"Here he comes: The Italian Stallion." One of the servants of the mansion said in an almost low/soft tone.

The gargoyles of the mansion seemed to be bowing in the presence of the busy bee. His mother had been waiting all day for her son's arrival from one of his acclaimed business ventures. James was eager to provide much more support with the family business now that he was not involved with Fiona Hutherbly.

Mr. Wexlington stepped out of his Bugatti La Voiture Noire (or the BLVN like Mr. W liked to call it), the server nearly almost choked, and had to hold back tears of envy almost dripping from his tear-ducts.

As the young wealthy man stepped out of the BLVN, he reached into the front jacket pocket of his Brioni suit. He pulled out a silver pocket watch to hand it to his mother. Once again, the server felt tears beginning to form in his eyes, how he dreamed of someday wearing such a suit.

The gentleman was greeted by a welcoming party, that was mostly of servants. His mother smiled, and beamed with pride upon seeing her clever, and handsome son.

James felt the tight squeeze of unconditional loving arms around him. He smiled, and thought to himself, "There's no place like home."

During eventide, James had been spoiled with a full course Italian dinner, and later his mother decided that it was time for them to check in the family library to enjoy viewing some family photos. The pictures were full of events, and past memories from James' parents meeting at Eldio College for the exceptionally gifted, to the time his father bent down on one knee to propose to his future Italian wife, all the way to James' first day of attending the infants class for Einsteins.

James always enjoyed spending time at home, but his mother wanted him to explore the world, and hopefully eventually settle down. His mother wanted to be a Nonna while she was still in her youth...(this always made James laugh, he loved his mother, but he also did not want to rush into a marriage just for the sake of making her a grandmother while she was still full of vigor, and vitality).

The following day, a scream was heard from his mother's chambers. James rushed to Mrs. Wexlington's bedroom. Her body lay still, as if she was only taking an extra hour of rest. But James was concerned, his mother was an early bird. Why was she still fast asleep, and past nine o'clock?

His mother's eyes were shut. She looked so peaceful. Her servant was trembling, and only continued to stare with a blank expression at Mrs. Wexlington. James felt queasy. He shook his head and cried out, "Mamma!"

James had quickly dialed the polizia. It did not take long for them to arrive at the Wexlington mansion. The police department was always ready to provide help to well-known, and notable families in their policing district.

When the front door was opened, to James' surprise he came face-to-face with a rather petite monsieur who came quite dressed to the nines, and was holding a cane that he seemed ready to use to strike James with right away.

James cleared his throat, and gazed into the man's piercing marrone eyes. The stranger simply bowed in the young man's presence:

"My deepest condolences to you, young man, on the passing of...your loved one.."

James stepped back from the door, with a surprised look on his face, and shook his head. "Is she really gone? Please, come in if you can help me find out what happened to her."

"But of course, oh," he said with a gentle smile, "I am Grindor Lavie, at your service."

"Follow me...her room is on the second floor," his voice shook, as his heart felt heavy with sadness.

Grindor Lavie paid great attention to all details: from the gargoyles that greet you by the main door: to the angelic front ceiling paintings; the great library room filled with portrait paintings of the Wexlington bloodline all the way from the Wexlington that created the first ever portrait...to the one that irritated James..his young cousin who lived in Spain, from his father's side, and claimed that soon if James did not get married, his cousin would not mind becoming his bride (that was never going to happen, not in this lifetime, or the next).

Lavie stepped into the room. He turned around a full 360 degrees, and stopped.

James sighed. "Eh, M. Lavie," with his index finger he pointed at his mother's body.

"My condolences to you, again, young man. I will make sure to find out who ended up killing your mother." Lavie's facial expression changed from a warm one to a serious look now.

James felt some form of relief. "If there is anything you need, feel free to ask any of the servants here."

Lavie held out his index finger toward James' face, "I only ask for one thing. An answer to the most important question."

James raised his eyebrow, "What's that?"

M. Lavie clasped his hands together, "Who do you think killed your mother?"

"I...I have no clue, that is why you are here to help solve this case. Or do you mean do I know of anyone that could possibly have been planning to kill my mother? How would I know? I just arrived back home yesterday after three in the afternoon."

