Tonight is the night I have died.
Yet,, I still live.
The money in my hand turns to blood as I pass it to the chef. I jump back in fear as she takes it from me, and sticks it into her fancy cash register. Maybe she is going to use this blood as evidence against me and my crime. But now as I look into her face, I see that she is confused by my outburst. Maybe she didn't see the change turn from cash to blood. The kind and confused lady goes to her stove, turns it on, then places a pan on top of the fire. She walks to her refrigerator and grabs out what looks like potatoes. As if magic had happened, no witchcraft was it, the potatoes turned to bones. Bones of the boy I killed. He was innocent enough, just holding a few dollars. Those few dollars I needed for food. If he hadn't been there, I would have starved to death. A real death. Death would have saved me from guilt. As the chef hands me my food, waiting for me to take it, I look into her eyes. She is innocent, too, and doesn't know what I did. Before I can even think, I run out into the streets before she sees my fear. I've confessed without using words. But no judge is declaring me guilty.
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