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.