The Lakeshore Murder

It was Saturday night, or very early Sunday morning. It was a warm night, and the moon shone down, reflecting off the ripples on the water. Michael Kennedy weaved his way drunkenly along the mossy path, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused in their sockets. Shadows loomed out at him from behind every tree, as the world spun nauseatingly. One pale hand reached into his jacket, fingers gripping the handle of a flick knife. Another shape appeared in the corner of his eye; a branch’s shadow, and he lunged, the blade flicking up and a stream of spittle flying out of his mouth. Moonlight made the blade shine, and reflected in it was the crazed blue eye of Michael, pupil dilated to a pin prick. Alcohol and drug toxins were mixing in his blood stream, combining to be what would become, without a doubt, the worst trip of his life.1

A stream of swear words escaped his open mouth, slurred together and incomprehensible. He continued on his erratic path, his eyes now darting around, seeing monsters and murderers everywhere. Hazily he made out four figures coming towards him that looked more human than the rest. They were approaching fast, legs moving together and arms held tensely by their sides. As they came closer they became clearer, outlines no longer so blurred. Now there were only two, standing in-between where the four had been just a second ago. Michael stopped still to watch them approaching, mouth still gaping, sweaty palm still wrapped tight around the knife. The men, for now he could see they were male, were moving closer together until their shoulders were touching, they were merging; they were one and bringing a hand clutching a large knife up… Almost too late Michael reacted, slashing at the man’s face with his own knife. The blow was clumsy, but it still caught the man across the right cheek, entered his mouth and sliced open his left cheek. Warm blood cascaded down the man’s neck, soaking his shirt. Doubling up the man yelled with pain, clutching his face. The cry was hoarse and animal, echoing around the empty lakeside. Michael staggered backwards, reeling, tripping over a fallen branch. Blood ran down his sleeve from the still raised knife in his hand, and he stared at it, not knowing what it was he was seeing.2

The man drew one long, rattling breath, then straightened. His slit cheek seemed to flap in the breeze, his mouth suddenly twice the size it should have been. Michael, terrified, dropped his knife, put both hands on the ground and shuffled frantically backwards, struggling to stand. He even ignored the piece of broken bottle that cut his hand, too intent on his attacker. The man charged, grasping Michael’s brown hair and pulling him upwards. This time the blade made contact, entering the soft stomach then forced upwards, under the ribs. Michael slumped forwards, and the man took his weight for a second, then heaved him over into the lake. In the last seconds of life, hyperventilating from his fear, Michael’s lungs soon took in all they water they needed to drown, but he was already dead. Emptied of all air; buoyancy gone like the beat of the heart; the corpse sunk lazily. 3

Above on dry ground the murderer, his job done, picked up the flick knife and pocketed it. Casually he walked off, wincing at the pain from his mouth; tomorrow he would have to get stitches. Heavy rainy drops started to pelt down from the sky, washing away the smears and puddles of blood. They would be gone by morning, leaving only tranquil eerie silence. At the bottom of the lake, the fishes had begun their meal.4