The Day That Destroyed Us Both
I heard that cry…That scream that tears me apart and jolts my heart. As I run up the stairs I hear a thud and my heart drops. When I arrive at the door a part of me doesn’t want to go on, but I know I have to. I open the door and am greeted with a bang. My eyes, wide, try not to see what so clearly just happened in front of them. The gun in your hand, the barrel pressed against your forehead. The trigger pulled, and a crimson splash splattered onto the wall. You, on your knees and then, your body falling down, spread out on the wood floor. I scream, tears flowing profusely from my eyes. I run to your fallen body and hold it against my chest, blood staining my clothes. The last warmth of your lips, I steal with a kiss. I cry over your body, my tears staining your cheeks. Your skin, it was still so soft, your eyes, still so beautiful, you…You are still my everything.
I stare out of the bus window, my vacant expression could keep even myself out of my thoughts. My silky, brown hair flutters slightly from the breeze of an open window. My green eyes, so dull compared to their usual color…Their usual color, before that day. As my thoughts drift towards horrid memories, I close my eyes. I tell myself “No,” but I only end up saying to myself, “I miss him…So much.”
The screeching brakes followed by the squeaky doors tear me from my thought. I stood, but froze, as if suddenly in a daze. I suddenly forgot where I was, and what I was doing...I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. I had to handle this “business” first. The bus driver calls something out to me and I snap out of my trance-like state and hurry off the bus, as to not keep the driver any longer. As I step unto the cement sidewalk, the back of my mid screams for me to get back on the bus and go home, but my body proceeds forward.
The sign on the building in front of me says “Police Department” but all I see is a pain in the a**. They had called me way too early in the morning this morning and had asked if I could come in later. They had said they had questions about the incident. The incident was, I don’t know, a year ago, and they wanted to question me now. The case was closed a week after it happened, but I guess some dumbass decided to reopen the case to see how they could ******** with me more; They could let me know he was gone; They could tell me again how he had shot himself; They could describe to me how his brains had been splattered onto my walls; They could try to comfort me and tell me it had nothing to do with me and to not beat myself up for his choice; They could lie to me by telling me he was in a better place.
He had told me that I meant everything to him. He told me I was the only piece of heaven he could ever get. He told me he’d be nothing without me. He told me he could never leave me, I was his happiness. He had lied to me, just like the cops, just like everyone, just like everything else. I have been trying to forget about him, erase his face from my mind, lose all recollection of his melodious voice and drown out his sweet scent. I wish that these idiotic cops would realize this and just leave me the hell alone. I wish they knew, being reminded of him was hell. I wish they knew, I never want to hear his name again.
As I take the first step up the stairs towards the entrance I think to myself, “Just turn around.” The second step, I whisper to myself, “You can still turn back.” The third step, I mutter under my breath, “Don’t go in there.” The fourth, I sigh, “This is such a waste of my time.” The fifth, I say to myself, “Just don’t talk to them.” The sixth, I ask myself, “Why me?”
I push open the glass doors and enter the blinding, and sterile, white, waiting room. I look to my right; A couple of girls and an old man sitting at least one two chairs away from each other as if the other is contagious with some sort of disease. The girls probably are, my observations led me to assume that they are rape victims or had just been busted for being at some party with underage drinking; Both contained sex, so maybe I should just cut to the point more often. The old man is probably here to b***h about some unimportant issue that only upsets him. The wall in front of me has three doors, all closed with fogged glass, as if detectives and officers don’t want anyone to know if they are in there or not. Then, to my left there is a counter with a female cop sitting behind it, clicking her mouse as she stares, completely focused, at the computer screen. To most, she would appear to be a busy bee, but my clever deducting skills let me know she was playing a game of Solitaire. By the looks of the woman, she was probably used to doing things by herself.
I turn and approach the counter, I assume that’s what I’m supposed to do since I don’t have a scheduled time and no one’s waiting for me. Plus, just like at a dentist’s office, you tell the lady sitting at the desk you’re there and then they tell the dentist that you have arrived. Anyway, as I grow closer to the counter, a man in a white, dress shirt, black tie, black dress shoes and black slacks walks out of the closed door on the very left. He asks me to come into his office, and that he’s been waiting for me.
As I turn to follow the man into his office, like I could’ve predicted, the old man jumps out of his seat. Quite a lot of energy for an old man, really. He starts whining about how he’s been waiting over half an hour and how I had just arrived. I turn and glare at the old man, if he really wanted to be in the company of a cop before me, be my guest, I hate it here, and I don’t really want to talk to the cop at all.
The man looks toward the old man and explains to him that I had been expected to drop by. He also reassures the old man that he’d be attended to soon. As he turns to me and throws a stupid smile on his face, he tells me to come in and have a seat.
