Crime of the century

Jules and I had been hiding out for years. Made fugitives for a series of murders we had committed for nothing more than self preservation. Our hunters were no better than us. We had hid under the stairs in secret back rooms, protected by our own mothers, whenever they came knocking. I remember the feeling of holding my breath with those stairs pressed against my kidneys. It felt like we had been running forever. Traveling by jeep through barren deserts and lush gated community garden mazes reminiscent of the Shining. And then in an old Russian mansion that was bugged like a casino. Prowling from room to room like some dreamy game of Clue. All the while I could feel the paranoia swelling in my chest. Many years passed. And one Halloween, when we were both older and comfortable in masks, we spoke about our experiences with friends who lived free lives, in the garage where we had first written music together. We glanced at each other with eyes that asked if it had all been worth it. And all those people we had left behind listened while we explained how a possible end might play out. They kept their fears and their opinions to themselves. But we never let our guard down. It was our old principal who finally tricked us into coming over for a steak dinner. We had been in disguise but recognized each other right away. The decision was instantaneous. I grabbed a knife and buried it into his throat. Jules did the same to his wife. My grandmother watched the entire thing, horrified. These were innocent victims but we rationalized it away. It was either them or us. Self-preservation. My mom tried to make her understand that these were not good people. But she couldn't shake the image. I remember grabbing the steak we were invited to eat, coldly and somewhat reluctantly, and putting it in a Tupperware to have later as the sirens grew louder. This chase would never end. And we could not kill our way out of it forever.