I sat wearily on one of the rickety chairs. Heavy handcuffs dangled around my wrists as I cradled my head in my hands. The back of my neck was still sticky with sweat, a testament to the severity of what had just happened. A soft wind broke the summer's heat, rippling the checkered cloths on the tables around. Everything was empty- the inside of the restaurant, the upper quarters where I live, the kitchens, this porch, me. Flies buzzed around the half eaten sandwiches and fries. Shattered glass littered the ancient farmhouse floor. The pools of blood scattered between the shards glowed like rubies in the golden afternoon.

What have I done?

It started a few months ago. I rode into town as a broken, dejected, shadow of a man. I was looking for a new beginning, a new identity. That's what this little town was about; picking up the pieces and making a fresh start.

Well, I bunked in the town's only inn for a few days. I became a hermit, only appearing from my room to buy more booze. But one day, I decided to take a walk. A long walk, to clear my head.

That's when I found her- the perfect locale for the perfect beginning. It was an old farmhouse called “The Plantation” by the locals. Its large, southern porch rose majestically from the late morning mist. Its shutters fluttered slightly in the rising wind. It was like looking at an ancient photograph, or a piece of history, resurrected.

The next day, I took my entire life savings and bought that farmhouse. It needed a little work, but I was willing to fix her up. I set about hiring a contractor and tried to formulate an attack plan. Slowly, but surely, we began to turn the silent Plantation into the restaurant of my dreams. I've worked in a few restaurants in my time, and even once managed one in the city, but none were as picturesque as The Plantation.

The renovations were completed last week. I was ecstatic. I felt as if I were a high-schooler again, falling in love for the first time. I began to recruit the area's finest chefs and waiters. I forgot about my old life and immersed myself in the new. But, that didn't last long.

The sound of sirens echoing through the countryside interrupted my self-pity. I pretended they had nothing to do with me. I pretended I had complete control over my emotions, over my thoughts, over my actions. I pretended my past was just a few unconnected events that had nothing to do with each other. A few months ago, I locked my memories in heavy chains and dropped them into a deep, deep lake. As they sank, I tried to forget everything. In my ignorance, I forgot to let go. And I, attached to those rotting memories, began to drown. This morning, the last scream bubbled from my lips, and I was doomed to remain in this watery grave forevermore.

How did this happen?

This morning was the grand opening of my restaurant. I woke early, hung a wide banner across the main entrance. It read “The Plantation” in an obnoxious, overly-flowery script. I was proud of this place I made my own. The staff and I were positively giddy. We prepared the kitchens and tables, thoroughly swept the floors, and even cleaned the counters. Then, we waited. The opening time had not yet arrived. We all watched the clock. The anticipation mounted, and then, the grandfather clock chimed. It was 9am. Show time.

I ordered the hostess to open the doors. A flood of customers filled the dining hall. An innumerable amount of people seemed to appear out of the very woodwork of the town and surrounding wilderness. I had to open the porch prematurely in order to seat everyone. The staff and I were busy, running from table to table, like honeybees between the summer flowers. I didn't even have a chance to rest.

Then it happened. The crowd from breakfast was thinning; the staff and I were cleaning up. The first few lunch guests were streaming in when, suddenly, I felt a chill. The wind chimes on the porch swayed and announced their premonition of a storm. One of the waitresses, over encumbered with dishes, asked me to wait on her next table. I happily obliged.

The customer was seated on the porch. She was a lovely young lady with a cascade of long, curly red hair. Not unlike hers. Those unwanted memories immediately resurfaced, grotesquely distorted by time. I tried to suppress them. I leaned toward this woman, trying to ignore my past, trying to record her order. A burst of obnoxiously loud laughter distracted me, and caused me to look up. Waiters and waitresses and a few wandering guests flitted about my field of vision, like withered leaves caught upon an rising wind. There was a brief break in this activity, and I saw a face. His face; one forever synonymous with dissolution and despair.

A flood of memories invaded my consciousness, all of them concerned with her. Ana. My love. We were going to elope, Ana and I. We were so young, so defiant of our protesting parents. Nothing was in our path. Nothing. Until our car broke down hours from Vegas. Until he offered to help. Until he  tore us apart. But that was in the past, or so I thought.

I stared at him and he, unblinkingly, stared back. A slow smile crept across his greasy lips, wrinkling his pockmarked cheeks. A predatory glint shone i his eye. He began to laugh; a low throaty chuckle cut with malice. Suddenly I noticed Ana sitting next to him. Her usually bright green eyes were dull and vacant. Her mouth gaped wordlessly, blood trickling over her soft lips, staining her teeth an impossible red. A gaping wound tore itself open across her neck, revealing the dark meat underneath.

Everything went black. Images began to appear, like a movie reel rattling away in the dark. Memories of dear, sweet Ana. Her endless smiles, her habit of talking enthusiastically with her hands. Her laughter ringing through our too-small apartment and her soft whispers creeping into my ear on sleepless nights. The curves of her body falling softly, melding with mine. The taste of her breath after one-too-many vodkas. The touch of her fingers uncertainty searching for comfort on my chest. 

Then, a shrill scream snapped me back to reality.

I was holding the bastard by the collar of his shirt with my left hand. He hung limp, a dead weight. There were deep lacerations across his throat and face. Blood gushed over my hand and trickled down my arms, soaking into my white sleeves and dripping onto the creaky floorboards below. More blood splashed onto my face and speckled my apron, ruining the tips I stuffed into its pockets. In my right hand was a broken wine bottle. Its sharp edges were glistening red. I tossed him to the floor in disgust. His ruined face warped and dissolved into a stranger's. I could only stare. This man… this man wasn’t him. This man wasn’t that murderer.

Oh my god, what have I done?

Someone pulled me away from the stranger. The bottle fell from my limp hand and shattered. A woman was still screaming in the crowd. A sob caught in my throat. I collapsed, choking on spit and sorrow, and began to cry. The storm had arrived.

An ambulance soon arrived. The crowd was ushered away. The stranger was strapped down and carried off. I just sat, staring at his blood. 

A police officer appeared and clapped handcuffs around my wrists. I didn't resist; I was too busy drowning. The officer murmured something into his radio and listened as it warbled a static-ridden reply. He told me to take it easy. To wait. To not try anything else.

I slowly raised myself into one of the rickety chairs. The handcuffs rattled around my wrists as I held my head in my bloodied hands. I heard a whisper from the officer's radio; another cloud of static and warbled words. The only ones I could make out were “critical condition”. Another sob caught in my throat. And again, I choked.

I felt someone watching me. I slowly turned around, dreading another face, another man. It was just the officer standing beside me.

“It's time.” He solemnly stated. 

I nodded to show that I understood. I was escorted to a police car and pushed into the back. The car lurched forward, and sped away. Through the caged windows, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Plantation behind us, perfect in the summer sun.

What have I done?