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.)