It was Wednesday

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈

The ride home was a blur.

It was like my mind had grown a pair of wings, and simply fluttered away.All I know is that I had gotten home at 12:30.I slid the silver key into the lock and with a quick twist, the heavy mahogany door of my apartment opened.A dark apartment greeted me. I stumbled in. Unzipped my boots and they fell to the floor with a light thump. My stocking clad feet quietly padded the floor . My hand searched the wall for the light switch.

Click.

The living room flooded with warm light. I slipped the long coat off my shoulders and abandoned it on the couch.I eagerly made my way to bathroom, where i wasted to no time to wash my face and teeth. I glanced to the bathtub. A small pool of blood rested at the bottom. I'll clean it tomorrow. For now I just wanted to sleep. The minute my skin made contact with the soft sheets of my bed, my eyes closed. My body fell into a comfortable slumber.

*

I awoke the next morning with the sun gleaming into my eyes. Not a single cloud in the sky. Not a trace of the storm from last night. I got up slowly, allowing my body to adjust. I had fallen asleep with my clothes on. They felt gross. Dirty. Filthy.

I wasted no time stripping the clothes off my body and the tossing them into the washer. Replacing them with a knitted sweater that reached just above my knees. My apartment was a mess. My chaotic clutter littered the floor. Books. clothes. A wine bottle. crumpled paper. paint brushes.I, usually, was very clean and tidy. Everything has its place. I detested being unorganized. But planning a murder takes more time and concentration that I had anticipated.But it was done now.It was time to clear this mess.

I lived in London. Kensington. number 14th, Morales road. It was a beautiful town house in a beautiful neighborhood, left to me by my parents. I lived by myself on the second floor. Big windows and balcony filled with plants. I loved it. My walls were covered with paintings. Some mine. Some bought. Thick carpet hid the wooden floors. And in the living room, tall wooden shelves carried the weight of hundreds of books. I like to think I am cultured: I read, I admire art, appreciate history and enjoy music. I care for beauty, i think it gives purpose to things . but i also care for justice, and sometimes justice isn't beautiful. I pick up stray pieces of clothes and put books back on the shelves. Soon my apartment was back to normal.

except the bathroom.

I make my way down the hallway and open the last door to the right. It smelled. It smelled of blood. Tightening my hand on the bleach and cleaning supplies, I knelt to the ground.

I cleaned the bloody handprints first. I hummed to myself as I did

"When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what will I be.."

I scrubbed the tub with a rag. scrubbing away the evidence.

"...Will i pretty, will i be rich, here what she said to me"

Now onto the small pool of blood. It was a beautiful color. The deep rouge of red wine. I opened the water in the tub.