So my friend is ridiculously terrible in English, so I helped him out a little. This is the edit that I did for his story.
The gunshot went off, loud and unforgiving, but it was lost to the traffic and general noise that made up New York City. It had been easy. All he had to do was pull the trigger. "Stupid rich people, wandering where they shouldn't" he thought, picking up the dead man's wallet. He opened the wallet and went through the man's cards. Gold and platinum credit cards. A drivers license with a particularly bad picture. Social security number - that could be useful, and a business card. “Dr. M. Dollson? Is he a doctor or something?’’ he asked himself. As he grabbed the money from the pocket of the wallet, something fell out from between the bills. He bent over to pick up the folded paper. He unfolded it slowly and cautiously, almost as if he knew what it was, and so didn't want to see it. Without much surprise, he saw that it was a picture taken with the man’s family. He saw a young girl that the man was holding lovingly, smiling at her. It was his daughter. He felt a little guilt course through his body, thinking about his own child and what would happen to her if the roles had been reversed... if a man with no conscience decided to kill him. Instead of putting the picture back in the wallet he refolded it, and put it into his own back pocket. He tried not to let the guilt get to him as he walked away from the dead body. Looking over his own shoulders, he wondered if there were any witnesses that might have heard the noise of the gun shot. Part of him wished that there had been. As his heart beat slowed down from the adrenaline rush, he pulled out the wad of cash that he had put in the inner pocket of his jacket. He needed to see how much he had stolen. Counting every bill, he had 572 dollars that night, and the picture in his back pocket. Even in taking all that money, today he had only needed to murder one. Trying to conceal his emotions, he went into a bar to clear his mind. Thirty dollars on booze later - all of which came from his profit that night - he started to head home, feeling drunk and unstable. He stumbled through back roads and alley ways, all the while thinking about the man he had killed. The man who is quite possibly the father of the child in the picture. He thought about the man's wife. He wondered at why this bothered him so much, because it never had before. He questioned his own sanity for the guilt he felt, nagging at the back of his mind no matter what he did, or how much he drank. The guilt that caused his heart to hurt him, and that caused tears to try to free themselves from his eyes. "It must be the alcohol" was his only explanation.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the picture and stared at the little girl that reminded of his own daughter, and by the time that recognition ran through his mind, he arrived at the front door of his house. The door squeaked loudly as he opened it, from the old hinges, rusted and falling apart, grinding together. His wife came down the stairs. The door had woken her, that was her story anyway. He was sure that she had never been asleep. He was sure that she had been waiting for him. She stopped halfway down the stairs, and looked at him as if he’s done something wrong.
“Darrel! Where have you been? Its half past 3!’’
“I was hanging out with my friends at the bar, had some drinks together y’know’." He couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth. He never could. The thought of the disapointment he was sure she would feel had always stopped him.
“You drank? Where did u get the money from? ’’
Not being able to tell his wife what actually happened; he ignored her and went up stairs to find his daughter. Opening the door to his daughter's room as gently as he can (these hinges don't make noise, he had made sure of that), he snuck inside the room to kiss her goodnight. Then he headed to his bed and took his clothes off to sleep. The cold bed and the cold breeze that came through the half broken window quickly sent him to sleep, thought it wasn't a restful one. All night he dreamed of the Dr. M. Dollson. The man had had a family, and he had taken that away. He had taken a father from a child. He had taken a son from a mother, and a husband from a wife. In his dreams, the roles were reversed, or the man was not dead. The one that truly haunted him though, was of the daughter finding out that her daddy wasn't coming home.
Waking up the next morning with a massive hangover, he took an Advil, and walked over to the couch to sat down as he turned on the TV to the news channel. He feared the murder being on the news, because he feared seeing the interview with the wife. After watching the news for several minutes, the reporter began to talk about a murder that happened in New York the previous night.
“The body of Doctor Dollson was found yesterday, in an alley behind one of the main roads. People say that he was a loved and respected man, and no one can seem to believe that he's gone.’’ Mrs. Dollson then appeared on screen, being asked questions about why he would be going pass the dark street instead walking through the main streets. Mrs.Dollson quickly spoke with a sad tone, “ Johnny told me he has been rushing to get home to me and my two year old daughter, Jaymie, and told me he found a short cut his way home. Of course me wanting him home as soon as possible, I didn't worry about unsafe routes.” Not wanting to hear more of the news, Darrel turns off the TV. The guilt washed over him worse than before, and he cannot believe what he has done to an innocent family, and to the little girl’s father. Silently he got up from the table, and changed into the nicest clothes he owned. He wrote a note to his family, and kissed his daughter goodbye. He left the house as soon as possible and took his cell phone out of his pocket.
"Hello, 911 what's you're emergency?"
"My name is Darrel Willkinson, and I'd like to confess to a murder."