Lavie wagged his index finger. "You need to think back to years, or times before today. The person could be anyone, even someone that you think might benefit from your mother passing away."

James looked thoughtful, "No, ah...maybe. But, hmm, there is no way she could have done it...she never ever comes to visit anymore..ever since she was informed to stay out of the mansion because of her behavior."

"Who is this person that you speak of? Your step/half sibling from your father's other secret love affair? Or could it be your twin who is actually older than you and wants to inherit everything while they are still young?"

Mr. Wexlington chuckled, "You need to take it easy, and my father had no other wife, or lover. He was a devoted, and loving father. Also, he was a faithful man to my mother. Not once did he ever try to cheat on her."

M. Lavie rubbed his chin in deep thought. "I shall continue to dig further into this matter. Let us go down, and have brunch. I hope the meal that we are served with is to die for. I mean...sweet, or at least good." He let out a nervous laugh, this was no time for such jokes, especially after someone just died.

The servants had been in a panic. Each one was afraid of being questioned by the police. Some could not even speak well in front of M. Lavie. The only thing on their minds was being accused of killing Mrs. Wexlington.

James only took a few sips of his favorite drink: pink lemonade while M. Lavie, he was served a brunch fit for a King- with eggs served in egg cups; a pancake tower, that had some berries on the top; as well as a nice cup of hot Milo.

The hour of brunch ended on a quiet note. M. Lavie had thanked the kitchen staff for preparing such a hearty meal.

James had decided to return to his own room. He grabbed his bags, and headed toward the front door.

Someone had been keeping their eyes on him. The moment he opened the door, he heard:

"Leaving home already, James. Come on. You will have to stay for the afternoon family activities."

James gasped. He stumbled backward, "I...thou...I thought you...we..were dead."

M. Lavie slowly clapped his hands, and laughed. "He came like a swallow, appearing safe as a mallow, dressed all fine, ready to dine...come little birdie, do not try to leave the nest early."

Mrs. Wexlington walked over to his side. "Where is the real James? What did you do with my son?!"

M. Lavie moved closer to Mrs. Wexlington's side. "Come this way. Do not worry about a thing. Your son is over here."

From behind the side of the coat closet, M. Lavie placed his hand in one corner of that space, and found a small point which was a tiny activating mark. He pressed it, and a passageway appeared leading to another part of the mansion that had not been included in the mansion's blueprints from the time it was remodeled. Mrs. Wexlington stormed inside the entrance leading to that hidden room. She spotted James' real body lying on a leather couch. His body had been left in a sleeping position, with his hands placed along the sides of his body.

"Is he...dead?"

"No...he was only knocked out with a very powerful drug, by the James double who is currently being handed to the police as we speak. I am glad you had invited me to pay you, and your son a visit. I missed my train, and had to end up catching another one much later. Otherwise, I would have been here earlier. But I am glad to have given you lessons in: What to do when your child/son comes home, is not your actual/real son, and is a random person pretending to be your child/son."

Mrs. Wexlington chuckled, "My husband would have enjoyed your company. Unfortunately, he does spend a lot of time managing his businesses in various locations around the world, and he has such a peculiar vision of branching out to...dare I say the word..reach out to aliens...from the Milky Way, and beyond. Sometimes his ambition seems out of this world, or crazy."

James ended up being taken care of by the family doctor. He was told about everything that happened while he had been out of commission. His mother was just glad that he was home...safe, and sound.

Meanwhile back at the police station, M. Lavie was asked to interrogate the one who had been posing as James. When he got to the precinct, there was pandemonium. M. Lavie asked one of the police officers, "What's going on here?"

The police office replied, "Apparently the man we thought we had caught is a well-known International criminal known for stealing identities. Here we were thinking we had him tied up, and placed in a cell, but when the time came to take him into the interrogation room...he had vanished."

"That little birdie did not want to sing for supper, or be kept in a cage."

