Sabotage
“Full name and date of birth?”
“Amy Marie Thompson, June 18th, 1982,”
“And your address?”
“441 Fairview Street.”
The questioning continued. I was still in shock, my mind struggling to comprehend the night’s events. How could it have happened? On the verge of tears, a female police officer comforted me as I struggled to compose myself long enough to answer the male officer.
“Okay, so let’s go over the events of the night of February 15th 2014 again.”
***
My husband, James Alexander Thompson, and I had just left a romantic dinner celebrating our third wedding anniversary. We were taking a long walk along the riverfront, savouring our time together. Eventually, we reached a part of town we had never been to. It was raining lightly, but what did it matter? I was in the arms of my one true love.
“I love you, Amy!” He reminded me for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. Once again, I smiled and replied
“I love you more.”
Suddenly, the rain changed from a light shower to a relentless torrent. Lightning crackled overhead as a gust of wind threw our umbrella into the air. The storm ran its icy fingers down our backs, and I shivered. There was no shelter in sight, except for an abandoned warehouse across the street. I felt a wave of nausea pass over me as we rushed towards the building. We shoved the rusted iron doors open with some difficulty. Inside, it was dusty yet cosy. A large crash of thunder sounded, and shook the building. My head began to throb as I sat in a corner. My temperature was rising, and another torrent of nausea flooded my body. Was it something I ate? A sickening thought crossed my mind. “Oh god, James, have I been drugged? Was there something in my food?” I saw something out of the corner of my eye as I fought against the horrific pains racking my body. I felt like I was wrestling myself to keep conscious, but I could tell I was losing. James hugged me and reassured me as I sobbed. “Hey, you’re going to be okay. I’m here for you.” As I was slipping in and out of consciousness, my vision failed me.
***
“Th-that’s when I passed out. I-I don’t remember anything from that point until I woke up…” I explained. The officer looked at me, studying me intently. I glanced at his badge and saw his name was Richard Cook. Suspicion flitted across his face for a brief moment, in an accusatory manner. Then, it was gone. Had I imagined it? He gestured for me to continue.
***
The ringing in my ears was deafening I couldn’t make out anything other than vague, fuzzy shapes. Where was I? Memories of last night flooded back. My palms were sweaty and I still felt sick. A repulsive smell wove its way through my nostrils. I slipped my hand into James’, who was still lying beside me. A thick, warm liquid coated his hand, sticking to mine as I drew it back. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I came to my senses. My eyes flickered into focus and the world sharpened. That’s when I screamed.
***
I let out a strangled sob, trying to hold back tears. Sergeant Cook had a calculated, sympathetic look on his face. The female officer was paged, and dashed out of the room. I couldn’t have cared less. All I could care about was the fate of my husband. “The only man I ever cared about,” I exclaimed, “Gone, dead! I will never see him again!” It was so unfair. Why would someone do such a thing? I tried to tell myself that I may not have been a murder, but the wounds on James’ body said otherwise. James was dead, with multiple stab wounds all over his body. None of his vital organs were damaged, meaning his death was slow and painful. Thinking about it made me loathe the perpetrator.
The woman officer entered the room once more, with something in her hands. I noted her name was Emily Green. She whispered something urgently to Sergeant Cook, and kept making brief eye contact with me. My heart rate quickened with each glance. They turned to face me, both with looks of confusion plastered on their faces. Were they blaming me? Do they really think there is a chance that I killed my own husband? My soulmate? Anger pooled within me, threatening to burst. Instead, it appeared in the form of more tears.
"I-I didn't kill my husband!" I spat the words off my tongue, the mere thought turning my stomach. I promptly shifted the intrusive imagery that wove its way up to a deep recess of my mind. I really didn't do it!
"I'm sure, ma'am. Let's just take a look, then, see that you are telling the truth.”
I glared at the Sergeant.
"Not that I don't believe you," Cook added hurriedly, lifting up a roll of footage.
***
I looked around the secluded room we were in for the first time. The walls were a dull grey colour, monotonous with the chairs we were using. Paperwork littered the desk, my name hastily scrawled across some of it. The steel door was ajar as Constable Green wheeled in a projector to play the tape on. She sat down and pressed the play button. The screen flickered on, and the footage began.
***
The video was almost at its end, reaching the part where I had passed out in the corner. The position of the camera showed James, concerned, laying protectively over me. It hurt to see him, knowing he was now…
There was no way I wanted to see my husband’s murder, so I asked to wait outside.
“Your story seems to check out, so you can take a seat outside until we are finished,” Sergeant Cook said.
“Wait.” Constable Green requested. We both looked towards the screen. I was stirring. What? It couldn’t have been morning yet, right? Hold on. James was still, well, alive.
“Sit. Now.” Sergeant Cook ordered. I was confused, but complied.
I stared back at the video in horror, and saw video-me stand up. She, no… I pulled a knife out of her… my shoe. Wait, why was there a knife in my shoe? I averted my eyes, frightened of what was happening. I heard a blood curdling scream, unmistakably my husband’s, and the sounds of maniacal laughter. I stole a glance at the screen, and saw myself collapsing back into the corner.
It was me.
Worthless
Empty.
Alone.
Worthless.
Choose.
Is today
a good day?
Or a bad day?
Uncertainty.
There is a hole
Where my feelings, my soul, the core of my being,
Should reside.
Nothing.
I feel...
Nothing
Empty.
Alone.
Worthless.
Why am I here?
Existence
Is torture.
I don't deserve this.
I need to escape.
And yet,
I feel...
Nothing.
Empty.
Alone.
Worthless.
Who am I?
What is my purpose?
Surely
Not this.
I am a burden
To everyone.
It's all my fault.
They thrive,
But here I am.
All I am, all that
I feel...
Nothing.
Empty.
Alone.
Worthless.
Choose.
Is today
a good day?
Or a bad day?
Reassurance.
I can function today.
My purpose,
Is finally clear.
It's as if the sun
Has finally
Started to shine.
I feel...
Everything.
Complete.
Together.
Worthy.
For now.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Uncertainty.
And suddenly,
I feel...
Nothing.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Help me.
Save me.
Rescue me.
I don't want to feel
Empty,
Alone, or
Worthless.
Not anymore.