The paper was blank with potential, a canvas of white and blue. He cocked his head slightly as he considered where to begin his story. Crossing out what he’d written again and again, he tossed half crumpled sheets of paper at a wastebasket in the corner. It sat half full with his abruptly ended thoughts.
He needed to get this out, he just didn’t know how. Was it better to start with how it had ended or how it had begun? At what point did he divulge the part that he had played? At which point should he claim responsibility? Death was complicated. He wasn’t sure if he was up to tangling himself within its web. Still, the thought of not coming clean made his skin crawl with cowardice. At some point they would find out- how would it look to not simply admit what he had done?