I felt like an empty vacuum, caskeeted and veneered in an emphatic misery— my life and every other feeling inside of me— was beaming in death while I was still breathing. My handcuffed hands, weakened and exhausted, rested on the table in front of the Inspector of police, who was asking me to think twice about the statement I was going to make. My lawyer, Esq Belmore had asked that he wanted to have some few conversations with me before I made the statement that I killed Haja. He told the police that I wasn’t in the best state of mind to make a statement. I was swinging my head from end to end, tightening my grip, feeling overweight. In stillness , I murmured with the words, “I killed her. I did push her. She bled and died.”
“She was my world, and everything about me evolves around her. Why is fate so unfair and distrustful?”
I hit my head on the table, scraping my bared head with my slender fingers. I was grieving as much as I was dying.
“Calm down. This is your life at stake. You can’t just ruin your life like this. Tell me what really happened,” Belmore asked.
“I killed her. I murdered her. I pushed her— and she— died.” I confirmed.
“Stop this! You didn’t kill her. Tell the police it happened by accident,” Belmore tried to convince me, but what was left in me, rather than death, something I was craving for— emotional death. What kind of a hope was left in me? Nothing.
To give yourself a second chance, to live a life in guilt throughout your human existence, to murder somebody who meant so much to you and go Court free? These were imposibilities— rigid impossibilities— accompanied by harsh, flaking agony. I bellowed the weight of my crime on my shoulders: I was ready to face the law— the wrath of the law; an investigative journalist murders fiancé. Not a shame, but a trending news. A journalist who reported the news, then became the news. I was on the front pages of all the tabloids. I was widely spoken about. I was everywhere on people’s laptop, on people’s phones— everywhere that news could travel to. My bold picture, was on a front page of the Deep-Throat Newspaper, with the caption, “INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST IN MURDER ALLEGATIONS.”
And, there was a picture of the deceased, pasted beside me. I fretted, greyed and I jumbled the paper while screaming out loud in the detention room. My voice, one that was gentle and guffy when asking investigative questions, was sad, completely conquered by self-defeat.
I remained erotic in the face of journalism, I crumbled off the rank of professional journalism— the very moment my face appeared on the front pages of tabloids. Politicians, businessmen, who had for long wanted to get rid of me, would pursue this case to bring me down. It could be seen in the way the media was lashing at me, digging-out, and paddling furiously at me. Most of the stories, were judgemental, subjective and yellowing. Then, I knew, life in its infinite gesture, was a “taste-and-leave” thing, an ungrateful nature. I knew that even my profession, the one which I’d mastered so well for twenty-seven years, was stabbing me. The name of the newspaper I was working for, was dragged into my crime. You won’t know how cunning the media can be until you choose to be a part of it. The media, in their competitiveness to be the best, can do anything to achieve that feat. I was the antagonist, a villain, servile to murder. I was a freaking journalist, a wrong example to society. Nobody and no journalists became critical in publishing my story. Commentaries and Editorials, written by seasoned journalists, those I’d won awards over, were displaying their vengeance, scalding me with scathing adjectives to present me in a low-light to the public. The media is capable of anything. I mourned my helpless woe, I scrambled for strength— love for murder both juxtaposed to bring me down.
I cried. I died and I really did die everyday and every night.

© mohamedDk@Allahuakbarr