01
ALEXA KING
-Present-

Melody Tryniski's house
September 5, 2018
8:31 p.m.

THE SIGHT OF BLOOD never makes me nauseous like it does to others. Nothing ever does, really.

When we were kids, we often rode our bikes during summertime, our short legs pedaling with an excessive amount of force to be the first ones to arrive to the edge of Levittown's riverbank. The wheels often screeched as they rolled around the rocky surface, the sizzling sun basking us with its gentle yellow glow, the ground beneath us twinkling from time to time, and then our shadows morphing into strange shapes the faster we rode. As the fierce wind blew around us, making our sweat-soaked bodies sticky and uncomfortable, one of us often fell down. Scraped knees were intolerable in our group of friends, repulsive even, and I was the only one who could tolerate the blood enough to treat the wound.

I've always been strong when it came to these types of things, but being here, covered in her blood - it isn't the same. I can feel the liquid almost sticky substance covering my body, its metallic and acidic odor circulating around me - making me dizzy. This is nothing alike to when we were kids, the laughter filling our innocent minds, scraped knees being the only kind of danger to worry about. Now the danger lurks among us, a faceless person hiding in the darkness, waiting for the next victim. I don't ever think I'll be that little girl again: fearless, brave, so consumed by her own exhilaration. Instead, I'll just morph into the feeling that consumes me right now: nothing.

My body feels as though its elevating from the ground, going up, up, up, never to be seen again. It's floating in midair, the lightness of it all reaching my mind, my stomach, my everything, until I'm left with an aching numbness in my heart. This nothing taking ahold of my body is electrifying, something I've never felt before. It wants me as much as I want it, and I wonder if it's healthy to not want to feel, to choose to be cold, emotionless when your best friend is lying on a pool of her own blood. I should be furious, screaming until my throat hurts from the effort, crying as though I was the injured one, hurting because I saw her lying there, limp and motionless. But I don't feel any of that. Instead, I'm paralyzed. Every inch of my body is still and it seems like I'll soon turn into stone for seeing something I shouldn't have.

The paramedics found me next to her lifeless body, all bloody and still, trying to hide the wide gash slicing through her neck. They hushed words of encouragement in my ear, saying I'm brave, that I did everything I could. As I think of this, a bile of vomit so acidic and metallic as the blood starts to pile up in my throat.

Everything they said is a lie, but I'm the only one who knows this. I'm not brave; I didn't do everything I could. They don't know what I did the summer before, how I did nothing to help her when she disappeared. They don't know why I let her down that summer or why I did the same thing tonight. They don't know about the nagging in my chest that only seems to grow, the sleepless nights, and then the relief when she was found. They don't know anything and it kills me to have this burden inside of me, a nasty little secret that just won't leave me alone.

I snuggle deeper into the safety blanket that's draped over me, the soft material becoming one with me as it also stains with blood. The harsh wind breezes through my curls, whilst touching my still, almost stoned body, and my legs dangle from the edge of the ambulance truck, feet barely scraping the gravel. In a careful, slow motion, I dart my eyes to the white front porch, where the reflection of red and then blue, red and then blue, continues to appear in an endless cycle. It's not until I see Mrs. Tryniski, held back by Mr. Tryniski's large arm, screaming in pain that I realize I can't hear anything. Everything is happening around me and I can't hear a single thing, except for my own voice as I think.

One of the paramedics comes up to me and begins to talk, but all I can see is lips moving without a single thing to say. It's as if she's on mute. I can't stop looking at her lips, my eyes squinting as if that action alone could help me with my hearing. Her eyebrows furrow until lines appear on her forehead, and she presses a thin smile that means 'poor you'. At least, that's what it means to me. My chapped lips part just the slightest, just enough to utter a word, but as I try this, all that comes out is a shaky breath.

After our failed attempt to communicate, she takes out a small light and flashes it on each of my eyes. I keep staring straight, the light failing to be an obstacle between me and what's happening out there. Another paramedic walks to her side and her lips begin to move again, a string of words I can't organize into a sentence. All I can read is the word 'shock'.

