the short story project


Izzie Newton-Cross

Scotch On The Rocks

Some people look up at the night sky to see the stars, others look up to see the black. I’m one of the others. When I look up, I feel the nights blanket drape over me and I’m finally at rest. I find stars funny. People look up at them hoping to have all their dreams come true, in the end they are just great fiery spheres that will someday, eventually, blow up to destroy most life as we know it. Far from the dreams those stargazers hope for.

I can’t help but think of that whilst I’m standing there, freezing, up to my knees in  icy cold lake water. My suit is far from keeping me warm. My tie, hanging loosely from my neck. My shoes, still at the shore. My wife, nowhere to be seen. At least I hope.

The struggle was over quick, she gave up fairly soon. I guess, she realised that we were in the middle of nowhere and if she decided to run, the forest had things in store far worse than what I had planned.

I’d better get back inside quick, before I freeze, but not yet. I like to feel some of the pain they feel. It makes me feel more human. She’ll be cold, way down in there. I want to feel it too.

As I take a deep breath in and out, I reminisce about the last three hours. Her last three hours.

She thought that we were just having a delightful getaway to relax from the everyday norm. How wrong she was. I might of been her husband but that doesn’t mean that she knew everything about my life. This trip is my last hurrah before they come take me. This hasn’t been my first offence and after my last board meeting, I overheard officer Jones talking about  the crimes I committed, but they have yet to solve. I knew that they were soon going to be on to me and knew that there was no use fleeing. No true man runs from his matters. If he does them intentionally, why be ashamed. Shame is for cowards and I am no coward.

If anyone asks, I killed my wife, same with my wife before her. I was the masked man who tortured that young Richardsons boy and the man who decided it was fare to burn down the post office for running out of stamps. Up until now, I haven’t heard of anyone suspecting me to be linked to any of those crimes, after all, I am the principal of the local school. Who would suspect a man with authority? But, now they know. I know they know. My time is finally up. They are to come.

I trudge out of the lake blackened by the night, to sit at my chair and wait for them.

Scotch glass in hand, I look up at the sky in between the stars, thinking of the life I lead. Much like the stars, people look up to me with false ideology, no one knowing what I’m truly capable of.

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