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John Domenichini
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idontknowhow2fight.jpg

I Don’t Know How to Fight

by John Domenichini

 

I don’t want to write this. I’m angry at you for making me do this. I know I suggested it first, but that was four hours ago. That’s when all of this was ridiculous. I said, “Let me just write down what happened.”

And you all said, “Tell us first.”

I said, “It will be clearer if I write it down.” It was vague in my mind at first.

And one of you, Sergeant Moore, I think, said something like, “Why? So you can be more careful with your lies?”

I’ve told you now from seven different directions, as best I could. Damn it! Okay, I’ll tell you again, in writing this time. But this is it. After this, if you want me to explain more, I’m going to ask for a lawyer. This is stupid.

I mean, I’m sorry the guy’s dead. I’m really sorry. But he’s a diplomat’s son. That’s what this is really all about. He was aggressive and violent. He was! Not me!

And I told you, I blacked out, so it’s not clear. That happens. I’m not used to violence. Just because I have no signs of a concussion, doesn’t mean that I don’t have one.

Besides, I work at Office World. What do you think? I’m a hired assassin? I was on my lunch break. I’d never seen that guy before, or heard of him. I was on my lunch break. I went to the mall to eat lunch.

But why am I writing this? I’ve explained it to all of you so many times now. I know it was my idea to write it down at first, but that was because it was unclear. Now, it’s clear, after repeating it over and over again.

Suspects usually write things like this as confessions. This isn’t a confession. It was self defense. He was very aggressive. He hit me first, obviously. I wouldn’t have hit him. No way.

I told you I didn’t see him waiting for my parking spot. I was just listening to music. Nick Lowe, on CD, which you keep asking me about. Not on the radio, not from my phone. On a CD, which is in my car right now, obviously. Do you really think I’m going to say a different singer or a different way of listening to it if I tell the story again? It was Nick Lowe on CD, okay? The broken glass song, like that’s really important. I was listening to that song and taking my time backing out of the spot.

Then that lunatic rapped on my window and told me to get the hell out of the spot. And screaming, too. Someone must have seen him or heard him, at least. There’s got to be a witness to that part.

Anyway, he scared the hell out of me. I said, “Okay.” But when he walked back to his car, I got angry. I decided to walk back to the mall instead, just to get him angrier. I mean, who does he think he is, knocking on my window like that?

I got out, slipped between cars, and headed back to the mall. Then I blacked out. I assume he hit me or kicked me or something. I don’t have a memory of it. I wish I did, but I don’t. Next thing I knew, I was 50 feet away punching him in the face, while he was on the hood of some car.

That’s it. My knuckles were bleeding, my face hurt. That’s it. It was traumatic; maybe that’s why I blacked out. I mean, I guess so.

But I told you I’m not a martial arts expert or anything like that. I’m not trained to kill people. I went to Carlton High School. Right here. I’m local. I have friends, family, here. You guys are talking like I’m an assassin or something, but how does that make sense?

You keep asking about last summer in Argentina. So what? I have family there. So what? That somehow makes me an assassin? That makes no sense. I get it. He’s the son of an Argentine diplomat. That’s just coincidence. That’s all that is.

Okay, so you say that witnesses said that I fought with skill, supposedly. But I don’t know martial arts. It was fear, survival instinct. That’s it. He started it. Obviously. I wouldn’t have. I don’t know how to fight.

I don’t want to keep writing this. This isn’t a confession. I know it was my idea to write this down originally, but that was before. I’m stopping now!

 

John Domenichini is a technical writer who lives in San Jose, California.
His writing has appeared in Mysterical-E, Bartleby Snopes, and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine.

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