Everything around me is happening in slow motion. It seems like I'm the center of this whole commotion, everything orbiting around me, specks of blur dotting my vision - my head, pounding, and pounding, and pounding, never stopping. I want it all to stop, please make it stop.

The neighbors begin to gather behind the yellow duct tape that circulates this area, the affected one. The lights from the police car also reflect on their faces, red and blue, red and blue, red and blue. I notice, to my dismay, how their expressions change from agape mouths to tear-stained eyes. They search for any detail that can piece together what they're seeing, and then their eyes narrow into slits when they come upon me. An ugly frown is forming on each of their faces, the hate oozing off their bodies. I know what they are thinking: it must have been me. After all, I'm the one with the blood on my hands - on my skin, my hair, my clothes.

They will believe anything that doesn't include some killer living among them. I can't blame them though. They're reacting to what they're seeing. But, some part of me wonders, how can someone come to such a horrible conclusion? Is it because of the blood? Am I not reacting how I'm supposed to? Maybe the color of my skin? What gives them the impression that I could've done something so inhuman?

She is my best friend, damn it.

Was.

A tight knot forms in my throat and I can feel the beginning of tears stinging my eyes, so I relinquish in the feeling of nothing once again. Shaking my head, I glance up and avoid the fresh accusations burning in their eyes. As my eyes roam around the cluster of people, I catch a glimpse of Detective Ellis standing in front of the steps from the front porch. He's talking to what seems to be people from the media, his posture stiff, shoulders growing more and more tense.

For a brief moment, his brown eyes divert from the camera to me and, as soon as he sees me, he offers a weak smile. He looks older today: the lines on his forehead define more as the camera's flash comes in contact with his skin, the bags under his eyes prominent and an indication of lack of sleep.

This is no longer a missing person's investigation; this is a murder one. Somehow, someway, I'm involved in this chaotic mess. Police will question me and doubt everything I say, and I don't know if I'm prepared for that. Even now, dripped in her blood and present at the scene of the crime, I'm sure I will lie. If I don't, my life will be in danger - assuming that it isn't already.

While everyone's attention is focused on what's happening out there, far away from me as possible, I stuff my hand deep into my jean pocket. Inside, the tips of my fingers come in contact with a crumbled surface. The paper is harsh against my skin and the spilled ink on it toxic, deadly. The hold I have on it tightens along with this nagging in my chest, this pesky little feeling I can't seem to get rid of. It only grows and intensifies, my heart pounding harder as it does so, the furious swirling in my stomach going up.

A gust of wind blows around me, icy and harsh, and I retrieve my hand as if the paper alone could scorch my skin. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, the paramedics wheel her body out of the house, the stretcher tipping on either side as it descends the porch's steps. Every time it tips, a new sense of horror grows inside of me. My breath gets stuck in my lungs, while my heart stops beating for the briefest of seconds, waiting for them to let her fall.

Fall to the floor, just like when we were kids.

But they don't. They have firm grips on the white bag that covers her bloody and bruised body, the same body that took its last breath just hours before. They treat her like an object, someone who isn't alive anymore, instead of helping her in any way they can. There must be something they can do. She can't be dead. We can't let her die.

If she dies---

A pale arm falls out of the white body bag, her hand pointing to the floor, while blood traces down until the tips of her fingers drip droplets on the asphalt. The cameras continue to flash, grabbing every detail about this horrifying event for the sake of a 'good story', something that will put them in the lead. One paramedic notices the arm, a bit too late, and retrieves it inside, zipping the bag close.

My eyes flutter shut tightly, so much that it starts to hurt. I'm just imagining things, it's only natural after Melody's disappearance. On the count of three, everything's going to stop. It's going to vanish, just like Melody did a few months back. This, along with everything that's happened, is just a dream, a fabrication of my conscious.

One, two, three.

My eyes remain tightly shut, aware that everything I saw, everything that's still happening, is right here. This distance I've kept between the reality and myself breaks; my safe haven in the back of this ambulance truck collapses, leaving me bare, fragile. With a deep breath, I open my eyes, and they can see clearly for the first time tonight.

