She could hear them whisper around her, pretending she didn’t. They think it was me. I suspected so, but…I couldn’t, not Roger. He was my favorite of all of them, I could never... All that blood, pooled in a red mirror on the floor, splattered on the walls, on my hands. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.
Whenever she tried to talk to the cops, they simply nodded once or twice and left. Maybe I need to talk to someone higher up. When she stood, the five surrounding cops jerked to life.
“What are you doing?” one asked.
“I am going to sort this mess out,” she said firmly. As the guards glanced at each other, she slipped among them and made her way to an older cop talking to a younger blonde haired one.
When the older cop noticed her coming, he stopped talking immediately and turned towards her. “Miss Loft, what can I do for you?”
“I didn’t do it. This isn’t the first murder and no one is looking into this! I want to know why.”
“Miss Loft, we are looking for the, ah, culprit. Don’t worry, we can get someone else over to help watch over you soon.” The young man at his side eyed her strangely. She shifted her weight to rest on her other hip, trying to ignore him.
“Oh? No one has so much as asked me what happened!”
“Um, they didn’t? Well, then, you can tell it to Andy here, I’ll go talk to them.” He left, pushing an uncomfortable looking Andy foreword.
“So, uh, tell me what happened.” He said scratching his back.
“Last night, I was getting tired and Roger left to get me a soda. I might have nodded off, but I when I woke up I heard a noise and realized the front door was open. I shut it, then, when I turned around I saw,” her voice chocked, but she swallowed her feelings down, “there was blood everywhere. I was still half asleep when I got up, so that’s why I must have missed it, and I walked through…it to shut the door. Then I called you, well the police.”
Andy nodded, his face was stiff. He continued to scratch his back. “And you have no idea where the body is?”
She shook her head sadly; at least she didn’t have to wake up to see his body. She shivered slightly at the memories.
There had been many others in the past, so many. The first person to take care of her started when she was three, he stayed the longest of all of them. It was right after her parents told her she was sick and had to live away from everyone. His name was George. Every night, he had reminded her to take her medicine, cooked her meals, and took her places. She remembered that he would only sleep after she took medicine, but he told her she couldn’t sleep with out her ‘bear hug’ jacket for her night time spasms, so she wouldn’t break anything or fall out of bed. One day, she had only pretended to take the pills, and fell asleep on the couch. When she woke up, George was lying on the floor, a gash staining his upper left thigh. She could still see the crimson red flowing through his fingers and onto the carpets. She could still hear his hollow moans that turned to screams whenever she approached. That was the first time she had used the red telephone on the wall. A wailing ambulance had come and took her and George to the hospital. They were only there for a while, but George kept saying he didn’t want to go back over and over again. When she asked a doctor, he said that he had hurt himself and was scared about getting hurt again. Then, the police came and talked to him privately. After that, George took her home. She had thought that was going to be the end of it, but that night George told her to take her medicine and go play in her room. She had just gotten out her Barbies when she heard a loud thunk. Carefully, she had peeked out of the door and screamed. Hanging from the living room fan, was George’s lifeless body, a thick rope scratching his neck red, and a chair from the kitchen table beneath his feet.
Some had run away, some of them were murdered in the night. It terrified her, and gave her another reason to be glad she didn’t have to sleep a lot. Every time she awoke, however, she was always afraid there would be another body.
Whoever killed them never used a gun. Usually, they would steal a knife from the knife drawer, which was always locked. The killer never hurt her, and always waited until she wasn’t looking. Sometimes he only injured his victims, leaving from small slashes that covered their bodies to stabbing them in non-vital areas, leaving them to howl in pain. Other times, however, they would go so far as to remove entire limbs from their still conscious bodies, letting them slowly bleed to death, their bloody stubs jerking around splattering her with blood when she tried to help. Once, one had run throughout the house and into the streets to escape the killer. His blood still darkened the carpets and walls. When she found him, he was laying facedown in the street, blood slowly trickling into the sewers, four knives sticking out of his back like feathers.
She still had nightmares about them, screaming at her to stop and help them. Every time, she could never reach them, only hear them. Their voices echoed in her head endlessly, until she thought she would break. If only she could show this man what it was like, but she couldn’t, could she?