Before he knew fully what he was doing, a sudden fit of rage possessed Trent. He pulled out his pocket knife and, without thinking, plunged the blade into the manager's throat. Jason fled, leaving his employer lying across his desk, his life's blood draining away.
Trent, not wishing to spend the rest of his life in prison for a terrible lapse of judgement, denied any knowledge of the murder, claiming the manager had been fine when he, Jason, left the theater that night, and he was believed. He tried to put it all behind him, went on to other jobs, raised his children, lived many years happily with his beloved wife. Now and then he had nightmares in which his murderous deed came back to haunt him but always shrugged them off.
Then his wife quietly passed away, leaving Jason Trent alone and so very lonely. More and more he caught himself recalling that night so long ago when he committed the senseless murder . . .
Trent stopped in front of the theater, looked about to make sure no one else was around, then went around to the back exit. The door was locked, but no one had removed the spare key from under the rotting door mat and let himself inside. Flashlight in hand, he made his way precariously through a littered hallway where part of the ceiling had fallen, and came finally to what had once been the manager's office.
He moved around behind the desk, sat in a creaking chair, laid aside his cane, and took out the old pocket knife and opened it. Earlier he had honed the blade so that it was as sharp as a surgeon's scalpel.
"I must do this; I must make things right," he told himself; then, summoning all his remaining nerve and strength, drove the blade into his throat. Amazingly, he noted, there was very little pain as the final darkness began to fall upon him.