M. Lavie bid the police officer adieu. "O, where are you hiding Hirundinidae?"

#Hirundinidae (c) 03.22.2023

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPHDxqVi5qA

(Based on a song I wrote)

If you get caught, you're gonna get shot.

Hide the body before it rots.

Looks like you might not make it out alive-

Tonight, we're gonna run.

Meet me at the rendezvous point just around the block

from the old schoolhouse, believe me it's quite a spot...

We'll take an Uber to the nearest town

buy a train ticket than ditch it so we

won't be found

Got an uncle back in Gladstone,

he'll let us stick around.

But first we gotta put this poor man

underground.

I'll bring a shovel and some clothes

you'll bring some food and a rope

we'll need some money for the road...

I'll bring the bread, you bring the rice.

I'll bring the gun, you bring the knife.

It's gonna be a wild night...

My partner in crime.

Please sir, officer, sir, mister,

I need a cop.

This outlaw murderer, sir, is hiding

around the block.

Please sir, officer, sir, mister

come quiet

This outlaw murderer thinks I'm her

partner in crime...

I'll bring a shovel and some clothes

you'll bring some food and a rope

we'll need some money for the road...

I'll bring the bread, you bring the rice.

I'll bring the gun, you bring the knife.

It's gonna be a wild night...

My partner in crime!

"Officer, can you step in my office for a second?"

"Yeah, sure," I responded. I knew what I was being called in for.

The truth is, for the past couple of months, I've found myself sleepwalking in a state that I can't get myself out of. I don't know what I'm doing and I can't see what's going on, but I can feel myself moving. Walking. I'll wake up in some random part of my house, outside my doorstep, in random places. The farthest from home I've ever woken up was near a dumpster I discovered was behind a McDonald's a little under half a mile from my house. I had never heard of such a thing, and the thought of telling the professionals I work with every day made me feel a little embarrassed. This wasn't something I could comfortably talk about unless awfully pressured into it, and I figured that had to be why Mrs. Harlow wanted me in her office.

I've been waking up and coming in to work late.

I sat down in the visitor's chair as she shut the door behind me, and she walked round her desk and sat down, her elbows on the table and her fingers interlocked.

"Officer Stuart," she said, "do you know why I called you in here today?"

"I think so. About me coming in late?"

"Yeah, what's been going on with that? Are you getting enough sleep?"

"I've been sleeping okay."

"Oh, you have?"

"Yeah."

"What's been going on with you coming in late?"

I sighed.

"This is a dumb reason, I get it, but while I've been sleeping okay, something's been happening."

“Something?.. As in what?”

“Now, I know this is stupid so bear with me here but I’ve.. I’ve been sleepwalking. That’s what’s going on. It’s been happening for over a month now and no issues have come up from it until this week.”

“Yes, as you’ve begun to come into work late.”

“It’s embarrassing, I didn’t want to tell you or Dave or Bryan because of embarrassment. It hasn’t been an issue so I thought it’d be fine not to mention.”

“But now it is a deal, Stuart. Stuart, you’re a police officer. If you can’t come in to work on time because of troubles sleeping, how does that look?”

“I understand that that doesn’t look good..”

“This is a serious job. You know that. And if you can’t fill in the entire time you’re supposed to be here, coming into work either late like you have been, not showing up at all, what have you, you better tell me or Dave or Bryan or any of your other commanding officers so that that is taken care of. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded, feeling rather uneasy and dreadfully helpless.

“Have you been taking any new medication lately?” She asked me in a distinctly different tone than the one she had been building.

“No, I just take my vitamins. I stopped getting allergy shots back in January, I know that that’s not very much related at all but those two are really the only medications I’ve taken in the past year.”

“January.. 3 months ago?”

“April.. yeah, 3 months ago.”

“I’m going to ask you a question, a little weird one, okay? Have you got your phone on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead and take it out.” I did as was instructed. “I want you to go through your camera roll, texts, anything and tell me what you did on the day of March 22nd.”

“March 22nd?”

“Yes.”

“Well I know off the top of my head that was the day before the first murder case,” I told her. “I’ll look but I remember I had a cookout for the neighborhood that day. Fired up the grill for the first time in a while and just invited people from the block over to have fun on a Saturday.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll ask you one more question, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything.”

