Killing Me Softly

Date: 12/3/2025

I’m dusting the antique cabinet, my feather duster brushing in soft, rhythmic strokes as I hum “Killing Me Softly” It’s absurdly cheerful for a song about murder, but it fits the tempo of the morning. The tune lilts through the room as lightly as the dust I’m whisking away. I’m thorough — painfully thorough. I get into the grooves, under the handles, around the hinges. Collecting every particle as if each speck holds a secret I must hide again. A swirl of dust catches in my throat — I sneeze so violently the scene dissolves, scattering like fine ash on the wind. Now I’m in the car with Mat. My humming lingers, faint as an echo, beneath the soundscape of his usual effing and jeffing. He’s on top form: “Learn to drive, you half-baked carrot cake!” “Indicate, you waffle-brained ferret!” “Move it, you indecisive llama-faced lemon!” I give a polite little nod of sympathy, mostly to myself. Then we pass him — a man in a ditch. His body convulses violently, limbs jerking like he’s being electrocuted from inside. His eyes flick open for a moment, and I swear… I swear he’s looking at me. Mat’s thundercloud demeanor deflates. He slams the brake and leaps out of the car with a sudden burst of compassion that feels almost alien. “We’ve got to help him!” he shouts, voice cracking with earnest fear. I shrug, unbothered. “I’m popping into the pub. It’s right there.” Typical timing: nearly-dead man outside, convenient tavern next door. The universe has a sense of humour. The pub is dingy, damp, and has the vibe of a place where good hygiene goes to die. As I enter, every face swivels towards me. The chatter dies so abruptly it’s as if someone pressed pause on humanity. I offer a tentative, “Hi.” No response. They just turn back to their pints and pointless conversations. The air is heavy with suspicion. Or maybe that’s cigarette smoke. Hard to tell. My cousin breezes in moments later. The atmosphere changes instantly, like someone opened a window and let friendliness in. “I’ve got a job interview,” she announces to the barman. He beams at her like she’s made of sunshine. “Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you!” He did not beam at me. He looked at me as if I'd dragged mud in. Or blood. Or something worse. I wave, trying to catch her eye. She skips the pleasantries and gets right to it: “Can you pick my son up from nursery later?” “Sure,” I say, because I’m apparently the family doormat. Then Mat bursts through the door and the pub erupts into applause. Cheers. Back slaps. A hero’s welcome. The barman slides him a free drink. A woman drapes herself over him, purring praise into his neck. “You’re such a hero.” Jealousy rises in me like acid reflux with claws. Her smile is a silent, smug blade. “I’m going,” I snap, slamming the door behind me. But — of course — I barrel back in seconds later. “Have you got the car key?” Mat tosses them to me, quick, dismissive. The woman practically folds herself in his lap, arms around his neck, faces inches apart. I slam the door again, harder, and march to the car with a storm crackling through my bones. “That bitch!” I scream, slapping the wheel. “What are you looking at?” I snap at the empty passenger seat. No answer, of course. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the ditch man again — still lying there. Forgotten. A discarded marionette. Everyone inside praising Mat, and here the man is… left to fester. I’m so distracted that — Beeeeeeep. I jolt back to reality. I’m driving up the wrong way on the highway. Of course I am. Barriers trap me on either side. No way to turn around. I’m stuck in my own idiocy, forced to go forwards. Another car blares its horn. I glance over. Graham, from work, leans out his window, his turkey-teeth bulging like a lemon wedge. “I THINK YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!” he cackles. “Thank you for your insight.” I mutter. A car charges straight towards me — And the scene skids sideways as if yanked by God. I’m in a shopping centre with Mum now. She’s gripping a suspicious, bulging bag under her arm, looking shifty in a way she has no right to look — she’s an angel in human skin. “What’s that?” I ask. “Oh, nothing,” she says, overly sweet. She snatches a bottle of wine and slides it into the bag with the effortless swagger of someone who steals recreationally. “Mum… are you stealing?” “Shhh! Run!” Run? Before I can protest, she bolts. I chase after her, my brain refusing to process this break in reality. Mum — my halo-wearing, law-abiding saint — is shoplifting with the reckless confidence of a kleptomaniac teenager. Security shouts. Well — Tom Sweatman from school shouts. He’s shaped like a terrier and equally as intimidating. He jogs after us for all of ten seconds before wheezing, hunched over, living up to his surname. “Go on!” he waves. “Just… go!” We sprint towards a stairwell. The stairs twist endlessly upwards, spiralling like we’re scaling the innards of some celestial giant. Mum starts to slow. Every time I glance back, she’s further behind, shrinking, struggling. “Shall we stop?” I ask. “Yes,” she pants. “I’m not as fit as I used to be.” We sit. The steps crumble beneath us. I drop into a daycare. The smell hits first — fermented nappies, curdled milk, and something organic that probably has a pulse. Layered over is the shrill, nonstop wailing of small children losing their collective grip on reality. “Smells lovely in here,” one mum chirps. “Really?” I say. “It smells like shit.” A daycare worker bounces towards me like an overexcited puppy. “Staying for playdoh?” I side-eye a group of kids kneading something brown and soft and absolutely NOT playdoh. “Hard pass.” I say. The floor drops open beneath me. And suddenly — I’m back. Back in the quiet of the room. Back with the antique cabinet. Back with my feather duster. Still humming “Killing Me Softly.” Only now the hum sounds wrong. Too cheerful. Too familiar. Too rehearsed. There’s a smear on the cabinet’s glass. Brownish. Muddy. Or… not mud. My fingers tremble as I wipe it. And everything clicks into place. The scenes weren’t random. They were rewinding. Dragging me backwards through the night I’ve been trying to erase. The ditch. The twitching. The stares. The smug woman. The trapped motorway. The running. The panic. The dusting. My mind has been playing the story in reverse, unraveling the truth strand by strand. I kneel. Open the cabinet. Inside is the ditch man. Not twitching now. Not convulsing. Not begging silently with his eyes. Just still. Crushed into the dark corner of the cabinet like an unwanted memory. His clothes muddy. His skin grey. His limbs bent unnaturally — the same angle I last saw them in the ditch. Only now I remember why. I dragged him out of sight. I hid him. Shoved him into the cabinet. Panicked. Closed the door. And dusted the evidence away. Softly. So softly. I hum the refrain again — Killing me softly… —and I realise: I wasn’t calming myself. I was confessing to myself. I killed him softly. And I’ve been trying to dust the truth back into silence ever since.