As the knife dug deeper into her rib cage, the crimson blood spread across the floor, like a river flowing to the sea. My hands were shaking as she took her final breath . Her body convulsed, her life exited her body, and I sat back against the wall, knife still protruding from her chest cavity. Now I knew what a final breath sounded like. It wasn’t the rasping it’s so commonly described as. Hers was a gargle, a sharp intake of water infused air. It cut through the air, but also released a calm on the room. The mad panic before this moment was gone. And now I knew. Against the wall, I took out my notebook and made those final notes. My next question revolved around the cover up. The media always made it look so easy. Breaking Bad used acid and a bath tub, Little Shop of Horrors used an axe and plant, Pulp Fiction used the boot of a car and a car crusher. I figured I’d try a combination of all three. And so, blood-tainted notebook away, pen in my pocket, and axe rummaged from my backpack, I took my time, ensuring to notice every detail. The grinding of bone, the ease of the flesh, the amount of blood. Quite frankly, I wasn’t prepared. There wasn’t just the visual trauma of what I was doing, but the smell was offensive to my senses, and the blood was starting to stain my shoes. I controlled my shaking, but it wasn’t long before the vomiting ensued, adding to the stench and the mess. This was too much. The axe wasn’t working, and yet again the movies were failing me. I couldn’t be this inaccurate. I wish I had thought to bring the acid, but my inexperience was holding me back. And so, back of the boot it is. Driving down the drive, I was frightfully aware of the thumping around coming from the back, and the rolling around. I could only imagine the mess in the back of the boot when it occurred to me I’d need to work that step out next: cleaning away the evidence. This research was getting increasingly difficult. But it would be worth it for the most authentic piece I’d ever written. For years I’d been fighting for that Pulitzer, or National Book Award, and each year I’d sell a handful of copies and wallow in my failure. Not this year. I’d blow them away with my accuracy; a thriller written from experience. I’d chosen her. I’d followed all the cliches and watched her loneliness, her isolation, and I’d pounced at the right time of day. Interestingly, not under the guise of darkness, but middle of the day. People notice you at night. During the day you’re invisible. Even to your victim, you’re invisible. Noticing her neighbour’s indifference to the shouting and screaming usually coming from her flat, I knew they’d ignore them today, too. And I wasn’t wrong. I’m not convinced they’ll ignore the patch of blood seeping through their ceiling right now, but I’d checked the cameras, and not one was working. A man with a duffel bag, in a run down estate, isn’t that suspicious either. I reckon I must’ve passed three men carrying the same bag on my way out. This was it. I was nearly done, after pulling up to an old woods, five towns over. Five was my lucky number. I’d almost say it is still my lucky number, except for the number of rejection letters I’d received. But for this day, five would work. I dumped her body parts: a forearm here, an elbow there. Really, I’d only manage to break the arm apart... the rest of her was going to be harder to dispose of. But by the time she was found, I hoped the animals would work their way through the rest of her. I’d be sure to add in a paragraph or two about the complexity of hiding an armless body. When all was done, I dug out my notebook to update my notes, before making the journey home to wash up. I felt disgusting. After opening the door to my flat (I made sure to deadlock it) I went straight to my desk, coated in blood, sweat, mud and who knows what else. I reached for my pen, and tried to make sense of my notes, ready to write my masterpiece. After all this time, I was about to make it. I was going to be a literary genius. Just you watch.