I’ve been in this room much longer than I’d like to. I’m just sitting here, waiting on them. They took me here against my will to make me talk about things I don’t even want to remember. I just want to be out of this room. It smells like sweat in here; the sick-sweet smell of fear-induced perspiration. It has a certain pungent aroma to it that makes it distinct from your every-day sweat smell at gyms and such places. I breathe it in and savor the smell for a moment. The scent rolls into my nose like thick smoke from a fine cigar. It reminds me of happier times.
I used to love seeing her at work. Although she was just a teller at the bank, every one of her moves seemed to me like a perfectly choreographed ballet. The way her thin, smooth, soft hands handled the cash; the way her nimble fingers did pirouettes on the keyboard, it was all so inspiring to me. Every small detail was pure beauty. She had a smile that used to send chills down my back. Not her every-day smile, not the one she gave to her customers, but the one she gave when she really meant it. The way she smiled when she looked at her son. I could not control my love for her. I could not hide it; anyone looking at me would have seen that I was about to burst at the seams. If only she had noticed me.
When they walk in they ask me if I’m warm enough. I guess it is a little warm in here. “Are you ready to talk about what happened son?” He’s not my father; I can’t help but find his remark a little puzzling. “Listen boy, we’re willing to be civil for now, but if you don’t give us something, it’s gonna get very hard for you.” I’m not a boy either, and I certainly don’t feel like a boy anymore. I feel old and dirty, not young at all. Does he think I look like a boy? I feel like I’m a million years old, and that I’m just wandering my way through the universe; a victim of my own emotions, of my moments of weakness.
I remember the time I wandered over to her house. It was big, with lots of windows and French doors in the front. The grass in the front yard was green even though it was the middle of the winter. It didn’t surprise me that someone as loving as her would take such proper care of a yard. The house was even more immaculate inside. The carpet was clean, with only a pair of children’s basketball shoes near the end of the couch. A clock on the wall ticked loudly; they seem to tick louder when a house is completely silent. The clock was the only sound audible in the dark home, the rest of the house was sound asleep. The walls around the clock were perfectly white; bleached-white like her smile. Everything was so perfect that it made my skin crawl just a little. I wasn’t used to such perfection. I was relieved to find spots of darkness breaking up the perfection of one of the walls. I flipped on a light switch to get a better look. The dark spots became physical objects: photographs. Photographs in frames, photographs of her son and husband, photographs of her with them, photographs of them happy and photographs of them in love were spread across the wall. The smiling faces stared at me, and I couldn’t fight the happiness and warmth I gained from these photos.
The faces in front of me now are not as happy. I’ve been ignoring them, not on purpose, but I was daydreaming. They aren’t used to people being this difficult. They aren’t used to me. “I’m ready to talk now gentlemen.” I don’t know if this is true, but I figure it will make them happy. “Are you going to tell us what happened tonight then?” I begin to tell them, ‘from the top,’ as they say.
“Looking at the photographs, I couldn’t decide how I felt. I tried to decide if I’d rather live the life of the husband, or the son. Both had so much of her love, and I had none of it. When I walked into the kitchen, I was not surprised to see it spotless. I breathed in and smelled a slight trace of lemons. Have you noticed that for some reason lemons have become the fruit representative of cleanliness?” There was no response and I continued, “On the counter there was a cutting board with a shining knife on it that she would have discredited as ‘dirty.’” I put my hands in the air and hooked my first two fingers on each hand for emphasis. “Lying next to the knife was a sliced lemon; perhaps she had used some lemon in her tea earlier in the night. I picked up the knife and enjoyed the feelings of the wooden handle in my hand. I marveled at the long, thin blade; shining in a sliver of moonlight that was let in through the window over the sink. I was just standing there, enjoying the sensations I was experiencing, when the light was flicked on.
“The boy had come down for a glass of water. For a moment we both stared at each other, both a little startled. Neither of us could control our fear for that brief moment, but we reacted differently. He reacted by letting out a loud scream, I reacted by rushing to hush him. But in my panic I forgot to put the knife down first. Guided by my fear, I plunged the blade into his shrieking mouth. With the blade in his mouth, his shriek was muffled. I palmed his head and pulled it forward as I shoved the knife harder and deeper until the screaming stopped. It was hard and I almost cut my other hand when the knife penetrated the back of his skull. It was a mistake, but at least he wouldn’t wake up his mother now. With this reassuring thought I began to regain control.
“His legs gave out and all of his weight was pulling on my arm as I held on to the knife. So I pulled out and looked at the blade. She would have definitely said it was dirty had she seen it in that state. I stepped over the child’s still twitching, but lifeless body. My foot half splashed, half squished in a puddle of blood that had begun to form near his face. His mouth was still open, but his face had lost its former rosiness, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. Killing him was not part of the plan; I only wanted to look around for a while, but I was so scared. I decided to continue my tour of the house so I walked back through the living room, past the photos on the wall, and up the stairs to her bedroom door.”
