"I haven't agreed to anything yet. But, thank you anyway," she says as they walk past the scrap of faded crime scene tape blowing in the wind.
How ridiculous, she says to herself, I'm thanking him for allowing me to enter my own home! Brushing a few raindrops off her coat, wishing she could remove the wet wig, she instinctively reaches for the light switch then laughs gently as she remembers there is no electricity now.
Inhaling deeply the smell of Home, she looks around the now dim and dusty living room. So many memories... fifteen years they lived here, since the day they married. The house itself was a wedding gift from her new husband. She never figured out how he pulled off buying a house when they were so young.
Walking a few steps in, she catches sight of a dried-up rose in a now-waterless vase on the coffee table. Lifting it out of the vase, a few petals fall to the hardwood floor. Amazingly, it still has a trace of its divine perfume.
She looks over at the officer standing in the front doorway. He's still holding the umbrella used to partially shield her from the thunderstorm.
"He gave me a rose every single Wednesday of our lives together. We met on a Wednesday."
He doesn't respond.
Carrying the rose, she stands still in the middle of the living room, looking around at their couch, their television, their DVD player - they bought that just a week before The Day. Untouched and dusty, pictures of their lives, knick-knacks and silly souvenirs from vacations stood together on the shelves. Everything looks so normal. Sure, a bit dusty and musty - it has been three months, after all - but still, so normal. Just like returning home from vacation.
But it's no vacation she's been on, these last three months.
"This is my home, my life." How can they expect me to give all of this up? "I can't leave everything."
Again, the officer does not respond.
She walks into the kitchen, smiling as she imagines the smell of baking bread. He loved that smell. Even though she never - not once - succeeded in baking a loaf that actually looked like bread, she baked bread for him every week. Just for the smile it brought to his face when he got home from work. God, I loved him so much. I still do. We were so happy together.
With surprise, she sees the newspaper from The Day is still on the table, open to the page with the picture that destroyed her life. That changed everything.
Not now, she says to herself. Turning sharply, she heads towards the study. He always called it the study; she always called it the den. It was the only thing they ever argued about - although it was a stretch to call that an argument.
She looks around the room, at his desk, at her desk, at all the books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. He built those shelves for me. He knew I could never throw out a book after I read it; God, how I loved to read.
"It's been three months since I read a book. I don't think I've ever gone three days without reading a book, before all of this happened."
"No one is stopping you from reading, Ma'am." With a start, she turns to the officer: she hadn't realized he'd left his post at the front door, nor did she realize she spoke aloud.
She took one of her favorite books off the shelf and then put it back as she saw him shake his head "no." That's right, I can't take anything with me. Not one single piece of fifteen years of life can be removed from here.... It has to be a clean break. Anything missing and he might know I'm still alive. Not that he has returned here since The Day. This is my home, this is my life, this is everything that I loved and lived for!! It's too much to ask of anyone, even if it's supposed to save my life. "That's a laugh... save my life by taking me away from my life."
"It's for the best, Ma'am."
"That's what you keep saying." She looks away from him.
"We are very good at what we do. He will never find you. You are, after all, dead."
"Yes, but will you ever find him?"
He doesn't respond.
She looks at her desk, with a small, neat pile of bills on it. Well, at least I won't have to pay those ever again... but I never minded paying bills. It was a part of our life together, a life I relished. I loved every little moment of every day of the last fifteen years.
Until the moment I opened this drawer right here, looking for the electric bill and finding a necklace that wasn't mine. Oh God, I was so naive! How stupid of me to think he was having a mere affair! As if he would ever stoop to something as banal as cheating on me... never, not once would he ever do that. I thought he was seeing someone else... I didn't have a clue how blind I was as I held that necklace that day. Then I saw the picture in the newspaper... no, not now. Don't. Choke it back, you have cried enough tears already.
"Ma'am, I really don't think you should go in there," the officer said as she started towards their bedroom.
"I thought you said it was all cleaned up."
"It is, for the most part. I just don't want you to get upset."
