Heart of stone

Have you ever done something bad? Something illegal? I don't mean
something trivial like shoplifting from Woolworths or jumping a red
light at four in the morning, I mean something really bad, what some
would consider evil.

I have.

It happened ten long years ago. While at work during the week I had
decided I would spend my Saturday afternoon hill walking, by far my
favourite way to unwind. I had been looking forward to my expedition
but when I awoke on the Saturday morning I was dismayed to discover
that the weather had taken a turn for the worse.

I spent the morning pacing to and from my front window and watching the
rain batter against the glass. By twelve-thirty the rain had eased to a
hazy grey shower and I was going stir crazy. I did not relish the
prospect of sitting indoors all day so I decided to brave the weather.
I tugged on my jeans, a jumper, and my hiking boots, pulled on my
waterproof jacket and headed out to the car. Forty-five minutes later I
was out of the car and walking out into the countryside.

The rain had turned to a fine mist that soaked all it touched just as
completely as the heavier drops that had fallen earlier. As I trudged
along the dirt path that in places had turned to muddy pools, large
looming shadows formed ahead of me that revealed themselves to be trees
as I approached.

It was dark beneath the canopy of trees and the air was filled with the
sound of raindrops dripping down from leaf to leaf before they broke
loudly onto my hood. Once through the trees I emerged into a field that
sloped upwards for almost a mile to a spot that offered a spectacular
vantage point to admire the surrounding countryside, or at least it
would have on a clear day.

One benefit of being out on such a miserable day was that I had the
path to myself but as I ascended the hill I saw a dark figure ahead of
me. The person was walking along the same path and in the same
direction as myself, but at a slower pace, and as I approached I saw
that it was a woman, dressed in clothes almost identical to my own. The
hood of her jacket was down but she wore a baseball cap with her rain
soaked fair hair pulled into a ponytail and tugged through the back of
the cap.

I slowed my pace a little but as I drew closer thoughts darker than the
sodden clouds above me began to form. The distance slowly closed
between us and when I was about fifty yards behind her I bent down and
picked up a jagged rock about the size of a house brick. I walked with
my hands crossed behind me, concealing the rock, that was cold and
slick in my hand.

I picked up the pace and was soon so close I could hear her breathing.
She still had not turned around, and for all I knew was oblivious to my
presence.

I held the rock tightly in my hand, turning my knuckles white, and when
I was directly behind her I raised the rock and brought it down hard on
her head. There was a hollow crunch as the rock connected with the back
of her head, breaking the skin, and the woman fell forward.

I stood over her, watching as she lay twitching at my feet. She lay on
her stomach with her head turned to the side, staring down the hill.
Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, like a fish, and she made small
grunting sounds while her body rocked back and forth. The movements
gradually slowed until eventually she lay still, her eyes and mouth
hanging open.

I pushed her body off the path with my foot and she rolled downhill and
disappeared into the mist, then I ambled back to my car.

When I reached the car I realised I still had the rock in my hand but
instead of throwing it away I took it home with me. Once home I carried
the rock into my workshop and took the grinder to it, reducing it to a
smooth round fraction of it's former self. I've given some thought to
why I kept the rock and to be honest I'm not entirely sure why. I've
read about serial killers who kept parts of their victims as souvenirs.
I think maybe it's the same thing except instead of keeping a piece of
my murder victim I kept a piece of my murder weapon.

Two weeks later the body was found and the police appealed for
witnesses. So I called them. A detective came to my house and we spoke
in my study while I leaned against my desk playing with the now small
and smooth murder weapon.

I told the detective that I had seen the woman and that we had smiled
and said hello as we passed each other on the path. I also described
three other imaginary people I had seen that day, told the detective I
was sorry I could not have been more help and that was that.

I had gotten away with murder.

I expected my life to change after the murder but it didn't. I carried
on as before, going to work, meeting with friends, going out on dates.
But there hasn't been a day gone by when I haven't thought of that day
with a strange mixture of pride and disbelief.

So why did I do it? Curiosity I suppose. She didn't resurrect some
traumatic childhood abuse or remind me of some past girlfriend who
rejected me, she was just there and I took a notion.

As I'd walked behind her and considered the fact that we were probably
the only two people within a five-mile radius I had begun to wonder.
What would happen if I killed her? Could I even do it? Could I get away
with it? Once these questions started running through my head I needed
to know the answers. I felt that if I didn't do it I would look back
later in life and wonder, and I was told once that it is better to
regret something you did do than something you didn't do.

So would I do it again? I've gone ten years without even hurting
another soul, much less killing anyone. My questions have been answered
and so there is no need to do it again.

But you never know...