With some effort he took control of himself and tried to analyse the situation he was in. Only thing that could link him with the murder was the kitchen knife. It possibly had his finger prints.
Their marriage had gone wrong even before it was solemnized. He had been forced by the parents to marry a girl of their choice; the girl he loved was from a different community.
Almost from the beginning, they had been berating each other on any and every matter. Soon their squabbles became frequent and nasty.
That morning he had foolishly brandished a kitchen knife at his wife, not knowing that, later in the day, she would be stabbed by the same knife.
Police would treat him as the prime suspect and his finger prints on the knife would be the clinching evidence. He decided to dispose of the knife before calling the police.
He was about to touch the knife when he stepped on a patch of blood splattered on the floor. His heart began to thump madly.
“Why was I careless? Now I will have to dispose of this shoe also.”
He regained his composure; found a rubber glove and wore it. But next moment fear began to rise in his stomach. The lights were on and he had forgotten to draw the window curtains. He cursed himself and hurriedly drew the curtains.
He approached the body, taking care not to step on the blood splattered on floor. He took hold of the knife softly, as if it was a piece of rare jewellery, and tried to slowly pull it out of the body.
He froze in terror; the wife had let out a faint, almost inaudible, moan.
“She is not dead?”
An insane frustration arose deep within him; he wanted to push the knife harder in her chest.
His eyes were burning when he called the police.
A post for A to Z April (2015) Challenge.
K for Kitchen Knife
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