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James G. Marlow

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I Witnessed A Killing
by James G. Marlow  K. L. R 

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Publisher:  J. G. Porter


Copyright:  Aug. 1, 2012

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A lady in her twenties witnesses a murder, then is held hostage by the perp. The mother of the perp. helps the lady get away and the victim soon becomes the number one suspect in this viscious crime of events!

Creighton kept his eyes on the clerk. They met face-to-face and the clerk passed Creighton, staring at him as if he was reading his mind. The clerk turned the corner from the counter where he and Creighton met. He started to walk in the direction to the back of the store, towards the cooler area. Creighton grabbed the back of his red shirt with his left hand and pushed him along, making the clerk move at a faster pace.
Standing there by the candy aisle, I was frozen, still wondering what was going on. Watching Creighton and the clerk passing by, I was in a trance. Walking slowly to the main aisle of the store, about halfway between the front doors and the aisle where Creighton and the clerk were, I thought about running. I looked back to see how close I was to the exit. It was about ten running steps away.
I heard Creighton tell the clerk not to say or try anything. “Act calm,” he said as they were walking to the cooler. He had the gun jabbed into the clerk’s neck with his right hand and the back of the clerk’s shirt scrunched up in his left hand. They passed me, and Creighton finally acknowledged me. “You get back here too you stupid bitch.”
No way was this really happening, I thought. The man I loved was going to do this? It wasn’t possible. I started to follow them both to the back cooler. The clerk was so scared he urinated in his pants. Creighton walked behind him, the gun still to his neck. I could see a trail of urine on the floor. I finally realized this was not a joke.
We got to the walk-in cooler where the beer and sodas were stored. I stayed in the archway of the door and watched in horror as Creighton yelled at the clerk to get on the ground. Creighton pushed him and he lay down on his stomach. The clerk still hadn’t said a word to try to save himself from what was about to happen. Creighton put his left foot on the clerk’s back, right between his shoulders and his butt, and I shouted out, “What are you doing? Why are you doing this to him?”
I hoped that the clerk would plead for his life, but the sad truth was he was too scared.
Expressionless, Creighton looked at me and then he looked at the clerk. “Please don’t do this to him,” I pleaded. “What are you doing Creighton? Please don’t do this. Please. Look at how scared he is. He won’t tell anyone, and neither of us will. "Stop!”
Creighton wouldn’t listen to me. Leaning over, with the gun in his right hand, he brought the muzzle within about eight inches of the clerk’s head.
He laughed, the gun still pushed into my temple. I wanted to push it away, but I didn’t want to fight him; I was too scared to try anything.

He could tell I was terrified. “Are you scared of me?” I nodded. “Why?” Why are you scared?”

Overcome with fear, I yelled back at him, momentarily unaware of the position I was in, "Because I saw what you did to that clerk.”

He took the gun away from my head. “Don't be scared Little Joker, I won’t hurt you. You have my baby growing in you. Let’s go inside the house.” He was calm. “Don’t be scared of me, okay?”

I opened the car door again and got out. My body was shaking; I could hardly stand. I tried to find the key that opened the side door of the house, but my hands were trembling so badly the keys kept falling onto the steps. I picked them up three times before I finally got them firmly in my hands. When I found the right key, I had trouble putting it into the keyhole. Creighton took them from me and unlocked the door himself.

He carried in the beer he’d stolen and started drinking it immediately. We went into the living room and sat on the couch. He had me turn on the television to see if anything had come on about the clerk. Nothing had.

We sat there for about an hour. He was quickly getting drunk, and I sat next to him, confused about what had just happened. I didn’t want to make him mad, but I had to ask him why he’d killed the clerk. All he’d say was that he’d been “mad.”

“What would make you so mad you had to kill someone you didn’t even know?”

He didn’t answer the question or look at me. I asked him again. He got angry and told me to mind my own business. I didn’t ask again; I left it at that.

By then it was about two-thirty in the morning and I was getting tired. I wanted to go to bed but I was afraid to say anything to him. I was supposed to listen, not ask any questions. My room was downstairs, but I didn’t want to sleep there with him; it would’ve been harder for me to get away or for anyone to hear me if I were to scream.

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Reader Reviews for "I Witnessed A Killing"

Reviewed by Richard Bowers 8/20/2012
This narrative "appears" to be a work of fiction? Is it miss-catagoricalized? I thought all memoirs were non-fiction that bordered on autobiographical, some detailed reality of a person's life.

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