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Not Guilty By D.V. Enderle People continue to file into the yard. The police, despite their best efforts, are helpless in containing the crowd. It has only been in the last hour that some order has been maintained. What is it about the dead that attracts the living? The gawkers…the gossipers…rubberneckers. This old oak has stood in my yard for centuries, long before any of us were here, long before it was anyone’s yard, yet no one seemed fascinated by it before today. It just took one dead body, propped like a puppet in the shade, to draw this crowd. Why my yard? Why my tree? Why me? I watch them peer over each other’s shoulders to get a better look. Their faces knotted with disgust as they quickly turn away. They shut their eyes and cover their mouths, holding in the bile that rises from the pit of their bellies. I must admit, I can think of better ways for someone to die. A pickaxe through the skull is not the most appealing.
The police shove the crowd back and border the tree with yellow tape. Neon yellow, reminding me of the banners and streamers used to decorate a party. But in spite of that, I certainly don’t feel like celebrating. Suspicion has fallen on me for well over a month now. I’ve heard the gossip. I’ve heard the names they’ve whispered. Can I help it if my libido is stronger than most men? The ladies never complained, only their husbands. And because of one fateful evening of passion, this mob has gathered in my yard.
The police questioned me for hours, but I had nothing to do with the death of Mrs. Callaway. I admit, she liked it rough, but I never hurt her in any way that she didn’t beg me.
And now this. How will I ever prove my innocence and clear my name? A pickaxe in the skull, and most embarrassingly, my pickaxe. A sign of guilt I shall wear like an ugly scar. No one will believe me now. I could pray and scream, and protest my innocence until judgment day, yet I’ll always be marked a murderer.
Why couldn’t Callaway leave well enough alone? His wife was gone. Nothing could bring her back. The police released me. I answered their questions, issued my alibi, passed their lie detectors, but Callaway wasn’t convinced. Not that I blame him. Mrs. Callaway was a vision with milky white skin, long flowing chestnut hair, and pearl-like teeth that ripped passionately into my skin. How could a man not mourn the demise of a creature so fair and exciting?
Then Callaway, standing by my oak, in my yard, screaming in a drunken fever. Accusing me. Why did I even come to the door? I can see now that it would have been so much easier for me to lock myself inside, and let him rant until he passed out. I only took the pickaxe out to scare him away. That’s all. I never intended to hurt him. But Callaway had every intention of hurting me. He was a powerful man.
So now, here I sit under my oak tree, in my own yard, with this damned pickaxe in my skull. People continue to stare as the police bring in a stretcher and cover me with a sheet. I see only darkness now – the darkness of death, and the darkness of the black cloud that looms over me. I shall forever be marked a murderer with no voice for my defense.
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