I stood slowly and opened it. At the bottom, shoved behind a stack of old boxes, was a large wheeled suitcase.
Then I pulled it out.
It scraped loudly against the floor, wheels protesting after months of disuse. The thing was bigger than I remembered—hard-shell, black, scuffed along the corners from my parents dragging it through airports. I'd been using it as storage more than anything since I moved into this studio. Living alone meant improvising. Every empty container became a closet.
I unzipped it.
Books. Old textbooks from high school. Notebooks half-filled with abandoned notes. A winter coat I hadn't touched since January. Random cables. A pair of sneakers I'd meant to donate.
I started emptying it onto the bed, onto the desk, onto the floor—anywhere there was space. My movements were rushed but controlled, like if I slowed down too much, I'd start thinking again.
When it was finally empty, I crouched and ran my hand along the interior lining. Fabric. Soft. Absorbent.
I grabbed another roll of trash bags and began lining the inside carefully, pressing the plastic into the corners, folding it along the sides. I double-layered the bottom, then the walls, taping edges down so they wouldn't slip. If anything leaked, it wouldn't seep into the suitcase itself. I couldn't afford that. The suitcase had to look normal. Travel-worn. Nothing more.
When I finished, the inside looked like a crude black cocoon.
I stood up and wiped my hands on my jeans out of habit before remembering the gloves were still on.
The shower.
I walked back into the small bathroom and stared at the wrapped shape crammed inside. For a moment I hesitated, staring at the foggy plastic as if I could see through it.
I steeled myself.
Dragging him out was worse the second time. The plastic caught against the shower lip, and I had to pull harder than before. My arms burned. My lower back screamed. Inch by inch, I maneuvered him back into the bedroom and positioned the suitcase beside him.
This was the part I hadn't let myself fully imagine.
I unzipped the case wide and rolled it onto its side so the opening faced the body.
Lifting him was a nightmare.
His limbs flopped inside the layers of plastic, and every time I tried to angle him toward the opening, an arm or shoulder jammed awkwardly against the suitcase frame. I had to push. Adjust. Force.
At one point his elbow bent the wrong way, and a faint cracking sound came from inside the layers.
I nearly vomited right there.
My stomach lurched violently and I turned my head, breathing through my mouth until the wave passed. My eyes watered. My hands trembled harder.
"Just get it done…"
He wasn't that tall. That was the only thing working in my favor. With enough pressure and angling, I managed to fold his legs slightly, compressing everything inward. Each adjustment felt wrong in a way I couldn't fully process. I avoided looking at the shape too closely. I focused on mechanics. Angles. Space.
Eventually—finally—he fit.
Barely.
The plastic lining crinkled as I pulled the zipper closed, forcing it past the final inch. It resisted, then gave way with a harsh metallic sound.
Silence followed.
I sat down heavily on top of the suitcase, breathing hard, sweat sliding down my temples and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. My entire body felt weak, like I'd run a marathon without training.
For a moment, I stared at the door.
Stupidly.
Part of me expected it to open. Expected Visenya to step in along Rhaenys. Even now, after everything, my mind reached for them.
Maybe I wanted help.
Maybe I just wanted someone else in the room so I didn't feel like the only human left on earth.
Their presence alone would have steadied me. Even their silence would've been something.
But the door stayed closed.
The room stayed empty.
I had never felt this alone in my life.
I turned toward the small window. The sky outside had deepened into evening blue, the city lights beginning to flicker alive below. I checked the time on my phone.
Still too early.
My body, finally crashing after hour of tension, made the decision for me. I lay down on the bed without even taking off the hoodie, staring at the ceiling.
I'll just rest for a minute, I told myself.
When I opened my eyes again, it was dark.
My heart jumped violently as I jerked upright, disoriented for a second before memory slammed back into place. The suitcase. The bathroom. The bleach smell still faint in the air.
I grabbed my phone.
10:07 PM.
I looked around instinctively.
No one had come.
They hadn't returned.
The loneliness hit harder this time because I had briefly hoped otherwise.
I pushed myself off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The overhead light felt too bright as I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto my face. My hands were shaking again. I gripped the edges of the basin until my knuckles turned white.
And then it came.
Not loud.
Just a quiet, choking sound in my throat as everything I'd been holding back finally cracked. Tears slid down without warning. My shoulders trembled as I tried to keep it silent, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek so no one would hear.