The atmosphere gains momentum, a rapid allure. Now it's as it is in the present, there's no slowing of the moment. I'm not caught up in a reverie anymore, in its tangled web of lies. It all comes crashing at once, forming havoc on everything that's trapped in its wake.

And then the screams - commotion in the form of loud noises blending to produce a deafening screech. Above all, there's a pulsating shriek, a wailing so consumed by grief, it can only belong to one person.

Mrs. Tryniski.

She's on the floor next to the stretcher, next to her daughter's limp body, crying with her hands covering the majority of her fair face. The cries never cease, they become more aggressive, so much that her body begins to shake like she's about to collapse. The whooshing of the night air is muffled by the strained no's coming out of Mrs. Tryniski's mouth and the low whispers to the ear that Mr. Tryniski's providing. His hairy eyebrows are furrowed as he does this, eyes glistening with tears he's not intending to show.

As all of this unfolds in front of a whole audience, encountering the scene only because it involves someone who's dead, all I can think about is the blood reaching her fancy dress, red and sticky and vibrant. My chest constricts with a weight so unbearable that my heart starts to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze, until it hurts enough to form a knot in my throat. Everything turns blurry, the tears take ahold of my eyes, and the air becomes thick, making it impossible to breathe in. I gasp for air and support my body against the side of the truck, trying to stand up to go to her, bring comfort.

But I can't. There's a weight on my body that prevents me from moving, so I sit back down with the world around me turning into a haze.

In the distance, Nari is pushing through the crowd until she comes to an abrupt stop when encountering the yellow duct tape. It's so good to see a familiar face, someone who understands, even though it's her and not someone else. Her small eyes widen so much it appears they're going to pop out and her jaw clenches, the tension written all over her face.

She finds me in the center of it all and, with widen eyes, mouths 'what happened?'. I shake my head, sticky curls bouncing from side to side, and my lips quiver to utter a response that never comes. That's when I finally notice the tears streaming down my cheeks, blending with the dried blood.

Nari looks upfront, her attention directed elsewhere, her face scrunching in pain. I follow her gaze until Sebastián comes into view, all damp cheeks and screams of rage. A police officer is blocking his way, making it a struggle for him to pass. He pushes and kicks and screams, but the man doesn't budge. So, he does what he knows best: he punches the officer square on the face. Cutting the yellow duct tape with one hand, he runs to her body, hope appearing on his face in the form of a smile.

And I know what he's thinking: it can't be her, it must be a misunderstanding.

He pulls the zipper down to her chest. With every second that passes, the breath fails to stop the raging in my chest. Just as his eyes roam her face, probably seeing the purple bruise on her left cheek and the slash on her neck protruding viscid matter, he stumbles backwards, falling against the chest of a police officer who's about to arrest him. This time, he doesn't fight, his hot-headedness doesn't get the better of him. He simply goes, his body limp as if his soul has just been sucked out.

All the while, chaos is in the air, pain is in the air, death is residing inside of us. In a weak attempt to comfort her parents, our friends, and myself along the process, I stand up. Each step feels heavy, as if my legs are not mine but someone else's. Black dots appear all around me, it's impossible to see them anymore. A new sense of horror blooms in my chest, it pounds until it feels like whatever thing resides inside is begging to get out.

A fresh pile of vomit swirls in my stomach and goes up, getting stuck in my throat. My insides burn and, while wondering if they will turn to ashes if I don't let the sorrow in, the world spins around me with no intention to halt. It feels like a wave thrusting my body, crashing and peeling off my skin - leaving me naked. The ground shakes as my body stumbles clumsily, drunk with the feeling of nothing.

I prefer to be blackout drunk.

My whole body goes numb; it's a peaceful feeling that resembles sleep. I can feel myself go the more the sounds intensify, my body floating above them all, relinquishing to the feeling of nothing. Everyone is just a shadow moving from side to side, screaming at each other in voices that sound so far away.

The black dots that plague my vision turn into a whole black entity and I'm falling like when we were kids - falling until I hit a hard surface, my whole world turning black, leaving me in the dark.

•Word count: 2,737•

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