This was the prompt: You just killed someone.You killed someone on purpose.Now you need to hide the corpse.What do you do?
My solution:
Any idiot who sets out to commit murder, would certainly have a plan for what to do with the body afterwards—almost any idiot. Raises hand, not this one.
Poor schumck, I thought. That’s all I could do at the time. Look down at his limp, lifeless body, and sigh. I had thought about killing the bastard for years. Really, I seriously contemplated his demise for roughly five of the six years we’d been married. Sometimes it was a way to forget about the pain, sort of a daydream type thing. More often than not though, it was a very calculated, scheming, all out consideration of exactly what I would do, and how I would do it.
I planned which weapon to use, giving each and every possibility fullest consideration as to its ability to cause great pain, prolong death, and exercise the most excruciating amount of torture. I calculated the scene. The where had to be perfect. At least I thought it should be, after all he’d given me in the first six years of marriage, I, at least owed him a fitting final scene.
A dungeon would have been nice.
It’s really hard to find a dungeon in Hackensack, New Jersey though. Hell, I didn’t even make it down to our basement. Now he lay, cold, still, hey, you know, I just realized, I like him this way. Too bad he couldn’t have been more like this when he was alive. Anyway, he’s flat out on the damned kitchen floor. Not only do I have to think about what to do with his big, fat, gained-sixty-pounds, you’re a great cook dear, nothing else, but a great cook, body, but I also have to figure out how to get blood stains off of the woodwork.
Not too brilliant, I admit it. But this hadn’t been the real plan. For all the premeditation I’d done, none of it came of any use when he walked down the stairs this morning and had to be a smart ass when I asked him if my new pants made my butt look fat.
“Your butt makes your butt look fat.”
That’s what he said, I swear it. Maybe it’s ground for murder, and they’ll let me go on conditions of temporary insanity. No one else has to know that I’ve wanted to kill the jerk for years. Or that I have an arsenal in a suitcase buried deep in the back of the closet. All waiting for the perfect moment that will never come. It’s over.
There’s some relief to that.
Maybe I’ll just wait until the cops show up. Do cops just show up? Or does somebody have to call them? I should have watched more cop shows when Joe did. That’s his name, or was, Joe. Joe Nobody anymore. Cold, dead, Joe.
Where’s that phone?
***
I just love doing those. It's fun. This one will probably, most likely, maybe never :) make it into any WIP of mine. But it was sure fun to write. I like prompts. They grease the wheels. They make you think, even just for a short while about something else besides what you're knee deep in at the moment. They allow you the freedom to experiment. And sometimes, just maybe, they give you a real imagination supernova, and a new story line.
