I was enthralled by the mystery play because there were so many characters who could have killed the beautiful damsel who was found tossed like trash in a dark alley.
It could have been the man who found the bloody body and had blood all over his clothes. He claimed that he had tried to resuscitate her to no avail.
Maybe, it was the woman’s fiancé who had become enamored of another woman but couldn’t bear to tell her. If he knocked her off now, he could scarf money from their mutual bank account. Possibly, it was her fiancé’s new love interest, hoping to hasten the absence of her rival.
Was it her nasty friend who owed her money and didn’t want to pay her back?
Perhaps it was a threatening rapist who didn’t have time to rape her before the body was discovered. The realm of possibilities intrigued my imagination.
Suddenly, the characters in the play stopped in the middle of the action. All, except the dead woman, pointed accusingly to the audience in which I was seated. “It was one of you!” they screamed. They proceeded to stomp off the stage to the seats out of the spotlight. I was flabbergasted when they stopped in front of my seat and yelled, “Arrest him! He’s the one who did it!”
Finally, it dawned on me! This wasn’t a play and these weren’t actors. I killed the woman in cold blood when urges overcame me. I had built a fantasy world to cover my aberrations because I couldn’t face the truth. I turned to run but it was too late. I keep rehashing this over and over in my padded cell. Did I really do this or was it just an Illusion?