The Confession

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I’m a grave robber now. We may as well add that to the ledger of my crimes. And, truthfully, it is the only crime I intended to commit, though I would argue with calling what I did robbery. I understand why you do, but I was merely taking back what was mine.

He stole from me first, you see.

Pete had it in for me from the beginning. I tried to be professional. I won’t say friendly. No. I do not work to make friends. My work life and my personal life are not the same. I don’t know why so many people mix these areas up. I find it is better - smarter - to keep them separate. That is why I have a strict rule. I do not socialize with co-workers. It causes the others to look at me like an oddity, but that’s okay with me. As I said, I do not want to be their friend anyway. It’s just easier that way.

Pete refused to understand that. He would invite me to join the others for lunch or drinks after work on a regular basis. The rest of them never bothered me with such requests. They got it. They understood. But not Pete. He callously bombarded me at least once a week with one rude invitation after another. Why wouldn’t he understand my rules? No, I never spoke them out loud, but the rest of them respected them. Why couldn’t Pete?

But, I was always professional. When he asked I didn’t waste his time. I simply said “No.” I was considerate that way.

This went on for two years. That’s over 100 requests. Did he know it bothered me? Of course, he did. The others knew, didn’t they? The others left me in peace.

Last week he stopped by my desk, again cruelly inviting me to lunch. I politely said “No” without insulting him by making up an excuse. He smiled in that mocking way of his and told me he would not give up on me. I turned away and returned to my duties. And that’s when he did it. He stole it right off my desk, slipped it in his jacked pocket and walked off.

This was an affront; it was an insult.

While he and the rest of my unprofessional co-workers went to lunch (and stayed gone 20 minutes longer than they should have!), I stewed. I ate my sandwich from home in under 15 minutes and got back to work. The company would not pay me for the time I saved. I knew this. In fact, my boss had even warned me to stop working during my lunch break, but that was a foolish request. Why should they care if I choose to give them free labor? It’s a minor thing really, and I owe it to the company for providing me a livelihood.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about Pete’s wonton act of theft. He was so nonchalant about it, that I don’t think he felt the slightest pang of remorse. I speculated that he was regaling my co-workers with what he had done over lunch. I know they were laughing about it.

By the time Pete returned my rage had resolved into a plan. I would confront him, but I could not do it at the office. That would be unprofessional. That would waste company time, you see.

So, for the first time, I resorted to lying. Around 4:00 p.m. I approached Pete and apologized for refusing his invitations. Just saying these words made my mouth feel like I had been sipping battery acid. I asked Pete if he wanted to get drinks after work. To my surprise, he declined. He gave me an overly long reason as to why he could not. I didn’t need that. A simple no would have been far more reasonable. When he finished his rambling story, he asked if he could get a rain check until the next night. Thursday night.

I did not like having to wait, but I reluctantly agreed,

The next day at work was slow, but at least no one bothered me with lunch invitations. Thank goodness.

At a few minutes before 5, Pete approached me and told me to meet him at a nearby bar. I managed to be positive, but could not pretend to be enthused. I had never been to that bar. I avoid bars when I can. I rarely drink, and when I do, I simply do so at home where it is less noisy and the drinks are significantly cheaper.

But I needed to stick to this plan, so after work I made my way to the bar. Pete was already sitting in a booth. As I sat, the waitress came up to take our order. Pete ordered a beer I had never heard of. I asked for the same. I did not want to spend time pouring over a list of drinks that meant nothing to me.

We chatted, or at least Pete did. He thanked me for coming out. He asked me questions that I answered.

“You ever been married?”

“No.”

“Seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Where did you go to school?”

I listed my education from college back to elementary school in reverse chronological order.

This was excruciating, as I am sure you can tell.

After 15 minutes of this banal discussion, he asked why I decided to come out that night.

“You stole from me yesterday. I want you to give it back.”

Pete feigned ignorance. He even had the nerve to ask what it was he had stolen.

At that, I could feel my face flush with anger. I would not continue this conversation. There is no point talking to a liar. I told him so. I stood and threw some money on the table and left the bar. He was the one who was being rude, you see.

I got in my car and started the engine. My hands wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. I took three deep breathes, inhaling for four seconds, holding my breath for six and then exhaling for seven. This calmed me enough to drive. I did not want to drive in an agitated state. It would not be fair to the other drivers. I am considerate.

Pete walked out and got in his car. It did not look like he saw me. And that was when the idea struck me. I would follow him home. Demand he return what was mine, and end this nonsense. It made perfect sense.

