I didn’t mean to kill him. Do you think I’m a murderer? I’m not. But Jesus, he just wouldn’t shut up.

“So I say to her that it isn’t my cup. How could it be my cup? I never drank from the small cups in my life. But she doesn’t believe me. So I ask my brother.”

Shut up.

“And he agrees with me. He says that it isn’t my cup, and that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and that she ought to mind her own business, and that she ought—”

Shut up. 

“And now she won’t talk to either of us until one of us admits that it was my cup even though if it was my cup I would have used a coaster and there wouldn’t be a problem in the—”

Crack.

I don’t remember doing it. One second he was talking, the next he was dead. One good blow to the head and a broken wine bottle, and that was that. No fuss, no struggle, no blood. A clean kill. I looked at his body for a long time. Why had I invited him over?

“You need friends,” my mother had said. “You’re gonna lose it in that house by yourself.”

Thanks mom. 

It wasn’t the body that got me. That was just meat, dead and quiet and cold. What got me were the questions.

“Have you heard from Bert?” No. Shut up.

“Did Bert come in yet?” Nope. Shut UP.

“When is Bert gonna finish those forms?” Shut up! What forms? Who’s Bert?

It went on like this for days. Nobody gives a s*** about Bert for as long as he works here, but I kill him and suddenly everybody wants the inside scoop. What does Bert drive? Where was he last seen? Does he have any next of kin? Who knows, who cares, please God I hope not. Why can’t everybody just mind their own business?

People are starting to talk. People never know when to shut up. That’s their problem. You get it right? I’m not the bad guy here. They’ll understand that. They’ll see my side of things. I put in my eight hours like everyone else. And you can vouch for me? Right? You don’t think I’m a murderer. Be honest. No, no don’t. Don’t talk to me. Just—