The cops sitting across the table from me have begun to resemble that dead boy. Their faces pale with wide, startled eyes. Noticing that I have stopped, their faces become stern once again. They tell me to say what happened next, “for the record” and they push the tape recorder on the table closer to me. The next part is the hard part, the part I’m most ashamed of. A puddle of salty tears forms in my eyes, blurring my vision of the detectives. I am beginning to lose control of my emotions, at the memories of what happens next. I feel like I am living these moments once again. I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I tell the rest of my story.
“At the top of the stairs I had to stop and take a moment. The climb up the stairs had seemed instinctual and over before I even knew that I was making it. I’m not sure why I did it, I just did. I didn’t even know what to do once I was up there. I had never planned on killing anyone, but fear had taken over me. The deeper I wandered into the house, the less I felt in control of myself, and the more I felt dominated by my own emotions: my fear, and my love. But then, upon feeling the hilt of the knife still clutched in my left hand, a delicious idea came to me, and I quietly opened the bedroom door before I could control myself.
“The room was dark, but warm. I shut the door behind me and walked silently to the foot of the bed. He lay there next to her on their foam mattress. He was snoring like a grizzly bear and a little puddle of drool was spilling from his parted lips. While he was the embodiment of crass, she was a picture of beauty. If only I was a painter I could have painted her soft curves and peaceful face. I could have shown the world how she sleeps with her mouth twisted in a slight smile. Instead, I walked over to his side of the bed. How could she love such a monstrous beast as he? Seeing him lie there next to her filled me with a jealous rage. It came over me so fast that I wasn’t able to stop myself. Gripping the knife high in the air, I thought of how to do it for a brief second. Quickly I placed my hand over his mouth and inserted the blade hilt-deep into his throat. His eyes opened with wild confusion, and his mouth gaped to scream, but only a slight gargle of blood bubbled out of the wound in his neck and a quiet hiss exited his gaping mouth. The snoring was replaced by the sound of sheets rustling as he thrashed about on his side of the bed, pulling the covers off of his serene wife. The space-age foam of the mattress transferred almost none of the motion to her as she dreamt. She was sleeping quietly next to his corpse, still warm to the touch. The puddle of drool was replaced by one of blood, and the room was silent again.”
I pause in my story now, hoping that they don’t ask me to continue. They tell me they know that there’s more. I can’t help it; I begin to sob. I have no control over the tears that fall down my cheeks and onto the hard metal table in front of me. I also know that there is more to the story, but I really wish that there wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t here right now, that I was still watching her somewhere, not telling them my darkest and most awful mistake. But I can’t run, so I try and regain my composure. All of my attempts to gain self-control fail and through the sobs, I tell the end of my story.
“I took the knife out of him and stared at her. She was uncovered and huddled in a little ball now. I figured I would just pull the covers over her, to keep her warm; because I loved her. As I did that she smiled, and opened her eyes and gazed over at me. Naturally I returned the smile. For a moment, we were lovers; sharing a deep gaze, enjoying each other’s presence and warmth. I felt the way her husband must have felt, and I loved it. But then her eyes changed from love to confusion, from confusion to fear. She quickly flipped over and shook her husband, and took a second to notice the mortal wound. She screamed and fell off the bed. Screaming she jumped to her feet and shot out of the room. I was left standing there; a little shocked at her reaction. Apparently she didn’t share my feelings of love. How could she have led me on the way she did if she didn’t love me? Why did she smile at me the way she did at the bank if she did not love me? Why had she gone to such lengths to deceive me? These questions shot through my head like bullets; each one drilling through the core of my brain and killing bits of my self-control. And in that moment I became furious and ran after her. I heard her shriek downstairs and knew that she was in the kitchen with her son.
“I flew down the stairs with a speed that equaled my sudden uncontrollable rage. She lay there, broken and sobbing at the body of her only son. She heard me coming and looked up at me. The hatred in her eyes matched the rage in mine. My love, my rage took over my mind, and it took control of me. I flew at her and took her precious life with one quick slash. It all happened too fast; before I could control my emotions. I loved her, I killed her, and when she was gone, I was without her. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to bring her back, but failed miserably. The one woman I ever loved was gone, and my own emotions were to blame; they ruined my life in one horrible moment. Running out of options I dialed 911, in a vain attempt to rescue her. The ambulance came, and so did the police.”
They stare at me, a broken man, sobbing uncontrollably in a smelly and damp interrogation room. I can see their disgust with me, and I can’t help but feel the same. They escort me to a cell, and leave me there. They hardly speak a word to me that isn’t required of them by law. I lay down on the cold emotionless floor, in an attempt to become a part of it, in an attempt to rid myself of all the emotions that had ruined my life: the fear, the rage, the jealousy, the love. But all that happens is that I cry myself to sleep, unable to control my sobs, and I lay in a puddle of tears, as I drown in a puddle of self-pity, of loss, of sorrow, of love.
