I Regret That Night

This is a writing prompt inspired story about a guy who accepts the generosity of someone after performing a concert. Accepting a place to sleep for the night ends up with him in prison. How would you handle something like this happening to you?

I Regret That Night

I used to be a musician. I wasn't well known, but I did all right. I slept in my van at most gigs out of town, but it was comfortable. Then there was that one night when it was really cold and that beautiful girl from the audience asked if I would rather stay with her than in the van. Dillon was so friendly and earnest in her concern for me, how could I resist? Hell, she wasn't even drunk so I didn't think anything of it. I usually get an invitation or two, but always turn them down since their invitation includes sleeping in their beds and Dillon's didn't. She had a pull-out couch that was comfortable she had told me. It was - a little too much so.

It was early October and a surprise cold front came through so I didn't have a blanket in the van. The audience was great, meaning no one threw bottles at the stage or yelled odd things for no particular reason, also known as heckling. I mean, who heckles a singer anyway? I have seen it my friend, believe me, and I have felt that bottle that didn't quite miss me as it whizzed past. Dillon was a blue eyed blonde and dressed to kill in tight jeans and a tee shirt to match. Her boots looked new like she didn't wear them often, but she was quite a sight.

When we got to her ground floor apartment she offered me coffee, another surprise, rather than something with alcohol. She said she had to work the next day and couldn't have alcohol in her system, but she didn't tell me what it was she did. She knew me though; a musician who could barely afford rent with four other guys in a small cheap apartment much less a hotel room after a concert, which was why I usually slept in my beat up van. I often took food with me rather than buy anything on the road. Yep, that was pretty much it.

Dillon had said before she went to bed that she was glad I was there, even though I was a stranger. She felt safer. I wanted to ask her from what but she just closed her door without another word. I must have slept like the dead or I would have heard that other person come into the apartment during the night. Some safety net I turned out to be.

Dillon didn't answer when I called out her name. I thought she might have gone to work already, but thought it odd that she would have left a stranger alone in her home and with no note either. Then I saw it; the blood on the door.

"Oh shit!" I said and shouted her name. "Dillon?" I opened her door and there she was naked as the day is long and very much dead. Her eyes stared at me accusingly as if I was the one who had done it. There was a belt around her throat and unfortunately, it was mine. She had cuts on her arms and legs too. That would explain the blood, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to see what else had been done to her judging by the position of her legs and the empty condom wrapper on the floor. I sighed and cried at the same time.

The police actually took me into custody when I told them I had never seen her before that night and she let me sleep on her couch. There had been no DNA and no prints on that wrapper, but that was my belt, so they decided we had a night of rough play and I got carried away and tried to make it look like someone else did it. I can't believe I got convicted on such flimsy evidence. I know whoever did it had to have had a key because she had that door locked with a really expensive deadbolt. The cops just wanted a fast conviction even though they never did break me into admitting to anything, and they sure enough tried to make me. I wasn't saving the State any money by confessing to something I didn't do.

If I ever get out of here, I am going to find out who did it. I am going to do the investigating that the cops avoided. I have a lawyer on my side trying to get me out. In the meantime, sleeping that sound is not an option. I probably won't sleep until I am either released or dead. Inmates don't like rapists, you see. They feel they deserve to get as good as they gave so being on guard is a twenty-four-seven job.

Maybe I'll see you on the outside one day, maybe not. One thing is for sure; I'll never be a singer again, and I will never accept the kindness of strangers.