Mirage

Z. G. Proce

            The flashing of police lights blinded me in their repetitious onslaught. I tilted down my fedora to block the light as I knelt in a shallow puddle of rain and automobile bile. The narrow alleyway made me claustrophobic as I tried to concentrate on the pale corpse laying before me rather than the tightly packed buildings and crowds of police and onlookers. I desperately sucked at the cigarette in my mouth and let out the smoke in a pleasurable sigh of relief as the rush of nicotine calmed my spins. A bright flash from a journalist photographer finally snapped me back to the dead woman with the bullet wound through her neck. I licked my lips habitually as I lightly took her chin and turned her head over, noting the exit of the bullet hole.