The Statement

Nothing was the same at this hour of the morning. The moonlight barely filtered the clouds, the stars hidden from view, casting strange shadows over furniture which should have seemed so familiar to him. The smell of microwaved butter chicken from hours before should have made him feel at home, calm. Normal. Michael sure as hell wasn't anything special - Rough stubble, short red hair, freckles. A pair of boxer shorts covering thin, speckled legs. Hands behind his back, zipties cutting into the skin and securing him to the back of the dining chair. Every sound he made was muffled by the pair of socks jammed into his mouth, drying out his tongue and causing him to breathe heavily through his nose.

Panic. Sheer panic, as he watched the intruder slowly unpack his case. The gun would surely have been enough - Even now, sitting on the table, it looked larger than life. But there was more to be done today.

First came the tripod, slowly opened and placed upon the dining table. Then the camera, screwed onto the base. A merry little musical tone when it was turned on, the screen behind it flipped out and opened to bathe him in a shallow pool of digital light. An ominous red dot told him it was recording. At least Michael could see himself now, half-naked, bound and gagged as he squinted at the movements of the dark shadow. Four stacks of something are removed from bag, and tossed onto the counter as well. A flash of the light on the bands that held them told Michael exactly what he was looking at.

Twenty thousand in cash. For some, it would change a life. For Michael, it only raised more questions.

And then, there's the strange sound of leather hitting the table a moment later, an odd rectangle tossed into place. With a surreal scrape, the pistol is removed from the table - The stranger clicked a flashlight to life. The narrow, bright white beam highlighted the box-shaped shadow for a moment, throwing it into sharp relief.

A little black book, with his name on the cover. Michael Dorsey.

"Michael Dorsey." The voice was deep and masculine, it's bassy pitchy drove a shiver into it's captive. The bright white light is shone into his face, waiting for the timid nod. Confirmation down the barrel of a gun. "The money on the table is for you. I've been contracted to have you read a statement. I am only going to ask you to read it once," A pause. "If you stop reading the statement, I will shoot you."

Watching, as the pitch of his breath increased sharply, audibly sucking air in and out of those nostrils. "If you scream, I will shoot you. If you change the statement, I will shoot you. If you say anything that is not written in this statement, I will shoot you." A heavy pause. "I am about to remove your gag."

A gloved hand plucked the socks free, allowing them to tumble down into his lap, leaving a wet splotch of his saliva upon his thigh before they made their way to the floor. And then calmly, controlled, it moved to select the book, opening it to the first page, and holding it splayed out before Michael, turning the gun so that the light could bathe the page. The handwriting was neat, cursive and yet clear. Black ink, on yellow lined paper. The instruction given again, in three words. "Read it aloud."

The doubt, fear and conflict were written clear in those dark brown eyes. He licked his lips, just once, before his voice made any sound at all - And it came out scratched and uncertain. "My name is..." A swallow. How could his mouth be so dry and so wet at once? "My name is Michael Dorsey. On this day, the 22nd of February last year, I..." Realisation was dawning, and Michael was reminded to continue with a gesture of the flashlight, briefly illuminating his face for the recording camera.

"Last year I got drunk with some friends at The Waterbed, a local bar. I was refused any more drinks, and was escorted out by the bouncer." His gaze tore from the screen that showed him dimmed face, and his eyes pleaded with his captor for a few moments, searching for mercy, sympathy. They found nothing. Back to the paper, where the feminine handwriting was telling a story all too familiar to him. "Despite having the money for a taxi, I elected to drive home. I passed a police officer, and when he turned on his lights and sirens I attempted to evade him. My vehicle, a supercharged Audi, reached speeds of over a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a suburban neighbourhood."

A choked sob from deep in his throat had the flashlight, and the gun attached to it, pointed at him again. This time, to highlight the redness in his eyes, the moisture gathering in their corners a telltale sign of the emotional weight thrust upon him. "I lost control on the corner of Eighth and Maple, and my car crashed into the house at number 43 Maple Drive." Another swallow. "My car collided with the outer wall and collapsed it inwards..." The light moved from the paper again, to light the tear=streaked face of a young man confronting his sins. "Killing Mikalya Wilson, aged 2."

The book was placed on the table, a gloved finger turning the page before grasping it by the spine and holding it open once more.

"I was arrested and charged with DUI, evading police, and reckless driving causing death. My Father paid for Henry Adams, an expensive attorney, who exploited the system to have my charges reduced." The conflict in Michael's eyes wasdesperate, the tension in his shoulders telling how much he wants to break free from this situation, but he didn't need the cold metal of the gun to remind him again. After a pause, he continued.

"I ended up being sentenced only to 200 hours community service, which I subsequently failed to do. My insurance covered all the costs of my vehicle repair and 60 percent of the damage to the house..." The slight raise in his voice gave away a little shock, as if he wasn't even aware of what had happened in the wake of his actions. "They refused to cover funeral expenses due to a non-structural defect in the house."

A tremble in Michael's inhale, as he waited for the process to repeat. The soft thud of book onto table, the rasp of paper against paper, before it's lifted again for him to read. "In court, I failed to shed a single tear. In my statements, I did not express any regret. In my life, I have continued to drink and drive. To this day, I have never shown any sympathy for the family of Mikayla Wilson." The next page was blank. The pool of light moved from paper, to face, to temple.

So close the sweat beading upon his brow tickled the barrel. Fear can only do so much, and now that the statement was over, desperation took control. "N--"

The bang was deafening despite how the light and sound were both muffled by the skin it was pressed into. Wood splintered as the round slammed into a kitchen cabinet, carrying gore and viscera with it, and leaving a small, ragged wound as Michael Dorsey slumped in his chair. The smell of spent gunpowder and burned flesh. The weapon was flashed back at his face, illuminating a ragged red exit wound.

The intruder sighed, leaning over and turning the camera off. Methodically, it's removed from the tripod, all effects collapsed and put away. Lastly, the red-flecked leather book. A momento of sorts. A cellphone slid out of his pocket, syncing the video across and then sending it via a private app along with a message.

--Ms Wilson, please see the attached.--

In this line of work, there was no place for a conscience... But even a killer could see there was at least one damned good reason why Michael Dorsey needed to die. He didn't need the twenty thousand extra ones - They can stay here with the person who they were meant for.