THE MURDER SHE WROTE - Sahana Sehgal (@wop_wop93)
I opened the door and quietly sneaked in.
They were sitting by the television, oblivious.
They must remain so; they must not know.
I went to bathroom, took a hot shower,
I crawled into the bed and prayed for strength.
I was nervous, still not sorry though.
It all happened so fast; it was due a long time,
I could hear the opening credit score
from the television, still oblivious.
I crawled out of bed, stood in front of the mirror,
and practised my look of surprise and terror.
Should I cry? Would that be too much?
Yes, I was a lover, I must cry,
it won't hold true otherwise.
Should I put up a hysterical show
or an elegant number of tears.
I am not surprised;
I always appreciated a good drama.
There is a sharp knock on the door,
the peeling of the bell.
I get back under the covers; eyes bound shut.
My mother enters my room, ‘the police is here,' she whispers.
I stir awake; I should be a professional actress,
I walk down the stairs,
staring fixedly at the cops, downstairs.
My mother’s already crying,
and my father’s staring at me.
I have a plan, they still don’t know,
and it must remain so.
The policeman walks up to me
and reads me my rights.
I squint, shouldn't they first inform me of the crime?
The man in blue reads my eyes and points at the stairs.
I turn around to bloody footprints
and realise I forgot to wipe my shoes.