Stories about fictional murders from a first person setting.
I sat inside my idling car at a stop light. It was the stop light that seemed perpetually at red. Every day I stopped here, never once did I come upon it to find it green. A homeless man made his home in an alley perpendicular to the street. He always seemed to be asleep, never stirring despite the heavy traffic passing at six in the evening.
Today, however, he was standing with his arms before his face as if defending himself from the man who seemed to be accosting him. The larger man was leaning forward in an attempt to be more intimidating; apparently berating the homeless man. He beat the man about his head violently, but discontinued the attack when the hobo fell to the ground with a convulsive jerk. He satisfied himself with a few kicks to the now prone homeless man and began to walk away.
I pulled over and parked my car on the curb and pulled on a pair of dark gloves. The large man who had accosted the other fellow walked briskly by and bumped into me. I took the chance to slip my hand into his coat pocket. After successfully pickpocketing the knife he carried there, a lucky guess on my part, I then approached the homeless man who now lay in the fetal position.
I slipped into the alleyway and fell onto the ground in a false stumble. I called to the homeless man, promising him money. He crawled feebly over me and heaved himself up near me. I punched down onto his back making him impale himself upon the knife I had poised beneath him.
After making sure he was quite dead, I cleaned the knife and smudged the handle with it as well. With the gloves on my fingerprints should be indefinable to the man's who owned it. I threw it into a nearby dumpster and continued on my way home.
My first murder had gone off quickly and easily. The framing had been just as simply pulled off. My blood lust from that day on could not be sated.