A/N: This is the first time I've ever really attempted a first person narrative so I hope this is okay, reviews are welcome as always. Eden x
Disclaimer: I don't own New Tricks.
Covering Tracks
I remain concealed behind the greying curtain, its musty scent filling my nostrils as I nervously peer out through the grimy window, casting a glance across the street below. I really should replace them, the curtains. In fact I should have replaced them years ago. But I've had other things on my mind. Things that have resurfaced again recently, with the appearance of that blonde bitch and her team of geriatric old coppers, sniffing around the place, digging up the past. Just as I thought it was all over. Just as I thought I was safe.
I make sure her car has disappeared down the road, waiting until I can no longer hear the purr of the engine. Then I begin to cover my tracks. I'm surprised at how calm I am; still, I suppose I've grown used to the thought by now, so much so that it's almost become a part of who I am. I murdered someone. I am a murderer. But I got away with it, and that's all that matters.
The first things to go are the photographs of us together; creased, dog-eared and smudged with fingerprints, yet still precious, still portraying happy times. Somehow I'd managed to hold on to them, unable to bear throwing them away. Until now, at least. Things have changed. So thank god for shredders. Next it was your letter, the last one you ever wrote. Begging me to leave you alone, to let you get on with your life. I used to think it smelt of your perfume, some small consolation from its bitter words. It probably did, once upon a time. But now it just smells of damp, a souvenir of how much time has passed. Again, it meets its end in the shredder.
I continue with this process all afternoon, on and off. Looking through old boxes, wondering which of your possessions would be considered unusual for me to still have, all these years later. Eventually I complete the task, put everything into a black bin bag, tie it securely, put it into the large waste bins at the back of the tower block where I live. All in the knowledge that the bins will be emptied tomorrow, and all these things, this evidence, will be lost forever. I should feel sad, I suppose, at the loss of all these sentimental items, reminders from a time when we loved each other. Or at least a time when we were together. I'm not sure you ever loved me, and that was why I did it, in the end.
But truth be told, I'm not sad. Or happy, for that matter. I don't feel anything. I'm just doing what I can to survive, and that's all I can do. Because I am a murderer, and I got away with it. And I need to make sure it stays that way.