“How’s the search going on the killer?”

A routine question, yet it struck me in some kind of way. The way she asked reeked of distrust in the sense that she was accusing me of something, insinuating, involving me in the crimes. I didn’t have a clue how to take it besides treating her, like always, as my boss.

“The search hasn’t come up with any one particular suspect yet,” I told her. “I have some suspects but nothing concrete yet.”

“You’ve told me about one of them, a Anthony Hopkins, you said. Anything on him?”

“He’s got a record for shoplifting. Last year, he got into a big altercation with his landlord at the time and put him into the hospital. Could be something.” I remembered at that moment that there was a piece of information I was meaning to tell her, and I let it out.

“I’ve gone back and tried to review the tape, but something strange happens when I do. Not only for that one crime on the 23rd but every time the killer has been caught on camera.”

“Which is?”

“He’s blurred out,” I said. “I can make out that he’s lanky from the looks of him I could make out from the pixels, kind of like the way I am, but he’s all blurred and indistinguishable. Anthony Hopkins is 6’ 4”, Officer Hopkins. My height. So height-wise, that does match. But he’s always blurred out so I can never get anything concrete.”

Out of nowhere, she began to look puzzled. This wasn’t an expression I knew her for, it seemed from a genuine response to something, maybe to something I had said, that must’ve set her off.

She spoke into her walkie-talkie asking for someone from security to come to the office before addressing me. I didn’t understand why.

“Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier?”

“I was only officially given access to the footage yesterday. Today’s the first time I’ve gotten the chance to mention it to you.”

“In the videos, our guy’s the only one blurred out? Not his victims?”

“No, not the victims. Just him. It’d be hard to spot him anyway because of the bad lighting from each of the videos, but the pixilation makes it impossible to make out anything definitive.”

“Can I see some of the footage now? Do you have anything saved on your phone?”

“None of it’s on my phone.. but I emailed you and Bryan a link to one of the videos. You could pull it up on your computer, it should load.”

“Alright.”

She went ahead and got it going. One of the security staff came in as she began onto the email and started the footage.

It was instantly obvious the moment our killer stepped into frame that he was completely and utterly pixelated and that even though it could be determined that he was facing the camera on his way out after the attack, no distinguishable features could be made out.

The footage showed the killer walking up to an elderly lady walking by herself down the street. No explanation for why the lady was there walking at that time of night, right after 21:00, but she headed in the direction our guy was walking from.

I expected Officer Harlow to be upset, questioning the possibility that the footage had been hacked or tampered with in some way. But what I saw was a look on her face that didn’t look puzzled or mad. Instead, she squinted in a way that gave off some feeling of insight, as if she knew something that I didn’t. I became the puzzled one. Why was she looking like that?

The footage continued and I noticed she and the security guy were looking more at me than at the screen. An unsettled feeling came down on me; I kept my eyes focused on the crime scene and made sure I didn’t look over at Harlow and the guard.

Our suspect, now close to the old lady, stopped walking. He stood still about 10 feet in front of the woman, who stopped walking herself and seemed thrown off by the situation and the man’s look.

After a moment of tension with the lady beginning to appear worried, she turned around to go back the way she came.

As soon as her back was turned, the man pulled out a gun from his right pocket and shot her twice; the first bullet got the back of her head just above her neck, and the second aimed and went right into her spine. The lady toppled over fast. She had moved a hand over the head wound as she fell forward onto the pavement, grasping at it as if she had a nasty headache or a concussion.

The man, our suspect, was peculiar. Any sane criminal, any person with a sense of fear of being caught and tried, runs from a crime scene. They want to show no relation to the events taking place unless they’re trying to send a message or committing an atrocity in an act of revenge. But this crime seemed different. He didn’t turn and run or step closer to the body. What would’ve made more sense if they were completely out of it.

He stood still. He had lowered his gun but hadn’t put it away. It was just out there by his side. He kept looking at the lady he had just murdered, I had to check the little clock in the bottom corner to make sure the screen hadn’t gone frozen. He faced directly at her becoming corpse and kept so for about 15-20 seconds.