"You don't want me to get upset? You want me to leave my entire life behind, without even a single photo! You want me to leave my town, my home, my job, my friends, my family, but you don't want me to get upset?" Her eyes flashed as thunder pealed outside.
"You are dead, you have already left."
Sighing, "I know."
Looking at him, daring the officer to stop her, she opens the door to the bedroom. Without looking around, she turns towards the closet. The door, as always, is open. She runs her hands through her clothes, his clothes, and then takes one of his shirts off a hanger. Holding it up to her face, she inhales deeply... it still smells like him. Oh God, I love him so much, I miss him so much... why did this happen? How could he do this to me? A thorn from the rose pricks her hand as she holds his shirt tightly: she had forgotten she was still carrying the rose.
Okay, let's do it. Let's look at it. You can do this, just turn around and look at it. She turns halfway around and realizes the bed is gone. She looks questioningly at the officer.
"Evidence, Ma'am."
That's right... the bed would be evidence... what was I expecting to see? Did I really think they would leave a bed, soaked in my blood, here in the house? But my blood is still here... I can see a few circles of it on our carpet. My blood. The blood of my life. The bloody evidence of my death. He killed me, but he didn't succeed. He left me for dead, but I survived. I still live and breathe, I still walk and talk.
But no one can ever know it again except me and them: the people who want me to give it all up. Change my name, my town, and my life. We'll take care of everything, they say. He will never find you, they say. Why would he try to find me? He thinks I'm dead. Just like the fourteen other women they tell me he killed. I was number fifteen.
Why?
The dried bloodstained carpet is stiff like thin cardboard. The room doesn't smell like a happy marriage died here, like my life ended here. It doesn't smell at all.
Ignoring the officer, she hangs her husband's shirt up in the closet. She looks around the bedroom again... we made love that night. Then he killed me while I slept. She walks back to the kitchen where she sits down at the table.
She looks at the newspaper. "Local Woman Missing" read the headline. There she was, number fourteen. The necklace I found was on her neck. I thought he was having an affair with her... I wondered why would he be having an affair with a missing woman? To think I believed his story that the necklace was a surprise anniversary gift for me. I was so blind, so stupid. How could I not see? How could I be living with a monster? Fourteen women dead, one each year, until me. The phone suddenly rings, startling her, she actually reaches to answer it but stops herself: the dead can't answer phones, after all.
"Kind of silly, isn't it, turning off the electricity but not the phone?"
He actually smiles at her, this big, burly, stoic officer; her protector, her only contact with the living world.
This is my everything. They want me to leave it all. I can't take anything. She looks up from the newspaper, then around the kitchen slowly. My home... but it's not my home anymore. The love of my life, my husband... he took it all away, he destroyed it all the day he killed me, the day he left me for dead. He destroyed it all the day he killed the first woman, but I was blind, I didn't know I was living a dark lie all those years. I'm dead now, and the dead don't need anything from the past.
The only way to stay alive and safe is to be dead.
She stands up, walks towards the door and then steps out onto the front porch.
"It's stopped raining."
He nods.
The sun is bright now; everything sparkling wet from the rain, the glass glittering like diamonds. Like diamonds in a necklace once found in a loving husband's desk drawer. Inhaling deeply the fresh, clean smell of the passing thunderstorm, she looks at the officer.
"Do I get to pick my own name?"
He chuckles lightly as he leads her back to the black sedan, still clutching a dead rose in her hand.
She looks at her desk, with a small, neat pile of bills on it. Well, at least I won't have to pay those ever again... but I never minded paying bills. It was a part of our life together, a life I relished. I loved every little moment of every day of the last fifteen years.
Until the moment I opened this drawer right here, looking for the electric bill and finding a necklace that wasn't mine. Oh God, I was so naive! How stupid of me to think he was having a mere affair! As if he would ever stoop to something as banal as cheating on me... never, not once would he ever do that. I thought he was seeing someone else... I didn't have a clue how blind I was as I held that necklace that day. Then I saw the picture in the newspaper... no, not now. Don't. Choke it back, you have cried enough tears already.
