My name is Andrew Chester. I am an architect from California, living in New Mexico. I am thirty-four years old, and I live alone. Two weeks ago, I killed someone, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. I am writing this now with the sincere hope that it will never, ever be read. By anyone. Ever. This is pure catharsis. In fact, should I manage to relate my account of events to conclusion, I intend to immediately delete and destroy every shred of its existence. Digital and hand-written. There will be no evidence that what I am about to recount ever actually happened. You will quickly learn what I mean by that last statement.

Before you read any further, I want you to remember one very important thing: everything that happens in this recounting of events is my memory of how it happened. I’m not saying it didn’t happen like this, but given that I am still a free man, a fortnight after it happened, perhaps I am misremembering something?

The reason I have been unable to stop thinking about what I did is, likely, not what you think. Should you ever find yourself in the same unenviable position of having taken a life, I would like to think that such an event would stick with you as it has with me. For you, though I am confident in my assumption that the main reason this hypothetical life-taking would continue to play on your mind is regret.

For me though, regret does not factor into it. Not one bit.

Perhaps it would be easier if I were to follow this up by eliminating the other reasons that do not factor into my preoccupation with the life that I took 14 days ago. These other reasons include, but are not limited to, sadness, my relationship (or lack thereof) to the person whom I killed, the way I killed said person, the repercussions of my actions and what these mean for me and my future.

Which does not leave a lot now, does it? No, the reason I cannot stop thinking about this act of killing, this act of taking the life of another human person, of robbing this person of not just what they were, but what they could have been, is simple actually. The reason is that I took nothing but enjoyment from this act.

I have no doubt that you have many superficial questions for me right now and, whilst I appreciate and completely understand why you would have such questions, I do not feel that they are at all, in any way, relevant to what I am attempting to convey with this confession. Only, it isn’t really a confession now is it? Not if I have no intention of this ever seeing a pair of eyes other than my own. So, in that respect, these superficial questions are mine and mine alone. They are what I would ask me, if I were an outsider reading this account. They are details that, were this just a story and not a purgative disclosure, would need to be included. For context if nothing else.

And so how did I come to take a life that wasn’t mine to take? Well, it started innocently enough. As these things often do. (Do they?) As I explained in my opening paragraph, I am an architect living in New Mexico. I work from an office in Santa Fe, which a lot of people do not realise is the capital of New Mexico. Not to mention its cultural centre, for what it’s worth. Most people are aware of Roswell, New Mexico, where the aliens are allegedly housed, as well Albuquerque, New Mexico, probably because of Bugs Bunny cartoons and the television show Breaking Bad. My life is nothing like either of those. I live in the town of Tesuque, a suburb of Santa Fe. It is a well-to-do suburb. I am proud of the life I have built for myself. I have worked hard to get where I am.

I take the US-84 E to and from work each weekday. It is a 40-minute round trip, give or take. During the drive, I enjoy listening to podcasts. True crime is my genre of choice. I never anticipated that I could realistically be the subject of such a podcast one day. Let’s hope it never comes to that. I won’t let it.

Two days ago, on my drive home from work, I passed a stationary car on the side of the highway. It was late, after 9 o’clock at night, and so it was already dark. The car was stationary, but it was not parked. The only reason I was able to see it was because it still had its lights on. I did not immediately pull over, it just didn’t seem like a good idea, but as I got further and further away, I noticed that the car remained in place, headlights on, and a part of me, a very small voice that I was not used to hearing, thought ‘Andrew, you need to go help that person.’

Now I’ll admit, this wasn’t exactly “on brand” for me. I am not a complete arsehole, but I’m not exactly someone who goes out of his way to help people. Particularly when it could mean putting myself in danger. But I did it. I slowed down and at the very next opportunity, I turned around to return to the unmoving vehicle.

The US-83 E is generally a busy road, however, as luck would have it (good luck or bad luck? I’m still not sure), I hadn’t seen another car for at least 10 minutes. Perhaps that’s why I felt compelled to return to the car? To help because I was the only other person around. The only one that could help.

As I arrived back at the motionless sedan, I made sure to drive past its position on the side of the road then perform a second U-turn so that I could park up behind it. About 200 metres behind it. I did not have a torch on my person, so I made do with the flashlight function on my iPhone. Coupled with the still-functioning lights of the stationary vehicle, it gave me more than enough light to see and assess the situation.

When I reached the driver’s side of the vehicle, I looked through the window to find a completely empty car. There was no driver, there were no passengers. Aside from the fact that the headlights were on, there didn’t even appear to be any evidence that anyone had been using the vehicle recently. If they had then they had taken all their possessions with them. It could be that they had quickly pulled over because they needed to urinate, and were out in the woods somewhere, at that very moment, emptying their bowels, but my gut told me that this wasn’t the case, and instead of waiting 5 or so minutes for someone to return, I decided to search the car.

I tried the driver’s side door, and it was locked, which told me that the other doors would probably be locked too. I couldn’t tell you why, but I really wanted to get into that car, so without even bothering to try the other doors, I started searching for a rock, or something big and heavy enough that I could use to smash one of the windows. I had precisely zero experience in smashing windows with rocks, so I didn’t really know what kind of rock I was looking for, but it didn’t really matter in the end because for the life of me I couldn’t find anything bigger than a pebble on the side of that highway.

My curiosity, my strange compulsion to learn more about the car and whoever had abandoned it on the side of the road soon began to fade away, disappearing completely when a fresh set of headlights appeared on the horizon, giving me quite a shock. The headlights drew closer, but I remained frozen in place, frightened by the prospect of the car pulling over and asking me what was going on. The fact that I had done absolutely nothing wrong, and my understanding of this fact did nothing to lessen my feelings of guilt. It was only after the car with the bright headlights drove right on by at a steady speed that bogus culpability faded, and I returned to my own automobile.

I was all ready to finally complete my trip home after a long, strange day when suddenly, a person, a man, though it was hard to tell, leapt out from behind the car I had just been inspecting. Had they been there, hiding on the other side of the car all along? Needless to say, I was shocked, but that doesn’t account for what happened next. I had already started the engine, released the handbrake, and put the car into drive before I was surprised by the stranger. My foot was resting near but not on the accelerator when they made their presence known. Within three seconds it was firmly on the accelerator and I was holding nothing back. I didn’t need to turn the steering wheel a lot to ensure they were in my path, but I did need to turn it, which I did. Without hesitation, with a sound and clear mind, I ran the stranger down, and I kept on driving.

Now, at the beginning of this pseudo-confession, I said that I had killed a person, and you might be wondering right now, how I know that they are dead given that I didn’t stop to check after I had run them over. The answer, of course, is that I do not know. Not for certain. There was nothing on the news and believe me I have been watching and reading the news intently for the past 2 weeks. But I do know. Something inside me is confirming that this person is dead. That their lifeforce is no longer tied to this mortal coil.

I have been driving along the same road every day since the incident, from the very next morning. There was nobody and no car where both should have been. I thought that odd, but that’s all the thought I gave it and continue to give it as I drive to and from work.

And that’s it. That is the end of my recounting of the event. The end of my statement. I have written this exactly as I remember it happening and I will now destroy this file so that no one ever reads it. Eventually, I will forget that it exists, just as I will forget that what I wrote about even happened in the first place.

The End

James Farish-Carradice