Red Bike

Michael Kennedy stared at the wall, watching the shadows pass by.

It seemed as though the shadows danced along the walls like in sequence with one another.

It seemed as though they were laughing at him and poking fun at hid decision.

"Stupid little Mikey, killed her on her bikey." The shadows sang in harassment.

"No, no it isn't true, it's not true! I never meant to kill her. Her red bike got in the way. I tried to swerve away from it but I missed. My car hit her. I heard the crunch. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to." Michael cried.

He didn't mean to kill little Nancy Brooker. He didn't have the intention of being a murderer. But it just so happened.

He was haunted by that night. Every day and every night he saw the accident happen.

He was driving back home from a friend's house. He had had a couple drinks but not enough to be considered drunk.

He was exiting Highway 7 and heading onto I-30 when he was making a left turned. He had just noticed the red bike right infront of him. The car lights shined on the cherry red bike.

He tried to swerve away from the bike but his old car wouldn't let him and he collided right into the bike. He drove over her and heard the crunch. Was it the body of Nancy Brooker? Or was it the bike? Or both? All Michael did was stop the car and sit there.

He was motionless with fear and worry. He prayed to God that little Nancy Brooker wasn't dead. He prayed she was alive.

He got out and checked the body out. She was dead all right. More than dead. She was demolished. Flattened out like a pancake for the whole world to see.

The raindrops dropped all along the body spectating everything.

Michael looked around and noticed a thick patch of weeds near him. He pulled out gloves from his back pocket that he always carried around with him and put them on.

He picked her body up one piece at a time and threw her remains in the weeds. He then picked up the squished bike and threw it in the same direction. He then took off the gloves and proceeded to rid himself of them when he returned to town.

He got in the car and returned home. This was just what a bachelor like him needed, he thought to himself as he drove on home, a fucking dead kid and the blood on my hands.

Weeks passed and no one knew who killed poor little Nancy Brooker. He was haunted by her ghost every night. She would stand in the room near the wall that was prone to getting visited by shadows. She beckoned him to come clean. She would appear butchered far more worst than he remembered her being. She would taunt him and drive him to insanity. Driving him to madness.