This is a short fiction I wrote for my English class. While somewhat historically correspondent, I took fantastical elements and did no actual research on the event pertaining to my story. This is a personal, and imaginary, take on the death of John Lennon.

He stared down at the corpse that lay before him, who had, just moments ago been brimming with life. The numbness had engulfed him. He was unable to process the act he had just committed, but he knew one thing. It felt good. He had killed somebody, for himself, for the world. He had listened to what they had told him, his task was complete. The world would surely recognize him as a hero for his actions. The blood oozing from underneath the still figure on the sidewalk trickled down the cracked pavement and caressed the sole of his boot. What had felt like an eternity had been but a few seconds. He turned from his enemy, and walked around the corner.

He arrived home that night to his small second story apartment, vacant as it always was. He didn't mind in the slightest. The sparse furniture consisted of a mattress upon the floor, covered with a blanket and adorned with a single pillow. A television with twisted, writhing wires sat upon a small stand at its foot. The remote had long since been lost. He walked to the black box and pressed the power button, the screen flashed on. As he flipped through the channels with a detached and dull expression, the news caught his eye. His actions had been recognized! There on the screen was an image of the man whose life he had taken, a warm feeling rushed into him, his enthusiasm returned. The people had seen his heroism and were sure to reward it. Content, he strolled into the kitchen, humming a wordless tune. As he was fixing his dinner a knock on the door pulled him from his culinary effort. With high hopes he walked towards the sharp rapping and pulled the wooden door open. Just as he had expected, a welcoming committee was on his doorstep. With bright smiles, they praised him for the service he had done and guided him towards a silver chariot.

While it was not grand, he could have cared less, this was his homecoming. The two men, grinning ear to ear and singing his praise, guided him to the vehicle. He climbed inside without hesitation and off they went. Through the streets, the rush was exhilarating. Crowds lined up along the streets, roaring their appreciation and love for him. Flowers and hats lined every street. He had not expected such a welcoming embrace. The people loved him. Gradually the vehicle slowed and ground to a halt. His newfound friends took him by the arm and said "welcome home hero." The door flung open and he was thrust into a crowd setting up a deafening roar. He waved with giddy enthusiasm, blowing kisses and bowing as he walked towards the majestic palace before him. People clawed past one another just to touch him in all his glory. He felt as though he was part of a higher existence. As he began to ascend the steps, he made out a voice from the crowd. Louder than the rest, he heard each and every word, as clear as day. "How could you? How could you kill John Lennon? You are evil, you are a coward, you are nothing." Confused as to how anybody could hate him, he continued up the steps and through the elegant doors, here was his enlightenment.