Finally, he put his gun into his right pocket and took a step back before slowly turning around and going back the way he came. But even then he walked slow, poised. A few other cameras picked up his walk away from the scene, but he eventually stepped out of sight. The footage ended abruptly.

I felt a gripping sense of needing to say something because of the looks on their faces. Harlow wasn’t saying anything and the guard wasn’t either. I felt their stares.

"Goodness," I said in response to the footage, although I had already viewed it over twice.

“Yeah,” said Harlow. “Any more footage of this guy?”

“That’s the only link I’ve received, the only one I’ve heard that was recorded. The others happened in people’s homes or around neighborhoods, not one that’s usually recorded and surveilled.”

“Okay..” She thought for a moment before speaking again and I let her do so without butting in. “Have all the crimes happened within the same area?”

“With the exception of this one and one other, yes. They’ve all happened close to where I live, I believe. I can run you over the files and tabs I’ve gathered on evidence and locations but the bulk of the murders have happened not far away from my house.”

“Really?” Harlow asked in a tone that didn’t seem thrown off in the way I had anticipated.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been thinking that’s why I’ve been having trouble sleeping, this all happening so close to me. The sleepwalking’s scaring me, too, and I know I should’ve talked to you guys about that already. Now that I’m talking about it now I think I’m going to try and see a doctor about it before anything bad happens.”

“I understand,” Harlow said. She turned to look at the security guy she had called into the room, still without explanation.

“10-35,” she said, and that was all.

“10-35?..” I spoke out fast with a flush of anxiety, and then everything went dark. The man from security nodded at her code, and immediately he came upon me.

---

I awoke in a cell. I had my same clothes on (my uniform, though my weapons were missing) and all of the cells around me were vacant. I knew this place, but not from the position I found myself in. This was the city jail, from the numbers of the cells opposite mine I could determine I had been put into one of the farthest cells down deep into the facility. No one had explained to me why.

The camera in my cell flickered; after a couple of minutes of being up, I came to know that there was a red light just under the camera that would blink just about every 10 seconds as a sign that it worked and was picking up everything I was doing. I called up to it.

“Hey, Officer Harlow, Officer Finley..” I thought my way through other names. “Dean, if you’re there, bring someone down. Explain all this to me. What’s going on here?” I felt defeated inside the cell, an unexplainable essence of dread.

How long was I going to be down here behind these bars? When would I get an explanation? Why was I placed here?

The camera’s red light continued flickering, and every blink of red sent me farther and farther down a rabbit hole of rage. The cell was cold and unloving, with a nearly rock-hard bed in the corner with no other décor or furniture. I waited with a morsel of patience for someone, anyone to come by.

It was about an hour later, or at least what felt like an hour later, before a guard, the same one that Harlow sent earlier, walked his way over and stood just outside of my cell.

“Officer Stuart,” he said to me, “Do you know why they had me put you behind bars?”

“No,” I said rather distastefully, worked up still.

“This is going to be something to take in, and I know this isn’t exactly the best place to have this talk but they’re having me tell you the truth.”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t been an officer long, right? Like a few months or so?”

“I was hired in December, I’ve been here 4 months.”

“4 months, yeah. Quick question for you, do you sleep with your gun on you?”

“Yeah, I do,” I told him.

“All of our guns have a little small chip on them on the handle. Here, take a look.”

The guard pulled out his gun, looked for the chip he mentioned, and held it up for me to view.

“You see it?”

“Yeah.. Yeah, I see it.”

“It’s small, I know. With our camera technology and our policing technology combined, they’ve added these chips on our guns to recognize that we work for the law, for the state. These chips can scan through state issued camera systems, I don’t know the exact science behind it but they can, and our department has been using this system to blur out deputies, sheriffs, officers and security like me from CCTV and security footage.”

“What?” I felt unnerved. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wish I was. Anything we do gets covered up for the most part, or at least enough to battle things out in court. You could guess the footage showed someone pulling out a gun and pulling the trigger, but it’s so blurred that nothing can truly be proven against any specific officer. This is a police state, I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

“Well yeah, I’m aware,” I blathered, “But I obviously didn’t think that this could possibly be something we’re doing.”

