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.