"Alone Without Evidence" by Victoria G. ´Vix´ Olmstead

On my own again, I have been wandering for what seems like months. I do not know what to do. Should I go to the cops? Should I forget it ever happened? Should I go back and just end up like the others? What should I do? I have been asking myself these questions since the attack. Every time I stare into the mirror of a grungy, gas station restroom, I stare at myself, still bloodied and bruised, my hair still matted and tangled. I look like a mass murderer. I look like I am the one who did the attacking. A bruise shows around my eye and another shows in a hand print on my left arm. I have yet to try to clean my clothes or my skin. I wear these painful reminders like a badge that I survived. I survived the attack; I even got the bruise on my arm from trying to help my friend.
Wandering down the side of the road, I should clean this blood and dirt off my clothes. Every diner and gas station I have entered, I have gotten the serial killer greeting. A sign on the side of the road says five miles to Edgeville. That is five miles farther from my past, farther from what I have witnessed. I arrive at Edgeville ignoring the stares I get from police and citizenry as I enter town. If I get arrested, I will have a warm place to stay the night and there is no chance I will have to worry about any one catching up to me to finish what they have started. An officer glares after me as I enter the town’s diner. The waitress leads me off to a corner and asks “Do you have money to eat, child? You know we’re not running a charity here, darling?”
“I know it’s not a charity. I don’t want to eat; I need to use the ladies’ room, if that’s ok?” I reply slightly self-conscious of the fact she is staring at the dried blood that cakes my green shirt, blue jeans and parts of my face. She points me in the direction of the bathroom, watching to be sure I follow her finger to the lavatories. In the bathroom, I stare at the mirror again. I do this so often I think I am beginning to look through myself. As I gaze through my bloody, dirty reflection, an officer appears behind me. “Ma’am, will you be so kind as to put your hands against the wall and allow me to check you for weapons?” She asks with an anxious tone entering her voice. I do as she asked without hesitation. I had a feeling it was inevitable considering my appearance. She, of course, finds no weapons and cuffs me quickly. Anyone with as much blood on them as I have on me must have done something terrible. It is a good form of logic.
I am led out of the diner in restraints and placed in the back of the black and white car as the patrons of the diner watch with shock and awe. The officers get in the front of the car, turn on the siren and speed down the road. At the station, they pull me gingerly out of the car, making sure not to touch my bruise. They lead me cuffed and chained into the police station, along darkened corridors to the interrogation room. I am seated and a detective wanders in condescendingly. He is tall and plump with a round face. His five o’clock shadow is blonde while his hair is an eerie black. He waddles when he walks urging me to laugh. He looks at the blood that cakes me and removes the cuffs from my wrists. “What’s your name, hun?” he asks sweetly. “How old are you and where are you from?”
I look at him hovering ominously over me. He is eerie and dark, though his pale face shows only concern in the light over head. He sits down in front of me, awaiting my answers. His eyes scan my face and then focus on my own hazel orbs that stare outward. I think over my answers and reply, “My name is Alexis Jocelyn Benefold. My friends call me A.J. I’m eighteen years old, sir. I’m from a small town called Rosemont, in California, but I’m a student at the University of Sunset, North Dakota. That’s where we were when we decided to take a road trip. I had almost decided not to come. I was feeling so sick, something had bitten me, but they talked me into coming along. They told me fresh air would help heal the wound. I shouldn’t have come.” Thoughts of my friends flood my mind. I saw them all draw their last breath.
“Okay, Alexis.” He nods emphasizing that he is no friend of mine, and he holds the power. “Who are they? Whose blood coats your skin and clothes? Be specific.” His midnight blue eyes searching mine for lies and for truth. He shifts in his seat. I hear all the little noises in this silence. The chair squeaks beneath his weight, the table creaks as I place my elbows on it, and the heater whirrs in the corner of the room as air rushes through the vents. He shifts in his chair again waiting to hear words come meekly from my mouth. “What were their names, Alexis?” Hearing him use past tense prompts me to answer.
