I squeezed the trigger and fired four times.  Four bullets.

Two in the belly, and the other in the head.

When I broke down the bathroom door the face of

the woman I’d just killed kept its look of surprise —

big, round eyes and grotesquely contorted mouth.  I remember the

look in her eyes.   I recoiled with panicked shock and

horror.  When you kill someone, there’s a part of you

that immediately starts devising an explanation, making up an alibi,

putting together a version of the facts that washes your

hands clean, even though they smell of gunpowder and sweat.


Paraphrases from the novel The Meursault Investigation by Kamel Daoud.