I remember crying in front of them, the looks of pity they gave me. It was an ugly sight, truthfully. My eyes pooling over with tears, mouth wide and turned down, the drool and snot seeping down my chin in one constant stream of bodily fluid.  

To be honest, I think their sympathy got to them.  

Instead of the patient dying in my care, the narrative focused on how bad I truly felt for seeing someone die in hospice for the first time. A sickening result of my horrifying crying face.  

“People die all the time, and sometimes it happens. We can’t save everyone,” a former colleague of mine, by the name of Sarah reminded me. She patted my back as I stood hunched over in the break room.  

In that moment, I hope those there that saw my face had it haunt their dreams, to officially be known as the man who got away with it. They would see in about 24 hours from then I would officially resign, hiding myself away in an address off the maps, in a tropical city just like any other. In a country no one quite remembered the name of.  

After successfully murdering my ex-wife, a vacation was long overdue.