The Perfect Murder Weapon: A Narrative Fiction

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Blood was everywhere. Splattered across the alley walls, streaked down the dumpster, pooling on the ground. None of it was mine. It belonged to the dying man at my feet, an icicle lodged deep into his heart. ‘The icicle,’ I thought. ‘The perfect murder weapon. The one that melts.’ I studied the dying man at my feet with the mild curiosity that one might study a dead bird or rabbit they found on the sidewalk. I watched as the the light left his eyes and his lips formed one last shaky word: “Why?” ‘Why indeed.’ I thought. For a moment I couldn’t remember. Had the man simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? No, that wasn’t it. It was something… Then the memory and the pain rushed back to me with enough force it knocked out my
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