The steaming yellow-ish soup in front of me and all I could think about is the next day. The last day. The meal looked acceptable. I wonder how long it took them to make. How fresh it was. If they knew who it was for. The soup tasted awful. After a couple of spoonfuls my brain started to play tricks on me. The soup's consistency changed from watery to thick, the taste from stale to metallic, and for a second I could have sworn the color changed too. My mind was still haunting me. After all this time in confinement one would assume to have gone insane. Thing is, I wasn’t. I was the only one clear enough to realize what had really happened back then.
It wasn’t me, wasn’t me, I kept saying. No one believed me. Even the dog was scared of me after she was murdered. I wasn’t even home when it happened. And to think I could have ever done such a thing to anyone, let alone my own wife. I couldn’t blame them, the evidence was stacked against me. Fingerprints and multiple eyewitnesses identifying the killer as none other than myself surely made for a damn clear case. I never liked the neighbours that spoke out against me anyways. Those motherfuckers can rot in hell.
All I knew was that I was away that day, as I had been the week before the murder took place. I never forgot her crying face, yelling at me and suddenly breaking out in tears as I left. A break is what we needed. I hadn’t planned on coming back for a few weeks, but I couldn’t help it, I loved her so much. When I arrived at home the cops were already prepared to sack me. What a horrible day that was. What a nightmare.
As I went to sleep that night, I wished for it to be over. This horrible nightmare. Hopefully I would wake up the next day, see her beautiful smile, and enjoy a nice plate of her homemade pumpkin soup.