Every time I stepped on the hose, water would trail out of the nozzle in little burps, gurgling over the rim before retreating back into the green pipe.
Turned off at the outside tap, the spent spray flowed to the street, carrying debris and blood into the gutter. The yard, still soft from the storm the night before, was spongy from the extra moisture. I would have to dispose of my shoes, soaked through to my socks, they were ruined. A casualty I regretted. They were my most comfortable pair.
Despite my gloves, I could feel my fingers starting to wrinkle from where the water had splashed over the cuffs. It didn’t matter, they had done their job of protecting my identity.
Leaving the body wasn’t a problem either, all evidence of the violence washed off, the only tell-tale sign being the gaping hole in his forehead.
Careful to not get my pants wet, I squatted by his body, inspecting my handiwork. I flung the weapon, an aluminum ball bat, across the yard. I could have stared at the wound longer, but I heard sirens. I didn’t have much time.
Leaving by the back gate, I focused on walking slowly, just out for an evening stroll. At the corner, I waited for the patrol cars to pass before crossing the street. I fought the urge to turn around to watch the police descend on his house, and just kept walking, putting as much distance between us as possible.
Two blocks down at the next intersection, I began to relax and started whistling a tune, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Trail [verb \ˈtrāl\] 3: to move, flow, or extend slowly in thin streams