The domicile in Kew Gardens seemed the perfect place for murder. My conjecture was the evening was the ideal time to strike. With children nestled in their beds and gentlemen snoring over the evening new broadcast, I obviated no interruptions.
As I stood at the far end of the lot, a meticulous woman stepped out of her car, fussing with her keys. My hand, gripped around the hunting knife with pressure, was ready to attack. The woman was lax until she saw my figure against the dark wall. Her steps quickened, moving the opposite direction of me. My pace quickened as well, matching her steps. With a rash decision, I grabbed the woman.
The woman, eyes filled with fear, wriggled and fought against my iron grasp. The knife stabbed into her body at sporadic times. Her lurid screams filled the midnight air as I walked away, leaving her to suffer for the moment. As I arrived at my white sedan, quips from the neighbors flooded my ears. The people in the apartment building yelled, yet no one came out into the streets.
Fifteen minutes later, I discover the woman once again, trying to make her way back to the apartment building, leaving a trail of blood. My knife comes down on her back with strong force. Windows opened once again and light flickered on, but the people remained in their comforting homes. My last attempt of stabbing her caused her death, leaving her on the foot of the stairs.
As time elapses, I sit in this prison cell, waiting for my court day to arrive. I never regret the acts that I committed, yet wish I could have killed more than one the night in Kew Gardens.