Death of the Carol Singers

He knew he’d killed someone. Just didn’t know who. To be perfectly honest he didn’t even know, how, or why, or where. He just knew he’d done it.

Something deep within him told him so and it would only be a matter of time before someone found out, broke down the door, dragged him from his bed, arrested him, charged him, and sent him away for a very long time, or even worse.

That’s why he could never sleep, always afraid of a knock at the door or the phone ringing at strange times, that’s why he'd got rid of the house phone and had six big locks on the door.

That’s why he kept Samson his Rottweiler. That’s why he kept the cricket and baseball bats by the door, that’s why he kept the big collection of knives and of course his rifle.

As far as he was concerned it wasn’t if they were coming, just when.

He had the same dream over and over again. He was burying someone, covering their body with earth. His hands were covered in dirt; he had blood on his clothes. When he woke he always felt guilty. Yes he had definitely killed someone, maybe a long time ago, maybe even in a different life.

So when he heard that knock on his door late on that Sunday evening and saw the large group of people outside, he knew what he had to do. He had to defend himself. That’s why he opened the bedroom window and fired his rifle into the crowd, until none of them were standing anymore.

He knew more would come so saved the last bullet for himself.

He felt no pain just relief that it was finally over.