|The Confession (standard:drama, 2427 words)|
|Author: Chris Michlewicz||Added: Jun 07 2002||Views/Reads: 1833/1106||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A confession from the one person that everyone has been waiting to hear from|
The man reached up and scratched at his gray beard. Thin slivers of light from the crooked blinds shone brightly against the bare wall behind him. In their path across the room, a dirty mixture of dust and smoke swirled hypnotically like a brewing storm in the skies of tornado alley. The man smashed his cigarette into the molded ashtray and quickly lit another one. He casually dragged and exhaled, then shuffled into a more comfortable position before he continued. “Of course I never talked to him myself. That was the Chief's job,” he said. “And what were the directions from the Chief?” asked the clean-cut man dressed in a dark suit. He sat behind a large mahogany desk covered in an assortment of documents that had been kept well classified for close to forty years. “Well, they were not as complex as you might think. He said, ‘Get a clean shot, don't let nobody see you.' So that's what I did. And far as I know, no one did.” “Did you get the clean shot he asked for?” “You know I did. It was the one that put him out.” The man behind the desk paused a moment to collect his thoughts. His heart beat fast like the pumping legs of a greyhound in mid-sprint. He adjusted the position of the tape recorder that lay on the desk in front of the man, brushing aside a few papers in the process. He cleared his throat. “What made you finally come out with it now? After so long, I mean,” the clean-cut man asked. “Well look at me. I'm older than the building we're sittin' in. If that ain't the god awful truth, I don't know what is. I got nothin' left. The wife is dead, haven't talk to my son in oh....thirty some odd years now.” “Let's back up here a minute, sir. Back...after it happened, were you questioned by anyone?” “Questioned? Hell no. But I tell you this, I did get a phone call reassuring me of what would happen if I spilled it to someone who did. Prayin' to God the man who made that call is dead and gone,” the bearded man said. “Understood.” The man brought the cigarette to his lips and pulled. The dull sparkle of the lit end grew brighter as the tobacco slowly filled his lungs. His stare, barely wavering from the man seated across from him, was chilling and disturbed. The sunken eyes had seen first-hand what was forever etched into the minds of millions. He had gotten away with the ultimate murder. “Can you give me a description, to the best of your recollection, of what happened that day?” the man in the dark suit asked. “I ‘spect my memory ain't what it used to be but I'll do my best for you. “Started out as a typical mornin.' The wife was fixin' breakfast while I was getting ready and—“ “What did you wear?” “Oh, I forget. Somethin' dressy I suppose. That's what I always used to wear back in those days. Anyhow, the wife was fixin' breakfast as I was sayin' and called me down to get something to eat—eggs, bacon, something like that—but my stomach was churnin' something fierce. Must've been nerves. So I said, ‘No, I wasn't hungry' and left out the door in a hurry. Me and the two other boys was supposed to meet one last time to make sure we had our ideas straight.” Click here to read the rest of this story (203 more lines)
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