06 March 2010
Just past 7 am.
I walked out to my car and saw a streak of red in an arch across the driver door.
I used the squeegee from the gas station, and scrubbed. I dipped in the orange bucket, the water was black. And I scrubbed.
I saw the lady at the next pump. She looked at me. And for a second, I thought she knew. She knew I had murdered the old woman myself. Murdered her with the back of an ax.
The red disappeared from my car, but it dripped onto the pavement, not dissappearing at all. And when I touched the handle, it got on my hands, and I knew. I knew I could never escape. I had to turn myself in.
Okay. It was really just ketchup.