It all started when the courts realised they could resurrect people to stand trial. Murder-suicide was no longer an option. They’d just bring you back and put you in jail anyway. Of course, they could have brought the victims back as well, but the justice system found that too confusing to bring to trial.
With me, though, things were a little more difficult. Typical.
“Where were you on the night of the 26th of July?” Detective Roundbelly asked. He did tell me his name, but I forgot it almost right away. Short term memory takes a while to boot back up when you’ve been brought back from the dead.
“At home,” I said. “Making dinner.”
“Alone?” Detective Flatnose leaned in. He smelled like burgers. It made me retch.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You think so?” Roundbelly jumped in again. “How can you not know?”
“Well,” I began, trying to remember the night. It was all a bit fuzzy. “I thought I was alone, but then someone killed me. So I guess I wasn’t.”
“And did you see the assailant?” Flatnose asked.
“So there were no witnesses?” Roundbelly again.
“Only me. I distinctly remember being stabbed. That tends to kind of stick with you.” I rubbed my chest. The mortician had stitched everything up, but I could feel the pointy stitches through my shirt.
“So you can’t prove, therefore,” Roundbelly continued, “that you didn’t just stab yourself?”
“Why would I stab myself?”
“Why does anybody stab anyone? Hmm? We’re not here for the why, boy, just the who.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, it wasn’t me.”
Flatnose moved in again. “Home alone. All doors locked. No witnesses. And the victim’s blood on your hands.”
“I’m the victim,” I exasperated. “And I’d just been stabbed. Of course my blood was on my hands.”
“You admit it then!”
“Admit what? I didn’t stab myself.”
“Murder is a serious crime, son. You could go away for a long time for this,” Roundbelly said, crossing his pudgy arms. “Make things easier on yourself and just come clean.”
“There’s no use denying it,” Flatnose added. “The body gave us all the evidence we need.”
I looked down at myself, lips pursing as I considered my next words. “What body?” I asked, causing both detectives to straighten and lift their eyebrows. Hiding my tugging smile, I continued, “I mean, in order to charge someone of murder, you need a body, right? Except, as far as I can tell, your murder victim is sitting here, very much alive, having a very alive conversation. I mean, you can’t really charge someone for murder, when no one’s actually dead.”
The detectives exchanged looks, and I swore I saw Roundbelly’s stomach deflate a little.
“He’s got a point,” Flatnose admitted.
“Shhh!” Roundbelly waved him off and massaged his lumpy chin in thought. After a moment, he huffed. “This is why we should never resurrect victims.”
“Gentlemen, I hate to be a bother, but I have rather a lot of living to get back to, if you don’t mind.” I stood up and edged my way around the detectives, giving them a brief salute from the door as I left.
My chuckle lasted until I got home. Going into the kitchen, I pulled a knife out of the block, and rubbed my stitches again. Now that I knew where to strike for the most impact, it was time to try this out on someone else. Identification wouldn’t be an issue. They never resurrected victims.
FlashFictionMonth day 26
Prompt: You are the primary suspect in the case of murdering yourself.