For five long minutes, I stood there like that, crying into the sink, water dripping from my chin. The reality of it—of what I had done—finally settling fully into my bones.
I killed him.
I killed someone.
Willingly.
No more detachment. No more planning.
Just truth.
Eventually, the tears slowed. I splashed more water onto my face, into my hair, pushing it back. I looked up at my reflection.
My brown eyes were swollen and darker than usual. The bruising along my cheek stood out more under the harsh light. My expression had changed in a way I couldn't quite name.
Harder.
Emptier.
I inhaled slowly.
Enough.
I grabbed my school backpack and began filling it methodically—lighter, a small bottle of oil from under the sink, matches, anything flammable I could use to destroy the clothes and gloves later. I didn't know if I'd need it, but I refused to go unprepared.
When everything was packed, I dragged the suitcase to the door. It felt heavier now, knowing exactly what was inside.
I opened the door slowly, listening.
Silence.
I stepped into the hallway and closed it behind me as quietly as possible. Hood up. Head down.
The elevator groaned when I pressed the button. The ride felt longer than before. Every mechanical hum sounded like an accusation.
When the doors opened, the lobby was mostly empty. A man sat near the entrance scrolling on his phone. He didn't look up as I passed, pulling the suitcase behind me like any other student heading somewhere late.
Outside, the night air felt colder.
I walked toward the bus stop, wheels rattling softly over cracks in the pavement. No one paid attention. People were too busy with their own lives.
I already knew where I was going.
Earlier, before falling asleep, I'd zoomed in and out of the map until I found a stretch along the Hudson River—farther west, near a section under reconstruction. A dimly lit access area not far from a pedestrian path but shielded by fencing and shadows. Not perfect. Nothing in Manhattan was perfect.
But water was better than dirt.
Water carried things away.
The bus arrived after ten minutes that felt like an hour. I boarded quietly, paid with trembling fingers, and maneuvered the suitcase into the designated area near the back. A few passengers glanced at it, then at me, then away again. Just another kid traveling at night.
The city rolled past outside the window—lit buildings, bridges glowing against the dark sky, traffic flowing endlessly. My reflection stared back faintly from the glass.
When I got off near the river, the air smelled different—cooler, tinged with salt and metal. The path lights were spaced far apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between them.
I walked for nearly an hour, sticking close to the quieter side streets before cutting toward the waterfront. The suitcase wheels thudded over uneven pavement, then smoothed out along the concrete path by the water.
Fewer people now.
Just the occasional jogger. A couple arguing softly near a bench. Someone smoking under a lamppost.
I kept moving.
Eventually, I reached the section I'd seen on the map—a darker area where fencing partially blocked off an old maintenance ramp leading closer to the waterline. One side had a gap wide enough to slip through.
My heart pounded harder as I pulled the suitcase off the main path and toward the shadows.
The river stretched out ahead, black and endless, reflecting fractured city lights.
I stepped closer to the edge, shoes crunching softly over gravel and damp debris, the sound of water lapping quietly against concrete.
I had reached the border of it.
The Hudson stretched wide and black beneath the city lights, the current strong enough to ripple the surface in restless patterns. A low hum from the distant highway blended with the rush of water. No voices nearby. No footsteps. No movement except the wind nudging at my hood.
This was as good as it was going to get.
I scanned the path one more time. Empty in both directions. A cyclist had passed minutes ago, and the nearest lamppost was far enough away that the shadows swallowed most of this section.
I lowered the suitcase to the ground.
The wheels made a soft thud against the gravel, and for a second I just stood there with my hand still gripping the handle. My heart was beating so hard it felt visible, like it might push against my ribs and announce itself to the entire riverbank.
I crouched and unzipped the case.
The metallic sound felt too loud in the quiet night.
When the lid opened, the black plastic lining reflected faint light from the skyline. The shape inside looked smaller now somehow. Compressed. Reduced.
I grabbed the bundled body under the arms—if that's what they still were through the layers—and dragged it toward the edge. It was heavier than I expected, dead weight resisting gravity until gravity took over.
My shoes slipped slightly on damp concrete as I positioned myself.
One final glance around.
Nothing.
I tightened my grip and used every ounce of strength left in me.
For a split second, the bundle hovered on the lip of the river wall.
Then it dropped.
The splash wasn't as dramatic as I imagined. It was thick, heavy, more of a violent gulp than an explosion. Water surged upward briefly before settling into chaotic ripples.