"Ma'am, I really don't think you should go in there," the officer said as she started towards their bedroom.
"I thought you said it was all cleaned up."
"It is, for the most part. I just don't want you to get upset."
"You don't want me to get upset? You want me to leave my entire life behind, without even a single photo! You want me to leave my town, my home, my job, my friends, my family, but you don't want me to get upset?" Her eyes flashed as thunder pealed outside.
"You are dead, you have already left."
Sighing, "I know."
Looking at him, daring the officer to stop her, she opens the door to the bedroom. Without looking around, she turns towards the closet. The door, as always, is open. She runs her hands through her clothes, his clothes, and then takes one of his shirts off a hanger. Holding it up to her face, she inhales deeply... it still smells like him. Oh God, I love him so much, I miss him so much... why did this happen? How could he do this to me? A thorn from the rose pricks her hand as she holds his shirt tightly: she had forgotten she was still carrying the rose.
Okay, let's do it. Let's look at it. You can do this, just turn around and look at it. She turns halfway around and realizes the bed is gone. She looks questioningly at the officer.
"Evidence, Ma'am."
That's right... the bed would be evidence... what was I expecting to see? Did I really think they would leave a bed, soaked in my blood, here in the house? But my blood is still here... I can see a few circles of it on our carpet. My blood. The blood of my life. The bloody evidence of my death. He killed me, but he didn't succeed. He left me for dead, but I survived. I still live and breathe, I still walk and talk.
But no one can ever know it again except me and them: the people who want me to give it all up. Change my name, my town, and my life. We'll take care of everything, they say. He will never find you, they say. Why would he try to find me? He thinks I'm dead. Just like the fourteen other women they tell me he killed. I was number fifteen.
Why?
The dried bloodstained carpet is stiff like thin cardboard. The room doesn't smell like a happy marriage died here, like my life ended here. It doesn't smell at all.
Ignoring the officer, she hangs her husband's shirt up in the closet. She looks around the bedroom again... we made love that night. Then he killed me while I slept. She walks back to the kitchen where she sits down at the table.
She looks at the newspaper. "Local Woman Missing" read the headline. There she was, number fourteen. The necklace I found was on her neck. I thought he was having an affair with her... I wondered why would he be having an affair with a missing woman? To think I believed his story that the necklace was a surprise anniversary gift for me. I was so blind, so stupid. How could I not see? How could I be living with a monster? Fourteen women dead, one each year, until me. The phone suddenly rings, startling her, she actually reaches to answer it but stops herself: the dead can't answer phones, after all.
"Kind of silly, isn't it, turning off the electricity but not the phone?"
He actually smiles at her, this big, burly, stoic officer; her protector, her only contact with the living world.
This is my everything. They want me to leave it all. I can't take anything. She looks up from the newspaper, then around the kitchen slowly. My home... but it's not my home anymore. The love of my life, my husband... he took it all away, he destroyed it all the day he killed me, the day he left me for dead. He destroyed it all the day he killed the first woman, but I was blind, I didn't know I was living a dark lie all those years. I'm dead now, and the dead don't need anything from the past.
The only way to stay alive and safe is to be dead.
She stands up, walks towards the door and then steps out onto the front porch.
"It's stopped raining."
He nods.
The sun is bright now; everything sparkling wet from the rain, the glass glittering like diamonds. Like diamonds in a necklace once found in a loving husband's desk drawer. Inhaling deeply the fresh, clean smell of the passing thunderstorm, she looks at the officer.
"Do I get to pick my own name?"
He chuckles lightly as he leads her back to the black sedan, still clutching a dead rose in her hand.
Written for Professor Coleman's Creative Fiction class at Pikes Peak Community College, 11 October 2004. Received Honorable Mention in the VF short-story contest, 2006. Later expanded for an advanced Creative Fiction class at University of Colorado-Colorado Springs in 2007.
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