“Yeah, and I understand that. But you need to understand something and I don’t think you’ve caught on yet. The shooter’s blurry. Officer Harlow mentioned you thought they were lanky in the way that you are. 6 foot 2 inch guy, you fit that description. You see what I’m getting at?”

I was too stunned, shocked, to speak. I, on my knees, and the guard stood firm; I felt so small.

“The only reason you’re behind bars right now is because, as you mentioned, the guy in the video is lanky. If the footage gets out to the public, they’ll eventually find you. You killed that Lisa Montgomery that night. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. I don’t think you meant to, Harlow doesn’t either. So in an attempt to get you out of jail for 20 years to life, we’re going to run an experiment on you.”

The guard reached over to his back pocket and pulled out a different gun. I knew this gun to be mine.

“That’s your gun, I’m sure you can tell.” He handed it to me.

“Like I said, I don’t think you killed her on purpose. I think you know what that implies as far as.. the other murders.. but I want you to understand that if this experiment works, you’ll go free and will continue to be an officer, although you will never again be allowed to sleep with a gun in your pocket.”

“What experiment?” I asked in fear.

“Harlow’s decided that we’re going to keep you in this cell for 2 weeks, okay? You won’t be treated like a prisoner in terms of harshness against you. You can’t leave your cell for the 2 weeks except to use the restroom but you’ll be provided with good meals of your choosing.

“You will sleep with your gun in your pocket for all 14 nights that you’re here. 14 nights should be enough to prove your innocence or guilt. We’ll have eyes on you at all times. If on any of the 14 nights your gun goes off, if you shoot your gun, we’ll let you go free. But if you don’t on any of the 14 nights, we’ll have to keep you here. Officer Harlow has made sure that you will be scrutinized by multiple people, and if any of them think you purposefully shot your gun off so that you go free, you’ll be kept here.” He broke character for a moment. “I hate to do this to you, man. I believe that you did this while sleepwalking and that you weren’t consciously in control, but my God. The circumstances, you know?”

I didn’t know how to feel. Every bone in my body felt weak, every hair as if they were to fall off onto the floor. My eyes felt like crying but they remained dry. If I ever experienced a depressed emotion throughout my life, that would be the most horrid. Feeling that gun in my hands now, there was always a certain thing about machines and inventions that scared me.

“I killed them?” I asked.

“That’s how it sounds, man. You haven’t noticed bullets missing at all?”

“I..”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I really hadn’t realized all the bullets had gone missing. I had refilled the gun with a mental fog surrounding me; a routine maneuver.

Was it possible, really possible, that the hands that held my gun now, my hands, were the same ones that killed that woman? That older lady who had somewhere to be, even if she was only on her way home. All of those other people.

There was no mass murderer, there was a sleeping cop. A sleeping cop, and a blurring camera that was meant to cover my atrocities.

The guard’s walkie-talkie went off, someone on another side of the jail had beaten up an inmate, and bruised him badly. The walkie-talkie on my uniform must’ve had its batteries removed.

“I’ve gotta go help out up there,” he told me. “You have a right to life if you’re innocent. Don’t blow your brains out if you are.”

I looked out at him as he ran away from me, and when finally out of view, my attention turned to my gun. I had set it on the ground because it felt heavier than it ever had. And it looked more grotesque than ever the longer I stared at that thing. And the memories of practicing with that gun rang back through my head, and suddenly that person I was left the room.

14 days, that’s all it would take until out. That’s all. I still couldn’t believe what they had told me, but in 14 days I could go back to my bed, without a gun in my pocket, and I could try and get some rest. I could go back to being an officer, working on high-profile cases like I was hired for.

But there’s no life left with settled guilt of murder, and every glance at that gun of mine made its sound to my head more and more justified.

