I still remember that night. I killed him. It was dark, the moon hanging over the mountains in an indigo sky. The tombstones lined up, one after another. He was weeping for his lover.

She had passed away the day before. A gunshot to the head. No one knew who did it. No one except me. I was the murderer. She'd been home alone, baking her dear husband apple pie, and I'd arrived and shot her in the head. It wasn't like I had no reason to.

There were many occasions that led up to this event. First, she would make fun of my glasses in front of everyone. Then, she would make fun of my virginity. Once, she even had the audacity to make fun of my deceased grandmother, because, somehow, she thought that my pain and loss were hilarious. Finally, I'd followed through with my plan.

I knew Arthur wouldn't be home yet. He always worked late on Fridays, tying up loose ends. I had a key because she trusted me. I brought a gun, I walked in, I shot her in the head, and she fell to the ground. I took the apple pie out of the oven so poor Arthur wouldn't have to deal with it, and that was that.

I hate to admit this, but the sound that the gun made when it killed her actually satisfied me. I felt immensely powerful and immensely proud of myself for what I'd done, but only for a split second. After that, I realized that I was very wrong to kill this woman. I was in the graveyard at midnight with Arthur because I'd talked myself into killing him too. I'd told myself that, somehow, he would be happier if he was with her. That's how my sick mind used to work: I was killing him because it was in his best interest. He'd be too lonely here on earth, without his wife.

I'd say that they were both going to Heaven, but, I'm afraid, they'd actually both be going to Hell because I was convinced she was evil. I still remember my fingers pulling the trigger. The shadow of a man falling to the ground. The silence that followed. I remember throwing the weapon on the ground, putting my head in my hands, and letting the tears stream down my face, wondering what the hell I'd done. By the luck of the draw, I suppose, if one can call it luck, I've never been behind bars.

They weren't well-known in the neighborhood. No one knew who did it. I'd worn gloves and hidden the gun so they couldn't trace my DNA to them. I thought getting caught would be the worst punishment on earth. Trust me, it's not.

I almost wish I was behind bars. I wish someone knew my secret. I wish someone knew what I had done to these people. That I, Thomas Macerson, am a murderer, through and through. Their ghosts still haunt me to this day. I see the blood as they fall to the floor every night in my nightmares.

At first, I was afraid of getting caught. I would have nightmares about a police officer showing up and cuffing me, sending me straight to prison. Now, I am scared of going to Hell. I am alone in this cabin in the woods. No one knows who I am.

I have a bottle of whiskey to keep me company every night. No friends. No family. I don't deserve them. No one should know who I am.

No one deserves to. I still have the gun I used to commit murder, right by the rocking chair. I use it for deer now, if I'm really angry. I have a good aim, but, more often than not, the blood is too much for me to bear these days.

I hide out in these woods, hoping no one will ever find me, but any murderer will tell you, any one with a semblance of empathy at least, that it is impossible to escape a guilty conscience. It's impossible to escape the dreams that refuse to stop haunting you, to see the life leaving someone's eyes, even if that someone was your worst enemy. It is impossible to escape the shame of taking another person's life. It is impossible not to hear the voices of what you have convinced yourself are these peoples' ghosts, taunting you constantly about how evil you are.

When I go back to the graveyard, it's worse. I can swear that I see their apparitions, but they fade away the minute I reach out my finger to touch them or ask them a question, or try to apologize. They haven't forgiven me. They never will. How could they forgive me for cutting their lives short? Something only God has the right to do. How could they?

I haven't even forgiven myself. I stare at the moon rising over the mountains and urge myself to look at their graves, daring their spirits to come out. I punish myself this way. I feel that I deserve some kind of punishment, yet I can't even begin to think about turning myself in. If other people knew what I'd done, if I couldn't take walks in these mountains, I don't know if I could bring myself to live another day.

They whisper to me that I am a sinner. That I will go to Hell. That they will never stop haunting me. An apology begins to leave my lips, a hope in my chest that, somehow, they can forgive my unforgivable act, yet, before I can utter one, they disappear into the night. I sit and I hold my head in my hands, rocking back and forth, desperately fighting the tears that burst through my eyes, moaning, not caring if anyone hears me.

A police car passes on the street. It doesn't stop. I don't know whether to feel relief or torture. The pit in my stomach gets bigger. I try to escape these demons by going back to my cabin, but they will continue to haunt me for the rest of eternity. I'm sure of it. That's what I deserve.

So, this short story ends here...

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