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A Murder

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I have never written a murder scene, so I decided to try one, but I could not bring myself to describe a detailed gory act, like plunging a knife into somebody, so I decided to focus on the state of mind of the murderer.

Robert had never so much as been late for class and now he was a thief and a murderer. Well, he was not a murderer yet, but he would be as soon as his stepfather came home. He lifted the gun one more time and pointed it at the door, trying to remember how tall his stepfather was. His heart would probably line up with the second hinge. Robert nodded then put the gun down on the table and took up his lonely vigil.
It had been easier than he expected to steal the gun. Getting the weapon had seemed the hardest part of the plan, but once he began to investigate the local gun club and discovered how many people owned guns it became merely a matter of deciding who to steal one from. Not that breaking into a house, finding the keys to the gun cupboard, selecting the right weapon and the ammunition to match had been a piece of cake, but at least he had not been caught. Yet.
Robert did not care that he would probably end up in jail and that scared him. He planned to run out the back door and drive as far away as possible after the deed was done, but that was more from a wish to get away from what would probably be an ugly sight than because he expected to be able to evade the law for long.
How would his friends see him, he wondered, and also his sister and his mother. It was for them he was doing this, to stop that monster from doing what he did to them, but would they want Robert to become a murderer in exchange?
Robert noticed that he was pacing up and down the hall and he willed himself to be still, but he was too nervous; his left foot took up a tapping rhythm on the floor, getting louder and louder until he could stand it no longer and resumed his pacing.
Where was his stepfather, anyway? He always came home around this time, so why should today be different? Did he know that Robert had sent his mother and sister on a false errand across the city?
Robert lifted the gun again, checked it was loaded and lined it up with the door, squinting, watching the line of sight shift slightly as he aimed with first one eye then the other. Which should he use? He knew one eye was the shooting eye, but surely he should use the eye that saw better?
His eyes watered and he put the gun down. His hands felt sweaty inside the rubber gloves but he dared not pull them off and get a new pair in case his stepfather came. He sat on the foot of the stair with the gun next to him and began to count, slowly and steadily.
By the time he reached two thousand the counting had become a mantra and Robert felt calm, and ready for whatever was to come but the sound of a key in the door jolted him back to the present. Leaping to his feet he grabbed the gun with both hands and pointed it at the door, aiming it at the centre panel in line with the second hinge.
He heard the sound of boots scraping on the doorstep, then the door swung open and Robert fired. A loud explosion deafened him leaving a ringing that throbbed in his ears like a second pulse. He staggered backwards, more from fright than from the slight recoil from the gun and closed his eyes to shut out the scene in front of him. Now he really was a murderer.

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