By Mark Fewell

Testing. One. Two. Three.

It works. Of course, it does. The police want me to confess to my wife’s murder. They’ve provided me with the best audio equipment available.

Let me start my confession off by letting everybody know, I didn’t kill my wife. Yesterday was the funeral. I couldn’t go, but they let me watch the newscast. They thought that if I watched all her fans file past her casket, I’d show remorse; they thought it would make me want to confess. Sorrow, sadness, tears are things I have plenty of, but no remorse since I didn’t kill my wife.

The female newscaster talked about Amy’s best-selling novels, her award-winning short stories. Maybe the prosecutor will use this as motive since I published a short story or two in my youth, but I was never jealous of her success. I didn’t kill my wife.

I looked up at the corner box on the television screen, a picture of Amy and me; we looked so happy. I found myself wanting to run my fingers through her that long black hair of hers. In the picture, her eyes are smiling; they were always smiling.

I didn’t kill my wife.

It’s time to stop rambling and let everybody know what happened.

This damn thing started while I was in the basement fumbling around at my workbench, tinkering with a broken radio. I’m sure that I did more damage in my attempts to repair it.

I heard footsteps on the stairs and smelled stale cigarette smoke. It stank more thank normal since I had given up smoking a few months ago.

The house was supposed to be empty. Amy was at work, and she doesn’t…didn’t smoke anyway. I turned around and saw the kid halfway down the stairs staring at me.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I put my hand behind my back and slid it across my workbench, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon if I needed one. My fingers stumbled across a crescent wrench, and I grabbed it.

“I’m you, or at least, I think I am.” He stepped into the light, and I had to admit he did look like me as a teenager.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I held the wrench in my hands so that this boy would know I intended to use it if I had to.

“I was sitting in study hall,” said the boy, “thinking about what my life would be like once I married Janet Mitchell. I guess I sorta wished myself into the future. Cool, huh?”

I told him that I had never heard of anyone named Janet Mitchell and that I didn’t find his being here very cool at all.

He screamed at me. “You know who Janet is! You married her!”

The lad had to be insane. As insane as you listening to this tape will think me to be once you’ve heard my tale. I tried talking to him as calmly as possible. “I am married, but my wife’s name is Amy, not Janet.”

I’ll never forget his next words. “We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” I gripped the wrench, thinking that I’d have to use it.

The kid turned around and made his way up the stairs two steps at a time. I couldn’t get the incident out of my mind. I got out my high school yearbook. There was a Janet Mitchell, and I’m sure I would have found her attractive if I had known she existed.

Looking back, I guess I should have told Amy. Maybe if I had warned her, she would be alive, though it’s more likely she’d find my story as unbelievable as anyone who listens to this tape will. But it isn’t a story. It’s the truth. I didn’t kill my wife.

Nothing interesting in my life happened for the next two weeks. The boy didn’t return, and I thought the matter ended.

Then came the knock. I lay on the couch watching the news. Amy had gotten up early. She was in her usual hurry to make it to the Saturday morning garage sales, though she never seemed to buy anything.

I was sure that it had to be one of the neighborhood children selling candy or cookies for the Scouts or the Little League. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I slowly rose from the couch and answered the door. Two uniformed policemen stood on my front porch. “Are you Martin Fitch?” asked the taller of the two.

I started to ask if something had happened to Amy when the officer stopped me. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Amy Fitch.”

Nobody listened to me when I tried to protest, when I tried to let them know I didn’t kill my wife.

They led me to their car. I looked around to see if any of my neighbors were outside or looking out their windows. I didn’t want anybody to see me being dragged away.

I guess it didn’t matter what I wanted. Everybody read or heard what happened the next day. I’m sure of it.

I wonder how many of my friends and neighbors think I murdered Amy. I wonder how many of them believe I didn’t kill my wife.

At the station, the cops showed me a videotape over and over. They forced me to watch the knife going in and out of Amy’s body again and again. They wanted me to confess right then and there that it was me on the tape.

Though the picture was blurry and out-of-focus, the murderer did look like me. I thought so. The cops thought so. I can hope the jury doesn’t think so. It may be my only hope.

The DNA evidence doesn’t help. They found my blood on Amy’s dress. I don’t know how my blood got there, but I didn’t kill my wife.

When I wouldn’t tell them any more than they already knew, they locked me in a cell.

The first night the boy returned while everybody in the other cells slept and no guards were around. I don’t know how he did this since I was on suicide watch, and no one was supposed to leave my side. Nobody around to prove my innocence. Nobody around to prove I didn’t kill my wife.

“You should have married Janet like you were suppose to,” said the boy, “then I wouldn’t have had to kill that other woman.”

“That woman was my wife!” I howled, running at him, my hands outstretched in front of me. I didn’t kill my wife, but I intended to strangle him. He disappeared before my hands could find his throat.

I lay down on my mattress; the lumps in it caused my back to ache.

When I rose from my bed the next morning, I convinced myself it had to be a dream.

My lawyer spends his time trying to get my trial delayed. I don’t think he’s hoping for evidence to prove my innocence. He wants me to change my plea. If I do that he says he can get my sentence reduced from first-degree murder to manslaughter. I will not plead guilty. I did not kill my wife.

Two nights after his first visit my former self returned. Again no one but myself viewed his presence. “Why do you keep returning?” I asked.

He wanted to know why I didn’t remember Janet.

I lied to him. “I remember Janet.”

“No, you don’t,” said the boy. “You don’t remember her at all.”

“Okay, so now that you know, you can go away and leave me alone.”

He told me that he might be able to save Amy.

“If you can do that,” I said, “why can’t you go back in time and ask this Janet to marry you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve tried.”

I should have never said what I said next. “She probably said no because you’re an obnoxious little runt.”

“If that’s true than so are you,” said the boy.

I told him to go fuck himself. I never know when to shut up.

He told me pretty much the same thing.

I got to my feet. “Wait, I’m sorry. Don’t go.” I reached for his arm, but my hand passed through it. Whoever this person was, space alien, ghost, time-traveling earlier version of me--that would explain the blood on Amy’s dress--it didn’t matter; he was the only person who could save me from prison.

I don’t think he’ll be coming back.

If you follow my trial, you will learn the facts. If you listen to this tape, you’ll know the truth.

I didn’t kill my wife.


Mark Fewell has been writing on and off for more than twenty years, publishing more than two hundred works of poetry and fiction. His work has been published in TALES OF THE TALISMAN, ALIENSKIN, and AFTERBURN SF.