Witness

Flash fiction on someone witnessing a crime

She lived across the street from me. I watched her daily, mesmerized by her grace and poise. A few times we ran into each other, things never progressed beyond a smile from her. It was guarded and firm.

The need to know her better overcame my natural shyness. I was going to wait for her to enter the grocery store downstairs from her apartment and talk to her.

Many days went by and no opportunity arose. She came home late at night and was out by seven in the morning. I was getting more and more anxious to talk to her, listen to her voice and observe her from close quarters.

My chance came during one of those dismal monsoon evenings. She hadn’t left the house Around seven in the evening, I mustered courage and walked up to her apartment.

I had never done anything of this sort before and I stood outside her door for a few minutes.

With a lot of hesitation, I gently rapped on the door as there was no calling bell. Not a sound emanated from behind.

Again, a few more knocks, this time a bit more insistent; maybe too insistent as the door moved.

I opened the door wider and put a tentative head inside.

My voice shook “Hello?”

No answer. I heard a tiny whimper from the bedroom. She was lying on the bed, a look of shock on her face as she died.

I turned around. A cellphone on a tripod was filming her.

I stopped the recording and played it back hoping to find the murderer.

Someone set up the camera, peered into it and proceeded to strangle her in her sleep.

I recoiled in fear at the face.

It was me.