Uh-oh

There were stubs of her lilac cigarettes in the green and red ashtray.  She sat with her head in her hands. How could she do this? She hated him, alright, and he had threatened her, but still, how could she do what she’d done?

The chisel still lay beside him, the blood on it caking into a maroon crust. There were drops of dried white paint on its handle from opening the paint can the previous night.

When she’d driven the chisel into his neck, the spray of blood had nearly blinded her. She’d washed her eyes in the kitchen sink. It’d been the first time she’d had blood in them, and she’d realized that it made them burn the same way as soap does.

She was surprised she'd actually killed him with a chisel. She  must have ruptured a carotid artery there, otherwise he wouldn't have died.

She didn't know what to do with the body. She was sorry that it’d happened, but something had to be done, now that there was no going back in time; nothing with which she could erase what’d happened.

She lived on the fifth storey of an apartment building. There was no way she could take the man down and give him anything like a burial. There was security at the gate 24x7, and she couldn’t take any chances. She had enough of her own mess to deal with.

She took a deep breath. There was no other way out. She got six garbage bags, the biggest knives in her kitchen- boning knives and cleavers, and invoked the spirit of Dexter Morgan.

*

P.S. I wrote it as a part of a getting- into-the-writing –mode exercise. I was given the three things in the picture (the thing in between is an eraser, just in case you’re wondering), and I had to come up with a story in fifteen minutes. This is what I came up with.