My heart slammed so loudly I thought it might drown out the sound of the current.
The black shape bobbed to the surface for a moment, caught in the reflection of the city lights. It drifted slowly outward, pulled by the current, rotating slightly.
I couldn't breathe.
Just sink.
Please.
As if hearing me, the plastic began to fill. The bundle dipped lower. The river tugged harder, drawing it further from shore. For a moment it floated stubbornly, half-visible.
Then it tipped.
Slowly.
And slipped beneath the surface.
The water closed over it with barely a ripple.
I stood there long after it disappeared, eyes fixed on the spot, waiting for something to resurface. For a hand. For plastic. For proof that this wasn't finished.
Nothing came back.
The river continued flowing as if nothing had entered it at all.
I swallowed hard and zipped the empty suitcase shut.
But I wasn't done.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out the second trash bag—the one heavier than it should've been. Inside were John's wallet, his ID, his keys, his phone, my bloodied shirt, the gloves, every loose thread I could think of. Anything that tied him to me.
I stepped away from the waterline and crouched to change. My fingers moved quickly, mechanically. I pulled off my shoes and shoved them into the bag, replaced them with an older pair from my backpack. The hoodie followed, then the shirt beneath it. I wiped my arms with a damp cloth, scrubbing as if I could remove something deeper than dirt.
Fresh clothes on.
Old ones sealed in plastic.
Now the fire.
I walked for nearly another hour along darker streets, dragging the suitcase behind me. My arms felt like lead. My legs trembled with each step, but I kept moving, searching for somewhere secluded enough to risk flame without triggering alarms or drawing security.
Eventually, I found it—a partially fenced construction lot near an underpass, gravel and debris scattered across a patch of dirt shielded from direct street view. No cameras that I could immediately see. No nearby buildings with open windows. Just concrete pillars and the distant rush of traffic overhead.
It would have to do.
I set the suitcase aside and dragged the trash bag into the center of the gravel patch. My hands felt steady now. Too steady.
I poured oil over the bag, soaking the fabric and plastic. The smell hit sharp and heavy in the cold air. I stepped back, struck the lighter.
The first flame flickered uncertainly before catching.
Then it spread.
The bag crumpled inward as the plastic shrank, fire licking upward in hungry orange waves. Smoke twisted into the night air. I kept my eyes moving, scanning the perimeter.
A couple stood far off near the edge of the lot, watching from a distance. Their silhouettes paused, hesitant. I must have looked unhinged—hood up, face shadowed, standing too still in front of a growing fire.
They didn't approach.
Eventually they moved on.
The flames died down quicker than I expected, so I stepped forward and added more oil, lighting another match. The fire flared again, brighter this time, consuming what remained of fabric and paper. The smell was acrid, choking, but I didn't react.
I just watched.
Emotionless.
Match after match until nothing recognizable remained. Only warped metal pieces, blackened fragments, ash.
When the flames finally faded into glowing embers, I grabbed a discarded bottle nearby, filled it from a trickle of runoff water near the curb, and poured it over the remains. Steam hissed upward.
I kicked gravel over what was left, grinding it into the dirt until it blended into the construction debris.
Gone.
I drowned John's body and I burned down every evidence.
It should be fine.
I should be fine.
I should be fine.
I should be fine.
The words kept repeating in my head, but they didn't sound convincing anymore. They sounded desperate.
I should be fine.
I stood there in the half-lit construction lot, staring at the patch of darkened dirt as if it might suddenly rearrange itself and expose everything I had just done.
My breathing became uneven.
"I should be fine," I whispered again, but this time it cracked.
My hand flew to my chest without thinking. My fingers dug into the fabric of my shirt, gripping hard, like I could physically hold my heart in place. It was pounding wildly, erratic, painful. My whole body started to shake—subtle at first, then violently. From my shoulders down to my knees, tremors rolled through me in waves.
"No…"
The word came out strangled.
I shook my head.
"No. No. No."
The night suddenly felt too large. The sky too open. The city too loud and too silent all at once.
My gaze lifted almost against my will, drawn upward toward the massive structure rising in the near distance.
The bridge.
The George Washington Bridge loomed over the Hudson, its towers lit in cold white light, cables stretching outward in precise lines that disappeared into darkness. Cars streamed across it in an endless line of headlights, red taillights blinking like distant embers.
It looked impossibly high from where I stood.
I stared at it longer than I meant to.
"I should just end it all...."