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5 years ago, I witnessed a murder. It was in broad daylight, in an almost empty room, in a not so empty house. My shoes were brown, my shirt baby blue. The killer was wearing a white shirt, a pair of jeans, and... his hairline was turned to the left side. The sun was shining through the left window, and it was a Thursday around 1:30pm. The bed was neatly made with a matching bed set in the colour mint green. I was the only witness. It felt like it was just yesterday when the bleeding corpse looked at me with its empty eyes. But it was only for a few seconds. Not long after, it was buried underneath the floor of that same room. No one realized that someone had died, therefore no one missed them. A vacation, they said. A long vacation that later turned into a permanent residency.

I never told anyone, because no one had asked, and I was far too embarrassed to say that I was neither helping the killer nor the victim. So I simply stayed quiet. What no one knew, no one judged. I thought it was alright though, because no one missed them. On some sleepless nights, however, the guilt would eat at me like a spear piercing through my heart. No one asked why I was crying, so I never told anyone why.

8 years ago, I witnessed a murder. It was in broad daylight, in an almost empty room, in a not so empty house. My shoes were brown, my shirt baby blue. The killer was wearing a white shirt, a pair of jeans, and... his hairline was turned to the right. The sun was shining through the left window, and it was a Wednesday around 1:30pm. The bed was neatly made with a matching bed set in the colour mint green.

I never told anyone. Or, well, I guess I did joke about it sometimes when I was slightly intoxicated, in order to ease my guilt a bit. But I always made sure to clarify that it was nothing but a joke. Yesterday, however, the police came by and asked if I knew anything about this person that had gone missing overseas. I did not say anything, because I never really saw the purpose of bringing back a dead corpse. I just stayed silent.

With time, the guilt of not having done anything slowly disappeared. Normally one would probably think that it made me apathetic towards the matter. I was not. The feelings around the incident were still there, what had changed was simply the increase of my own dignity. That is, if you could still consider someone like me having any left. For me, however, it was there still. Beating like a heart, refusing to die. I had decided not to speak of it, not because I felt bad for the killer, or wanted him free. But to save the small slice of privacy that I had left.

10 years ago, I witnessed a murder. It was in broad daylight, in an almost empty room, in a not so empty house. My shoes were grey, my shirt blue. The killer was wearing a white shirt, and... his hairline was turned to the right. The sun was shining through the left window, and it was a Wednesday. The bed was neatly made with a matching bed set in the colour mint green.

A few days ago, the victim's mom came by and asked if I knew something. I didn't understand why this matter was so important 10 years down the line. A dead person is a dead person, why would it matter solving their whereabouts now? But I told her everything. To be honest the declaration itself was not the issue, but more so the knowing of her knowing. It was truly embarrassing to have to go from a composed picture of oneself to a nervous wreck as soon as someone brought the matter up. I do not think she could tell how I was feeling, but the feeling of her thinking she knows how I feel was disturbing. I liked being hard to read, and from that day on, I felt like an open book.

12 years ago, I witnessed a murder in an almost empty room, in a not so empty house. My shoes were grey, my shirt navy? The killer was wearing a white shirt, and... his hairline was turned to the right. The sun was shining through the left window, and it was on a...?

I had seen on the news how around twelve people had come out to talk about crimes they had witnessed. Some had strong evidence for their cases, others not so much. Not long after, the victim's mom came knocking on my door. She asked me to also bring justice to the case I had witnessed. I refused. I saw no point in spending time in battle of "he said, she said". It was only me and the killer, and there were no traces left of the corpse. Neither of us would gain anything, so what would be the point of fighting a war where no one would win?

Four years later, against my own will and in order to put a finish to an endless nagging, I finally stood in the courtroom. It was the most embarrassing point in my life. I once again felt transparent, but this time I reflected the newest edition of a magazine for the open public. I hated every second of it. I did not know if I hated the thought of not having confessed earlier, or the thought of not have let the case go, more. Because at the end of the day, the one that had kept the killer alive was me. The murderer was no longer the same person as that day. He had, in fact, not committed a crime since then. So who exactly was I testifying against?

and so I started "16 years ago I witnessed a murder?".