Guilty by Kindness (780 words)

 

I sank to my knees in the dock the moment the foreman of the jury uttered the words: “Guilty of murder.”

The rest — the judge condemning me to life imprisonment — feels like a blur now, except for one thing: the wicked smile on the face of my accuser as I was led out of the courtroom by policemen.

I will truthfully narrate what happened on that fateful evening and leave it to you to judge my innocence or guilt.

 I was new to that city, having arrived just the day before in search of a job and a place to stay. I wandered through countless business establishments, knocking on doors and meeting little success, until exhaustion forced me to rest on a park bench.

 I noticed a middle-aged man sitting adjacent, his face clouded with worry, muttering to himself. It was obvious some deep fear weighed him down.

Though I was in no better condition, I tried to lift his spirits, saying,

“The day is beautiful, and the sun is setting in all its crimson glory. Cheer up, my friend. Lighten your heart by sharing with me what troubles you.”

He looked at me, eyes heavy with sorrow.

“I lost my wife two days ago,” he said. “Her memories keep haunting me.”

“I’m deeply sorry,” I replied. “Was she ailing?”

“No,” he said. “It was an accident. Come with me to my house across the road — I would need a little help.”

I followed him across to a large house with a portico. He led me through a dimly lit hall and seated me on a chair beside a small dining table. He brought from the fridge a can of Coke and handed it to me.

“I need your help carrying a large box to my car. It’s too heavy for me alone. I have to deliver it today. I’ll fetch the car and be back in a few minutes. Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said before disappearing outside.

The air inside was stale, and a strange, unsettling smell hung heavy.

I shifted uneasily in the chair, sipping the Coke. As I moved my foot, something sticky clung to the sole of my shoe. Curious, I bent down — only to discover a thick trail of blood leading toward the box he had mentioned.

Dread gnawed at me. Cautiously, I approached the box and lifted the lid.

Inside lay the body of a young woman, her torso riddled with stab wounds, a knife still embedded deep within her chest. She was unmistakably dead.

Horrified, I quickly shut the lid and returned shakily to my chair.

Panic urged me to flee, but just then, I heard a car pull up outside. The man strode back in, smiling faintly.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said.

Trying to steady my voice, I asked,

“You said your wife had an accident. Was she run over? Did she fall? How exactly did she die?”

At once, his face twisted in fury. His eyes bulged as he shouted,

“Why are you asking such questions?”

“Just wondering,” I said, forcing calm into my trembling voice. “You mentioned an accident — I was curious.”

“You opened the box, didn’t you?” he barked. “I see your slimy trail of blood leading straight to it. Answer me — yes or no! Still, you ask if she fell or was run over? I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me the truth!”

Fear surged in me. I darted a glance around for an escape route.

Luckily, the door was ajar.

I bolted for it, sprinting across the yard with the enraged man in hot pursuit. My heart thundered in my ears; my legs barely obeyed me.

Fortune smiled upon me when I stumbled into the arms of two policemen standing not far.

But fate, it seemed, had already sealed my doom.

The man claimed he had never met me before and that I had trespassed into his home with criminal intent.

The bloodstains on my shoes, the fingerprints I had unknowingly left on the box and furniture — all of it was damning evidence.

My plea that he brought me to his house for a small help was ignored against his staunch denial.

They said I murdered the woman for money and concealed her body while her husband was away at work.

The real murderer — that cunning husband — had craftily pinned the crime on me.

My only mistake had been my naïve willingness to help a stranger.

To the police, it was an open-and-shut case — no extenuating circumstances, no alibi, no mercy.

And so, with cruel irony, I have found the shelter and food I so desperately sought — behind cold, unyielding prison walls.