I looked down at the pictures of the corpse for a long time. My handiwork. White-blue crêpe for skin with torn edges dark as if dipped in blackberry jam; limbs stilled, breath returned to whence it came from.
"He was my introduction to regret," I said softly, my voice undoubtedly picked up by the myriad recording devices. "He was life itself. Always laughing; smiles spanning the times between like bridges connecting islands of mirth. His eyes were the colour of moss and his mouth tasted of promises." I stroked the dented metal table top in front of me, fingertips remembering for a moment the warmth of his soft skin, his lithe body entwined with mine.
Looking up, I realized that the man had no patience for my prose, and I sighed, looking back down. His eyes were closed in the picture; had I done that? Or, had some technician or lab rat given him that tiny gift of grace? I shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair; the chain connecting my wrists making a soft metal-to-metal kiss against the tabletop.
"All right. Ok, that’s a start," said the sweaty, porcine man across from me. I looked back into his face, brows beetled over dull eyes, tiny broken veins visible on the strangely elegant nose. "Yeah, yeah… that’s a good start. You regret killing him. And then what?"
My sudden laugh startled him, and I saw his fingers twitch with muscle memory, hand lonely for its gun. I chuckled, shaking my head, my smile wide and amused.
"No, no, my dear detective. You misunderstood: I regret not killing him sooner."
