Murder in Venice

Murder in the Canal

4 am. Saturday, 14th of January.

Tickling the side streets, a flowing breeze rocks the Venetian boats. A strong stench of rotten cabbage tingles among scampering rats. My green eyes sweep the canal from my thick cotton sheets. Shaking gently, my index finger traces the edges of my fingernails. I feel a sharp chip on my nail. A cold sensation spreads through my body. Blood freezes in my veins. It's time for a walk. The cotton sheets lift as my feet touch the thick wooden floorboards. A loud creak erupts as I take a step. My husband stirs slightly. The stairs shudder. Sound asleep, my boy lies in his crib. I feel the polished wood of the doorknob before the cold surrounds me as I step outside. The light flow of the wind rushes through my night robe. I wrap it around myself, tightly. As I follow the side streets, my purple slippers occasionally scuff along the ground. My fingers drag along the rough concrete walls. One of my nails catches. My hand shoots back to meet the soft linen of my robe. I'm forced to remember my sins.

10 pm. Sunday, 8th of January.

A strand of wispy blonde hair gently touches my cheek, as the soft clicking of laptop keys fills our bedroom. My thick woolly socks hug my ankles tightly. Fluffy purple slippers hang from my toes. A light breeze rushes in through the open window, making my skin twitch with cold. Dust rises in the streets. It floats, disturbed. Something lurks in the shadows. A quiver in the night. A turn in the wind. My curious eyes dart through the streets. Darkness depicts the light outlines of the Venetian houses. Their wooden framed windows glint in the moonlight, and water gently slaps against the docks—a still night. But I am watched, head to toe; I can feel eyes on me. In a darker corner of the alley, a silhouette stands. Her black dress sprawled against the concrete walls. Her eyes peer into mine, wide and awake. A smirk emerges across her lips. My lungs beg for air. My heart pounds and my fists clench. Our eyes, locked together. Vigour shakes through my body. She slinks closer, her bare feet against the wooden docks, her shoulders confident. That sly smile of hers spreads across her lips. Her hands clamber into a Venetian boat. It sways gently. A sudden rush of air fills my lungs as my back straightens. A sly smile appears across my face. Snap. I switch off the desk light; pure darkness. My chair swings gently, stranded from my desk. I reach the kitchen; my hand scrambles around the knife drawer. Finally, I grab a solid wooden handle. My favourite knife. It sits, squeezed in the side of my right boot as my leather boots reach the concrete side streets. Her sharp jawline, that familiar cheeky grin. I reach the rough wooden edges of the dock. Perched on a slate seat in a Venetian boat, Caterina sits. With her hands behind her, she leans back. The water ripples slightly, and I breathe in the strong scent of stained cherry wood as I sit down. Her eyes meet mine. Her deep black pupil is surrounded by a maroon type of brown, with a few yellow specks near the edges. Pale and soft, her hands reach the rugged rope, and she unties it with ease. We pass old timber houses; the water slaps gently. I point to a darker, tighter canal, and she paddles there. "I didn't think you liked dark places," Caterina says. Rogue, sly, manipulative, the memories hurtle back. Blood. It drains from my face until I sit, pale and gaunt. My arm hairs protrude with cold and fear.

The canal tightens. Now thick and hot, the air lingers. My palms cling to the boat, clammy with sweat. "Everything changed when you got a family," she says, intensely. A layer of pain washes over those deep maroon eyes. Silence. A million words sit on my tongue. My lips lock tight. Her sly smile grows. "How is your son?", she spits out. A strong rush of hatred spreads through my mind as I swallow the poison—her words. "He's good," I reply, my right eye twitches. My eyebrows scream with anger, I force them from gathering. She looks down at her shoes but can't find conversation there. My hands clamber along the side of the boat as I sit down closer to her. Her eyebrow lifts, and she smirks as I sit down. Her ego rises, I can feel it, I hate it. I reach down the side of my boot slowly. The hot polished wood of the knife. My fingers clench around its handle. I sink my nails into its flesh. Her face turns towards the water, and she leans over the boat slightly. I sob gently, quietly. My throat squeals—my hand darts to my mouth. Tears stream down my cheeks. She touches the water with her fingertips. I look up. The stars shine as bright as ever. I take a deep breath, oxygen spreads through my lungs. My shaky hand bursts from my boot. The knife's sharp edge shines in the moonlight. My throat lets out a deep cry as it reaches her chest with a bone-crushing, blood-boiling stab. It tears through her scratchy dress. Her pores drip with sweat. Her face turns to mine. Those maroon eyes flicker from my left eye to my right, back and forth. I hold the knife in her chest, as her mouth opens slightly. Her scared eyes gaze into mine before she crumples into the side of the boat. Her eyes drift away. I sit in shock. Breathing feels impossible. My nail chips as I grasp the side of the boat tightly. As I climb out, my purple slippers feel like weights. My eyes dart over the alleys before I take myself home. I walk. I stop. My head turns viciously. I am forced to look. Her hair is caught and tangled on the scratchy wood. She lay lifeless. My head spins. "It's for the best, it's for the best," I anxiously mutter. Beating, my heart pumps aggressively. Nerves pop through my skin. My legs drag me home.

4:15 am. Saturday, 14th of January.

Cool and damp, my face weeps as another tear rolls down my cheek. My stomach churns, my head swirls, and the colours of the streets blur. I stare down at my chipped nail before I look up at the familiar paisley curtains in my bedroom window. Tears soak into my skin as my brown leather boots carry me inside. The front door lets out a regrettably loud thud. I sneak into the living room. My hands vigorously search through the sides of the sofa, the drawers of the coffee table, and underneath my bed. There it was, in my bedside draws, my nail file. I snatch it and file down the chip on my nail. The remainder of my dread—gone. Overcome by relief, I sigh, exhausted. Back in bed, I lie cosy amongst my cotton sheets, as his snoring fills the room. I watch the stars. They sparkle. My family is safe.