I peer back pushing his eyes with mine. “They were, no, they are my friends, detective.” My voice comes out more brazen than I intended, but he pushed it from me. “My friends’ blood coats me, sir. Each of them died in my arms. It’s impossible to stay clean when someone is bleeding in your arms.” Tears well up in my eyes, and it becomes harder to breathe as I think back on their memories. My voice becomes weaker. “They were, and still are my friends. Their names are Shelly Hartier, Christophe Rober, Jonathon Jasper, Phoebe Drakeman, and Donny Krippens.” A tear races down my cheek as I think about them. I begin to cry as I continue, “Shelly was so outgoing; she would’ve been eighteen next week. Christophe was such a joker. He was only twenty-one. Jonathon was the peacemaker who was only a month from turning nineteen. Phoebe and Donny, they were a cute couple, both only twenty. They, we shouldn’t have left Sunset.” The tears flow freely as I explain each of my friends quickly.
The detective nods. He hands me tissues to dry my eyes and blow my nose. I blot at my eyes, drying away tears, and attempting to wipe away some of the memories that have surfaced. I calm myself and fight back the remnants of sobbing. I work to stabilize my breathing patterns. The detective looks me over and waits until he feels I should be ready to continue. I try to keep my chin from quivering, and I freeze all of the tears that may fall. I look at him, trying to show no sign of weakness. Our eyes hold shoving matches in the space between us. “What happened?” he asks in a low, thundering voice. “What happened to your friends? How did they die?”
Tears enter my eyes again, and another knot forms in my throat as I remember what happened. How can I explain this? My voice trembles as I begin my reply, “Well, detective, it all started as we were driving along the road. Jonathon was driving. It was nearing midnight, but we figured we’d drive through the night to make up for lost time. We were all gazing at this beautiful house, so modern and yet still obviously abandoned. Suddenly, someone jumped out of the brush, and we barely missed him. Jon had to swerve off the road into a ditch to avoid hitting him. In the ditch, there was glass that popped our front tires. Jon jumped out of the car, cursing. Phoebe, Donny and Christophe went searching for the man. When they found him, he was unconscious on the other side of the road, and his arms were bleeding. Phoebe dressed the wounds as best she could. Then Donny and Christophe picked him up carefully, and carried him to the house we had been admiring. We figured there maybe a phone or some way to get help.”
“Wait,” the detective interrupts me, “you hit someone?” He glares at me. His eyes search through mine. He looks at me mockingly. His eyes hold a disbelieving glower as he prompts me to answer his question. “Did you hit the man or not?” He pushes with his questions.
“No, we didn’t hit him. The injuries he had were previously sustained and possibly self inflicted. I can’t be sure, I’m not a doctor.” I hold his glare. I do not like how he pushes with his eyes and with his questions. I know he is only doing his job, but I am innocent and he looks at me accusingly. I continue, “Obviously, there was no one in the house, it may have been wrong to do so, but we entered. The man had lost a lot of blood and needed help. If that house had anything that could have helped him, we needed to find it. The house was eerie. It was impeccably furnished though, with gorgeous furniture and decorations. The entirety of the house was covered in dust. It was not your average dilapidated, abandoned house. Donny and Christophe decided to put the man on the couch as we went searching for supplies. I volunteered to stay back and keep an eye on him. So, they all went off searching, but the man was bleeding too fast for me to help him. He began to shake, his pulse slowed, and he stopped breathing. I tried to help him, I did, I swear. I went off looking for anyone to tell them what happened. They had all spread out, searching for supplies. I found Jon first; he was on the main floor in a bathroom in the back of the house.” I rest my head in my hands and take deep breaths. I fight back the flooding memories. Tears enter my eyes and I try to blink them away. The detective hands me more tissues and awaits more of my story.
“Jon was in the back bathroom. He was looking at a shattered mirror on a medicine cabinet. The bathroom appeared to be the only place in the house without an ounce of dust. I walked up behind him. He turned around suddenly and jumped. “You scared me,” he stated quietly. He looked at me and asked if I was alright. I told him about the guy and the fact that he died. Jon gave me a hug, and that’s when it happened. I began to shake and he began to scream. I didn’t understand. My vision went out of focus and then black. I was lost in a black maze. When my vision returned, Jon was lying on the ground bleeding and barely breathing. He looked at me with fear in his eyes. I cradled his head and tried to help him any way I could, but it was no use. He died.” Tears fill my eyes. “I’m not sure how I got this black eye, but I think it was that first attack.” I continue, “I began to scream when Jon died, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. Christophe rushed to me when he heard me screaming.”
