Okay.
Just Breath
"Inhale … exhale, that's what the meditation class told me to do when I'm stressed." Sadly enough for him, it didn't include how to keep calm in a situation like this. "This is bad, very bad." It indeed was very bad.
He stared at the problem like doing that would make it disappear. It didn't; his gut sank as the dread from what he had just done washed over him. He had just killed a man.
Shit.
"Why is he not getting up..? Great." He began to rub his hand on his forehead, dragging it down to his cheeks. "Just great."
Five years of studying his movements and mannerisms, all gone, five god damn years of dedicating myself to becoming the world's best body double gone, in six seconds.
He paced back and forth in the kitchen, avoiding the body like a water spill. The hammer covered in the blood of the corpse that used to be his employer, looking at him made him physically sick. To see your own pale lifeless eyes staring back at you tends to do that, guilt and dread swirling around inside him, the feelings rising from his gut to his heart, it was enough to give a man a heart attack.
I can already hear the headlines: rogue double kills actor in his apartment …
Unless…
His mind racing and the impending threat of his fate looming over his head, he thinks of only one solution.
Unless … I became him, same build, same face, same height.
I mean he says it himself, he can barely tell us apart sometimes.
(Brief pause)
"No no no no no no no no - that's crazy." Grabbing a tuft of his black hair, he thinks of other possibilities, but none come to mind. "But" unclenching his hair, he stares at his hands, the blood dripping methodically in intervals to the ground. "It's the only thing I can do."
No one saw me come in here, no one knows he's here.
Good … very good.
The man I just killed is laying in a pool of his own blood,
and I am the person who looks most like him in the world.
Grabbing the body, he begins to drag it from the kitchen, making his way into the living room. His arms start to strain under the weight, tuxedo he wore wrinkled, the crater in the head of Mr. Archer, his employer, hooked onto his bottom button loosening it, the blood that had sprayed onto the black tux being too dry, the smell of iron burned his nose repeatedly.
Whoever came up with the phrase dead weight definitely wasn't lying; how the hell can someone be this heavy.