So I followed him. I watched him enter his house, and then parked a few houses down. I walked up to his door and knocked. Pete answered. He looked confused. I asked if I could come in and he agreed.

He pretended to be gracious, saying he would invite me for dinner, but his wife was picking their daughter up from a school event, and would be late. I told him I did not want his food. I just wanted him to give it back.

He again feigned ignorance about what he had stolen. I could feel myself getting angry. And who wouldn’t. This lying was a slap in the face. Did he think I am stupid? I am not.

I asked him again to give it to me, and he again asked what it was I was talking about.

Tired of this charade I told him exactly what it was and that he had removed it from my desk the day before.

Did he admit it? To my surprise, he did.

Did he apologize? No, he did not.

Instead he laughed. He told me I was overreacting, that it was a simple accident.

I was flustered. I was angry. I was on the edge.

And that’s when his rudeness caused the situation to escalate. “You really need some help,” he said. “This is insane.”

I did what anyone would do when faced with lies and insults. I hit him. He staggered back and started screaming insults at me. So I hit him again. This time he tripped backwards, and I heard his head bounce on the coffee table. It was a loud and wet noise.

Well, he was unconscious I assumed. I took this opportunity to head to his bedroom to find the suit he had worn yesterday. But, before I could get there, I heard a car pulling up in the driveway. I looked around and saw the kitchen had a back door. I ran through it and made my way to my car. As I got in, I heard a woman scream.

He had even lied about his wife being late. He had no interest in offering me dinner. The man could do nothing but lie and steal.

I found out the next day he was dead. Did I kill him? I suppose I did. But it was justified. You can see that, right?

No one was sure how Pete died. The speculation was that he had gotten into a fight with a burglar who was spooked off by his wife and daughter returning home. This was close to the truth, yes. But I was no burglar.

I went to his funeral, because we were expected to. The office gave us the day off for it. This was generous, and I could not repay that generosity by simply staying home. We were paid to attend the service. So I discharged my duty.

The casket was open. You could not see his head wound, which was in the back. Beyond that, the first thing I noticed was that he was wearing the suit he had worn the day he stole from me. Could it still be in his pocket? The odds seemed to be against it, but not impossible. But, there was no way to check here and now. People would ask questions. I understood that.

The service was long. His family members, of course, cried as did some of his co-workers. I didn’t understand why people he worked with would have such a reaction. This is why you compartmentalize things. You should not be emotional about people you happen to work with. It just defies logic. How can you be productive that way?

After the service, Pete’s body was taken to the gravesite. A preacher said a few words and led a prayer for Pete’s eternal peace and a plea that justice be served.

Pete’s coffin was lowered into the grave, and as the mourners filed out, the cemetery crew filled the hole back in.

The next night, tonight, I entered the cemetery after dark. Broke in? I guess you could say that, but it wasn’t difficult. I just climbed over a very short wall. I had bought a shovel a flashlight after work, and went home. I had dinner - spaghetti - and changed before I went to the graveyard.

It’s not a large cemetery, you know that. And it took no time to find Pete’s fresh grave. Although the soil was still fairly loose, digging up the coffin was harder work than I expected. I am glad I had the foresight to change. I would have ruined my work clothes.

Two and a half hours later, I had uncovered the polished wooden coffin enough to try and open it. The lid would not budge. So, I really had no choice but to drive my shovel into it and split the lid open. This part was actually easier than expected. It only took a few blows of the shovel to crack the lid. And, once that was done it was nothing to leverage open the top of the box.

Pete was lying in the coffin. He looked fine. The embalmer had done a good job. I understand some people are frightened of dead bodies. I don’t know why. They don’t do anything. They can’t hurt you. They just lying there looking like they went to sleep with make-up on.

I reached down and patted Pete’s jacket. And, it was there in the pocket. I could not believe my luck! I clapped and fished it out, slipping it into my pants pocket. I crawled out of the hole, leaving the shovel where it was, and headed towards the graveyard wall. As I climbed over, a flashlight beam caught me. You know that part; it was your flashlight.

And that brings us here, doesn’t it?

So, yes, I admit that I killed him. But it was an accident. I admit I broke into the graveyard and took it off his body. But, I was only taking what was mine. I meant no ill will. I knew I should have been more forceful and direct in telling him to leave me alone, but who could have predicted his actions would turn to theft and that he would so blatantly lie about it? I am blameless.

I understand you are doing your job, and I will sign the confession. You have written it out factually correctly. I appreciate your courtesy and professionalism.

No, thank you. I don’t need a pen. I have my very own in my pocket. And, I would definitely prefer to use it. That way, you don’t have to worry. Don’t you see?

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