6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

VIII

// 23 November 1963 // 10:57 // 3903 Leath Street // Dallas, Texas//

"I emphatically deny these charges"

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get that Oswald man's haunting voice out of his conscience. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation starting to creep into his id, but every time his eyes shut, the ghostly apparition of that man refused to leave. Sunken features... fearful eyes... It was a massive transformation from the boldly frustrated man who he had spoken with in the moments following the attack.

That Oswald man was on his mind as he collected the image of his wife from the floor and deposited it in the overflowing trash can beside the nightstand. Oswald's haunting Cajun enunciation tunneled through his ears as he stripped off his what was left of his sweaty clothes. Most imposingly, he could not rid his mind of the sensation that had pulsed through his veins as that Oswald man's clammy skin and shaking hands took the bullet. Even after he had showered and redressed for the day, the impression of Lee Harvey Oswald continued to etch itself into his sanity.

Standing in the same cracked mirror he had fatefully dressed himself in almost 24 hours ago, he selected his outfit for the day: a faded pair of pilling black slacks, a worn-out dress shirt, and an ill-fitting blazer that had long since lost its button closures. Freshly oiled hair, greased back professionally. And lastly, his prized porkpie hat casting an unnatural shadow across the canvas of his face. Unlike the day before, he wanted to be noticed by as many people as possible.

He was making his way back to the main room when the idea struck him. As far as he knew, that Oswald man was being detained at the Dallas County Police Station. The station, which was only a short trek in his silver car, would be crawling with media, spectators, and most importantly, on-duty officers. There was no way that the Oswald man deserved the attention he was getting... every word that left his mouth was broadcast around the globe. Every plea of innocence and sigh of desperation, contributing to the larger than life reputation he had been cultivating. But Ed was the only one who recognized the truth in his denials.

He sighed as the envy returned. By all accounts, it should be him standing there, face disfigured by some altercation. It should be his voice airing over countless news outlets, through television sets everywhere. He imagined the words he would use to reveal his secret... and it gave him an idea.

Sitting down at the oak table in the corner, he retrieved a fountain pen and a crumpled sheet of paper from the pile of documents already there. Putting pen to paper, he began to write out his entire story, like a scripted letter for anyone who might find it.

I am Edward Harrell, he began, before forcefully scratching out the words. If he had his way, this document would later become a renowned museum artifact. He couldn't take any chances on it.

I'm the one who shot the president... Again, he clawed the words out. A wave of awe washed over him as he realized that this very well could be his only confession. As soon as he came forward to take credit, he would become the most hated man in history; the simple mention of his name would ignite a blazing hatred in the hearts of everyone who heard it. No one would ever take him seriously again.

I killed Kennedy. I shot him from the 6th Floor of the Texas School Book Depository. I acted alone. Normally illegible scrawls contorted into easily readable letters.

It was an accident. As soon as the words were on the paper, he despised them. Writing that showed weakness, and he refused to be remembered as a pathetic son-of-a-bitch in history. This letter wouldn't only explain the story that he so desperately wanted to tell, but if he had his way, would also define his historical legacy.