Drabble Series: What’s Done

I replace the idol into my satchel, and as I leave, I turn once more to the dead thing on the floor. The blood is splattered everywhere, and it pools around his head, a crimson halo to a faceless sacrifice. The end, I think. That’s blood on my hands now, and there’s no one else to blame. My mind, I feel it working, quickly thinks up a scheme. Had I already been planning it? Not my shotgun; not my fingerprints. But my motive, and no one else; my deed, and none other’s. I force myself not to think of escape.