So I'm filled with hatred

Not all the time

But it's the only time I feel like coming on here because no one wants to hear it

They might want to read it, though

I'm filled with hatred because my love was not enough

I'm filled with hatred because when I wasn't, no one cared at all

But when I'm angry, every body cares

Maybe it's because they're scared

They say I have the eyes of a killer

Though the only thing I've ever killed is peoples' spirits

After they took many jabs at mine

I came back to life

I'm a zombie now and my only goal day and night is to see the light fade from your eyes the way you did to me

I'm not sorry

You're not sorry

Why would anyone be sorry at this point?

No apology for me

No apology for you

It took you years to kill me but it will only take me a moment to kill you

I will bring you back to life with words

Just to kill you again

And I'll do that till I'm bored of you and find a brand new friend

And if that friend does kill me the way you dared to do

I will kill them also, the way that I killed you

I don't own a gun and I don't get my hands dirty

I pull out paper, pen, and words that feed you my emotions

And when you think you've had enough, I'll come out guns a-blazing

I'll slaughter you with felt-tip pen

And mirror your reactions

You thought it was funny to smile at me as you stabbed me with your words

I tell you now my words are worse and you will suffer more

That darted look

from the corner stop

of First and Main

and I am now lost....

Who was the Killer

And what was killed?

the window like

a slice of Life

between

haves [ sic ]

cut

in a check

at the watch

departing

from eyes ears

mechanical

doors...

only static

on the station

behind this dark

ambulance...

04.06.2023

Murder in the Streets challenge @AlyS12

I didn't know Louie Miller, but I heard he was a very caring man. I knew the rest, though.

I knew them all. I loved them all. I had them all, when they were alive--dreaming, scheming, and ambitious.

Jenny Diver was a seamstress and was always plucking off the buttons of my fly. What fun! Sukey Tawdry had a lisp, but it never got in the way, if you know what I mean. Lotte Lenya was very witty and acerbic, until you got her alone, when she would become half-witty and half-acerbic. I did that. I got her alone.

And then there was ol' Lucy Brown. Lucile (MacHeath Smith McGuire Wilbert) Brown. All of those husbands, all of those heartbreaks. I always knew one of 'em would get her.

So, Lucy, I get. But why the others? I knew them all. I loved them all. I had them all. I'd give a threepenny to know why.

There was blood running down her hands like rivers, draining into the sink. At first, she was furiously rubbing it off then she stopped. Her eyes went up to stare at the mirror, the light flicking overhead as she laughed to herself. "Why am I scared? Why am I scared? I'm Anita Bludhaven, I have nothing to fear." She felt the words bring power to her voice, bringing her dark black eyes to life with light. The flickering light overhead.

Shadows of black rolled down her shoulders as she leaned forward, turning the knobs of the faucet off before laughing to herself. "Why am I scared?" Anita was putting her hand to her head, laughing. She didn't even kill her. She didn't kill her cousin. No, he did! She could just out him for it and even if she did, who would believe him. He was a good for nothing in their father's eyes, the weaker link between them both and as her twin, he was inferior.

"This is fine," she breathed, sighing, her shoulders falling as she glanced off to the towel beside her. She was snatching it from the ring, wiping her bloody hands off as she tossed it into the bathroom sink then went to the door. The moment she ripped it open, she was coming out into the hallway, seeing her servant coming up to her.

"Anita, Anita. Where have you been? I've been looking all ov-"

There was a clap and then silence filled the hallway. "Don't talk to me like that!" she spat at her. "I am not to be treated like a child. I'm thirty-seven years old. I'm older than you! Just because I look like a child does not mean you may treat me as such."

She watched the woman kneel before her and she laughed, feeling haughty. "Now, what is it?"

"Th-the heiress of Faux Noir is dead."

"My cousin?" she asked, feigning stupidity.

"Y-y-y-yes! They found her body in the Zen garden. Her eyes gouged from her head and a hole through her chest."

The would kill a vampire, wouldn't it? Anita's eyes rolled. "I see and you're here for."

"Your alibi, mistress. Your father demands it."

"Yes. Very well then. I suppose I ought to see him."

"But!"

"Enough." Her voice was even and cool as she strode past the blubbering woman. "I do not fear him. If I did, he would have gotten rid of me long ago. I'll tell him my alibi myself."