“Christophe was pulling my by the arm before I knew what was going on. His green eyes were filled with tears. He saw Jon on the floor and freaked out. He wasn’t screaming, he just kept whispering that we needed to get out of there. He led me to the open foyer where I stopped him. I told him we needed to get the others, to save them not just ourselves. That’s where Christophe died. My vision went black and all I could hear was the sound of bone crushing pain. It was as though someone had simply taken my eyes away. I felt the floor beneath me give way. My vision slowly returned. Christophe was dead; I couldn’t even try to save him.” Thoughts of Christophe’s lifeless body are fresh in my mind, begging for more tears.
I go on with my story, “I had to find the others and get us all out of there. I found Phoebe staring at Jon’s dead body. I began to lead her across the floor, thinking only of how we had to get out of that house. Phoebe stopped and tried to calm me down. Neither she nor I saw it coming. I couldn’t see but I heard every scream. She was lying on the floor, crying in pain when I saw her next. As I approached her to help, she began to scream. Donny appeared on the stairs and jumped over the banister. He grabbed my arm and yanked me away from Phoebe.” My hand grazes the hand print on my left arm. The detective looks at the bruise unimpressed. “Donny tried to pick Phoebe up and get her out of there. She whimpered in pain. There was a wound on her neck unlike any I’ve ever seen. Blood poured from the wound as Donny tried to move her. Donny’s nostrils flared and anger showed through his eyes. He turned on me. “How could you let this happen?” he begged. I couldn’t see him. I could barely hear him. He sounded a mile away. There was silence, an eerie silence that chilled my bones. When I regained my sight and slowly my hearing, there was only the sight of blood and the sound of my own breathing. Phoebe was dead and so was Donny. My friends were all dead except Shelly. I needed to find Shelly.”
I rub away tears and dirt from my eyes. The blood on my face smears the more the tears fall. I look at the detective who appears disbelieving and uninterested in what I am saying. “I found Shelly in one of the bedrooms upstairs. She was sitting calmly, staring straight forward. She whispered, “Why us? We shouldn’t have come here and we need to leave.” I pulled Shelly slowly off the bed and let her gain footing. She pried my hand off her wrist and sat down again. I smacked Shelly to bring her back to reality. Shelly stood and stared straight into my eyes. She suddenly recoiled in fear. She began to back away from me. She fell over the bed, tumbled to the other side of the room. She just kept screaming you. I grabbed her wrist and she shrieked. She clawed at my hand as I tried to lead her out of the room. Suddenly, I began to shake again, my eyes hazed over and my hair stood on end. I could hear Shelly’s every move, her every squeak. It was as though someone had wrapped a trash bag with air holes around my head. Abruptly, my hands were wet and sticky. The bag had been removed. I regained my vision and saw what coated my hands. It was Shelly’s blood. Shelly was lying on the floor. I tried to save her, but she wasn’t breathing and she had no pulse.” Tears overwhelm me. They’ve become too much to hold back. I weep uncontrollably.
The detective looks across the table at me. His midnight blue eyes piercing my tear filled hazel ones. “You killed your friends, and that’s the best story you can come up with?” I look at the detective’s shadowed form in disbelief. I watched my friends die and he is accusing me of killing them. He looks at my dirty, blood stained appearance. “All of your friends are dead. You lived. You were the last one to see them alive in each case. That spells mass murder to me. Unless you can prove you didn’t, you must have killed them.” The detective looks at the cuffs he now holds in his hands. “These bracelets are for murderers such as you.” He slides them across the table to me and looks at me accusingly.
“I didn’t kill my friends!” I grow angry with his accusations. I cannot believe after he listened to the truth, he can still say I did it. My face grows warm with hatred of this plump witch hunter. He stands and waddles around the table. I stand up confronting him. “How can you think I killed my friends? How could you listen to the truth, and think I killed my friends? How could you think such a thing?” I scream. He simply looks at me. “If you didn’t kill them, who did, I need a viable explanation. That is, of course, if you didn’t kill them.” He looks at me and gives me a chance to confess. “Did you kill them?”
“No, Detective, I didn’t.” I begin to shake uncontrollably. Hair coats my arms and legs. My teeth twist and become that of an animal. I grow the physique of an animal while maintaining the mind of a human being. My ears become extra sensitive, I hear everything around me. A growl escapes this beast’s muzzle. Without my control, the beast snarls again and again. I have no control of my body and no control of my voice. The beast growls, “She didn’t kill her friends. I did.”