As I enter his office I shrug my shoulders and look around impatiently, like a new kid at the lunch table. I glance at his name plate, the title “Detective” followed by “Roman Hougon”. That is his name, Roman Hougon…The detective, Roman Hougon. I think to myself, “Roman, such an uncommon name. Wonder how he pronounces it…” I then take a second look at this man. He had chocolate brown hair, with hazelnut eyes. His skin was an olive color and his body was tastefully toned, or as far as I could tell through his shirt. I admit, he is a handsome man, but he was in law enforcement, which lowered his points on attractiveness. I stand with my hand on the back of a chair, and just gaze at him with a look that a tiger would give her prey.
“Please, Mrs. Johanson, sit, relax,” the detective insist.
I chuckle at the title of misses. My husband was dead, am I married to a corpse then? “Just call me Tristan, detective,” I tell him, pasting that fake smile unto my face; that faux smile that I’ve worn ever since that day, so long ago.
“Only if you call me Roman, Mrs. Johanson,” Detective Hougon says with the smile of a charmer, but the glistening eyes of the snake. The typical impression most cops give.
“Alright, Roman,” I reply, sitting at the edge of the chair. You can never let yourself get to comfortable with a stranger, especially if that stranger is with the police and you have no idea what it is exactly that they want.
“I’m sorry to pull this case up again, especially so close to the two-year anniversary of the tragedy,” Detective Hougon apologizes to me.
It’s all bullshit! I know that these people don’t give a damn! No one ever has! If they did, they would all leave me the hell alone; but I just keep that fake smile plastered to my face and respond, “Oh, it’s not a problem.”
Now that he mentions it, it has been two years, hasn’t it…It feels like it wasn’t quite that long ago; and is it really that close to the anniversary? I had no idea…Time seems to have slowed for me…Why’d he have to mention it anyways? I’m trying to move on, I’m really trying to forget… “Thanks a lot a*****e,” is all I could think to myself.
“Some new evidence has shown up. The new residents of your old house found it while they were replacing the wood floors. So, we thought we should let your know,” Detective Hougon informs me, with a slight tone of excitement in his voice.
“What exactly would this piece of evidence be then?” I inquire, as I raise an eyebrow at his inappropriate tone.
“We found his suicide note,” Detective Hougon answers, seeming to become ever more anxious, ever more excited; like a cat batting around a mouse before he devours the rodent; Just savoring every clue, every little proof that he killed himself makes these animals happy. It is disgusting, and I sometimes wish that I had hid his body, and covered his suicide up, just to keep these monsters away from him.
“Well, may I look at it, or are you just informing me that there is one?” I ask the detective. I remember when I had first spoke to the cops they told me if they found the suicide note, I’d be the first to read it. Another lie, but I couldn’t expect cops to remain truthful, especially with promises like that, there’s no way they could respect me that much.
“We don’t have the original with us at the moment, but we do have a copy with us. Would you like to see that?” Hougon questions as he turns toward his filing cabinet.
“Of course I want to see that dip-s**t,” I mumble under my breath, but answer him, “Yes, I would appreciate that, Roman.”
“We sent the original to a handwriting specialist; to see if it was actually written by him, and maybe even tell if he was murdered,” Hougon explains to me as he fumbles through his filing cabinet, flipping through pages and folders. “If you were curious about that,” he adds.
“I wasn’t,” I sigh as I turn my gaze toward the ground. I shake my head. “How could he have been murdered? I saw him…I saw him pull the trigger…right in front of me…Didn’t I?”
Roman turns to me, a file in his hand. He sets it on the desk and takes a seat on his chair behind the desk. As he is opening the folder and going through the different papers he says, “Incredible luck, finding this evidence, really. If they hadn’t found it, just imagine how long it would be until someone found it?”
“Well most people would replace flooring after it’s been stained with blood. Even if it’s invisible to the naked eye, it’s still there moron. Plus, that was an old house and all the flooring could use some replacing, weren’t you even there at the scene? Probably not, they wouldn’t let a pansy like you near it. You look like one to get a little queasy around blood. Do you get queasy around blood, detective?” I harass him in my mind, knowing not to say it aloud. Law enforcement never relaxes, and can never handle an attack on their pride, their dignity or their morals. They think they’re so high up, and will beat you in an instant if you treat them with the slightest disrespect; while the rest of us are arrested for threatening someone who disrespects you every damn day.
“Ah, here it is,” Hougon says as he pulls out a piece of paper, the copy of the suicide note. He hands it to me and adds quickly, “It’s not your fault Tristan. He made a bad choice.”
I calmly take the paper from Detective Hougon, I hold it in front of me. I instantly recognize the handwriting, it was his. As I read, my hands tremble, I can hear his voice reading the note to me; it’s a sad, but sweet melody:
My love, my world, I’m sorry…
But I feel, no purpose here any longer.
I feel, that you, you’re not happy, and it’s my fault.
I only want you to be happy, my dear.
Since I have been preventing your happiness, I must go.
But love, I can’t live without you.
I can’t go on like this.
So I will leave this place…tonight.
I will love you always
· Wed Jun 10, 2009 @ 01:27am · 1 Comments