The naked body rests half-in-half-out of the bathtub; its back perched at an unnatural angle over the tiled rim. His eyes are still open in terror and his hand is outstretched towards the door. There are no clues as to how he was murdered; I have checked and rechecked every inch of his pale, somewhat waterlogged corpse. No marks, no blood, no disfigurations. Nothing. This realization brings a smile to my lips. Of course, until I notice they’re staring at me. Those men in their crisp, clean uniforms—I've always loved a man in uniform. They stare at me expectantly, waiting for some sort of confession. I glance down at my hands, which tremble slightly. Then I clear my throat and say, “I didn't kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at.” But I can still feel their eyes on me, looking me up and down. Not that I mind their attention one bit; I've been through this time and time again.
(A little background: This is just a short piece I wrote for my Creative Writing class. We were asked to write a paragraph in the first person where the character telling the story makes you think they're lying. Enjoy.)