twangy song with repeating chords. You were forgetting some of the chords, but it wasn't like it mattered, no one was paying any attention to you.

I had been watching you for around a month, seeing how perfect your imperfectness was, and it was amazing to see how you were.

After an hour or so, you decided you'd had enough, if it wasn't good at lunch, it simply couldn't get any better. You tediously picked out the money from your guitar case, putting it carefully in your pockets as to make sure not to drop them.

You took the alleyway home, a small shortcut you had recently discovered, and was hoping to use for a while. You pulled the money from your pockets, counting it out. That was when I struck.

My knife plunged into your back, my hand over your mouth to muffle your moans and screams. Regardless of this, the money in your hand fell out of your palm, and the coins hit the ground, rattling as they do. The blood pouring from your back dampened my hand, colouring it red. Your body was shaking, probably from the shock, I was used to it from the others. Eventually you stopped trying to break free and simply accepted your fate.

I pulled the knife from your back, and cut along your neck, piercing your throat, more blood fell unto my hand like red rain. I then stabbed into your eyes, the signature mark, this is how the police would know it was me.

I took a cloth from my pocket, wiping along your lips and clothing to take away any trace of fingerprints. Then, I wiped along the handle of the knife, and dropped it on the floor.

I moved back through the alleyway, tracing my steps. I walked back down the pavement that I had followed you. I looked back at the opening of the alleyway. And that was when I knew I would remember this day.

Not because you were the first busker I had killed, but because you had eventually accepted it. And I will remember you forever. Until I meet my own singularity of perfected awe.

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