mea máxima culpa

It rained today. A lot. I sat in my room and got to thinking about the things I've done and the things I plan to do in the years ahead. Suddenly my thoughts were clouded by a memory, which now seems very distant, almost as if it never happened.

I killed Nadia Joseph. Calling the authorities will be pointless. They won't find anything. I've spent years thinking over every detail.

I can still see it vividly-  breathing her last few, painful, breaths. Her eyes look so un-Nadia- like. Cold, dim, fixed on a distant vision of the forgotten past-on a regret.

We were seven when we first met- Nadia and I. I knew then that one day she would die and that it would be me who would kill her. Her family had moved in into the next apartment. I was on the swing trying to touch the leaves of the low branch hanging over the swing with my feet.  Nadia, wearing a yellow bib dress and flip flops runs down with her locks flowing like a cape behind her. Without a word, she grabs my arm, pulls me off the swing, sits on the swing and swings higher and higher in a mysterious bliss, which I was not a part of. I stared at her, dumbfounded. She tossed back her hair, flashed the first of many gorgeous smiles I’d learn to loathe, and went higher with her toes stretched to touch the wet leaves I had set my eyes on.

I began to plot her death.  I thought it noble and poetic to use my own bare hands, the very ones she grabbed that day and fixed the venue in the park by the swing. It was months later when I actually made an attempt. It was late evening and we were playing in the park. She was excitedly talking about the presents she got for her birthday last night. I could not bear the ring in her voice, the aura around her and that wretched incredible smile. 

Without much conscious efforts, I pushed her hard from the back. She fell, face down. I ran quickly and smothered her face harder into the soil. Her socked feet  flailing, and hands trying to grab on to something- maybe to life- encouraged me. A few moments passed, she went limp. I turned her around. She lay there with her dress muddy and her face smeared with dirt.  I cleaned her face. It was beautiful. Ran my fingers over her brows and kissed her forehead.

I could have sworn she smiled.