How can I describe Michael to you? He is or rather was, a man in his early sixties, divorced twice with two adult children, both estranged. He caught my attention through a newspaper article boldly titled “How false accusations ruin a man’s life”. Due to his families high standing in the community, the press quickly found out about the report, a woman in her late twenties made to the police. She reported how she was raped and threatened to stay silent by her former boss. According to the article the woman planned to take revenge on him, for getting fired. It also quoted Michael “This woman seems to be confused. I pray she comes to her senses”. You see, the newspaper however not only published the article two weeks before the official trial, it also happens to be owned by Michael’s own brother. While I began to dive into Michael’s past, the majority of the public believed in Michael’s innocence. Two days later I opened the papers to a picture of the woman’s face. Her body was found by her roommate, clear signs of an overdose, empty package of sleeping pills by her bedside. “Speak, don’t whisper. Whisper, don’t stay silent.” Her mom addressed the crowd with these words during her eulogy. Yes, I attended the funeral and to my disgust, so did Michael. Michael owed the world a life, and I was going to be the one to set the record straight. The next few weeks I prepared all I would need. Most importantly, I needed a gun with a silencer and a way to meet Michael alone. The gun was surprisingly easy to obtain. I used an old laptop to excess the dark-web through an illegal browser. The rest wasn’t way different from any other online purchase, except for the fake name and address. Obviously I didn’t want to use my own for safely reasons, so I took the name and address of my elderly neighbour, who always makes me sort out all her problems and she never ordered anything in her life. When a weird package showed up at her doorstep, she immediately called me over and send me away with it, to sort it out. Weapon acquired. After watching Michael for a while, I also found the perfect spot for him to die. Every few days after dinner, when it’s already dark out, he drives to the graveyard and visits the woman’s grave. I don’t know if he does this out a sense of guilt or satisfaction, but I don’t care. I like the dramatic effect this spot offers for his death. Now before I jump to the main event here a ‘pro’ tip: Never leave DNA. That means, no part of your skin should be exposed, but also a tight hat AND a hair-net underneath. After I got everything I needed, I spend the next two evenings hiding at the graveyard. He showed up the third night and I watched as he walked to the woman’s grave in the dim light of the street lamps. I was holding the gun, ready and loaded, behind my back as I approached him. He seemed a little surprised when he noticed my presence. He asked if I was a friend of the deceased, pointing at the grave. I shook my hand, pointing the gun at him. I made sure to close enough to be able to hit his head, but too far for him to snatch the gun. He started pleading and offering me money. Pathetic. I loosened the safety and spoke words I had carefully chosen in advance “A life, for alive”. Then I pulled the trigger and he fell over. He landed with his face in the still freshly planted flowers on the grave. I stared for a moment, wondering if the blood is good fertiliser. When I left, I made sue to take a different route home than usual, just to safe not to be seen. Michaels’s death was the talk of the town for a few weeks, but police never came knocking on my door. A job well done.
© Svenja Nachreiner 2023-08-06