My dirt caked hands felt cleaner than the dusty corners of my soul that lay rotting in the grass. The sun would be up soon, the detectives prowling near my corpse like a pack of apathetic, meddlesome vultures. And I would be dead.

I didn’t mind the idea of death, I really didn’t. I remember thinking I wouldn’t really mind if my death was in a week. Not because I don’t like living, but more because it meant I wouldn’t have to go back to the sludge of post-holiday work, driving the kids to Jonathan’s every two weekends while we make awkward small talk instead of the usual fights and his girlfriend glared at me between cigarette puffs.

I had watched one of those true crime specials a week ago, to get my mind off of all of this. It was one of those brutal ones where there’s no motive in sight, but sure as hell a group of unsuspecting, young, and now dismembered victims, and a suspect who has no capability to feel emotion. That wouldn’t be these detective’s suspect. No, this was a crime of passion alright.

But that’s what the problem was. He didn’t do it right. See, to anyone else, a body rotting on a damn forest floor in January is just depressing. There’s no emotion to it. Jonathan would never be caught. And that’s what haunted me most as soft light began to penetrate the shallow mist, and sirens drew closer, though faded low in my ears.