Maroon Bedspread

The greasy motel clerk happily swiped my cash into the drawer and almost forgot to give me my key.

I’d arrived in some train station in some muggy town, where I feared I stuck out like a sore thumb. The room had a tiny TV, which I avoided turning on as long as I could, but the boredom soon won out.

Local news said nothing about a missing teenage boy from New Jersey. I relaxed. The maroon bedspread smelled like cheap flowery detergent, and having seen those blacklight demonstrations, I wasn’t about to undress, even if the room was a bit sticky.

Uncomfortable, I dozed off. My car, I was in my car, mint condition cherry red BMW X6, and it crashed, and I was out of my car, and she was bleeding from her head, my real sister, and her eyes opened and she yelled, “You killed me!”

I woke up. My shirt clung to me with sweat, choking me. Panting, I rolled to my feet and shuffled to the bathroom sink. The cool water felt less than refreshing as I looked at myself in the mirror.

I was a murderer.

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