A Body With Too Many Strings

"We found his body last night."

Heaven stoned the walls of my home with hail the size of a newborn's fist and seconds grew into minutes as the thickening wall of quietude separated us. My mind was in some kind of abyss of bewilderment, I wasn't sure I had heard right so I broke the wall. "What?"

Everyone exchanged looks with one another. Everyone except the detective before me. His face was still, but his sunken dark brown eyes contemplated on whether he should repeat himself.

He didn't. Instead, he nodded and, for the first time since his arrival, those same eyes glistened with emotion: pity.

A good friend to Stawford society, but an enemy to me.

The wall returned. Except this time, it screamed louder than before. An uneasiness of this visitation gradually churned in my gut.

Like the distant flickering light in the kitchen just above Heaton's brown quiff, the images of that night were slowly reeled from the dark corner of my mind as absolute disgust overtook his features upon our eyes connecting.

I looked away and bit my tongue. I bit it hard enough to let the pain blur them out and the metallic taste of blood take their place.

Like Hell, I was going there. Not tonight. Not in front of them.

"I don't understand. You guys, " I hardly heard myself speak, their narrowed eyes confirmed it. So, I cleared my throat before reiterating, "Why are you here? It's not like we were close, or anything."

"Not the reaction I was expecting," Detective Torres said, crossing his legs.

I snorted. "Cry me a river. I hate shrinks."

"True." He nodded in agreement. "But I know you like stories. Especially the ones you write yourself."

My hands felt itchy again. I sighed. "And? It's not like anyone gives a damn about them." They were almost as irrelevant as my existence in this wretched town.

"But he did. He always did and quite intently. Didn't that mean something to you? Every writer wants to be heard."

I made no effort to reply. That didn't stop him.

"He told a lot of stories from what I heard from his other clients..."

"That's nice." I flashed a smile.

"And they all revolved around you."

I froze. That was when it dwelled on me.

The fists in my lap formed, a curtain of my locks flowed down my face and my focus dropped to the bloodstains on my white skirt. "Let me guess, you think it was me, don't you? That I reached some psychotic break?"

"No, Miss Hulland..." interrupted the lady in the white suit; she had a French twang with her words. "That's hardly the case. We are more than aware of your mental capacity. It's not of such caliber."

Detective Torres lifted his hand and silenced her. "As Dr Roovera said, we don't believe you had anything to do with it."

The main lounge was caving in, my body was reaching its peak. With so many people in the room, my chest tightened up and breathing became a struggle. It was a trigger my body obtained from the last time I was surrounded by a crowd...seconds before my body was thrown to the wall.

"Then why the hell are you here then?" The hoarseness coated my words thick as I held back my tears.

Chief Clarice threw me the most distasteful frown as he threatened, "Watch your language, Missy."

'I could say the same about your dick,' is what I really wanted to say, knowing his record of infidelity, but I ignored him the moment someone came into view in the corner by the fireplace with a questioning eye.

It was Officer Heaton. However, the dark figure was right behind him.

I blinked. It disappeared.

Heaton genuinely appeared confused now and kept side-glancing at his superior who returned a similar expression. It was only then that I realized just how long I had been staring his way, and quickly averted my attention to the Detective's shiny dark pointy shoes.

They were almost as dark as The Figure itself.

"We have reason to believe this is connected with the Tolten Cinema Bombing a few months ago." His words had me by the throat.

"W-what do you mean?" My heart was racing. The itch had crawled up my arm and was now burning through my back. I hugged myself.

"There was a mishap in the heating system and the gas leakage fusing. That's what the newspapers said. That's what you —" I looked at cross-armed Chief Clarice and he averted his eyes "—confirmed."

"Yes. That's what we shared with the public," said Torres.

"What do you mean 'with the public'?" Officer Heaton intervened. His head snapped to the Chief. "W-what is he talking about?"

"Stand down, Officer Heaton," ordered the Chief. Heaton abided like a trained dog, but the veins, growing up his arms as his fists hung behind his back, were as clear as lighting on a jet-black night.

I didn't blame him. Not one bit. And, although it was not my place to tell, the reason behind it made my heart swell.

Unruffled, the detective continued, "A note was left at the scene. One with the same material, ink and calligraphy as the note you received."

I looked his way for a moment then asked, "And the content of it?"

"It was a suicide note."

The weight of the world is lifted off my shoulders. "Problem solved. The guy was a complete nut. Now, do you mind leaving before my father arrives to this mess and gets the wrong idea?"

"As tempting as your offer is, we can't do that, Miss."

"And why's that?"

"Your blood was in it."

His statement kicked me hard in the gut. "Huh?"

"Your blood was found in the material, the ink and the envelopes. However, for some odd reason..." His lips twisted. "It had soot in it."

"That's impossible. The last time I had soot was at..." I covered my mouth and shook my head as my mind is flooded with the darkness that destroyed my normal life. Tears stream down my face. "Get out."

None of them budged, except Dr Roovera cooing, " Ms Hulland..."

"No!" I snapped as pain erupted from my throat. "Everyone in that room died. Not a single one of them moved —" my finger stabbed my chest repeatedly "— and I know because no matter how hard I cried for help or called for them, the only voice I heard was mine as it bounced back from the fallen debris. Just. Mine."

"Ms. Hulland, do not take my words too lightly when I say," Detective Torres leaned in then said, "We have strong evidence this was no gas leakage, and that the person who murdered Mr Orfield might be the same person behind the bombing, and, if so, the only connection is you..." He had a brief pause as his pained eyes met mine. "I'm sorry, Mintea, but you and this town wouldn't be able to have stomached this so early after that tragedy."

"What I'm saying is," he took a deep breath, "We need a list of everyone you associate yourself with. From family and friends to all your doctors and therapists — we don't know who's next."

My mind wandered its way upstairs to a knocked-out Christopher laying in Monday's warm embrace and to that sorrowful excuse of my mother, shivering in sync with the riveting interrogation while seated at the topmost staircase, then to the empty spot where my father's LandRover should have been. However, it was the fifteen pairs of blurry handprints all over Heaton's exposed white skin that really shook my soul.

I sat.

I just sat there too scared to move...too scared to breathe. Torres was still speaking but, like the world around me, on a sluggish mute.

It was as if I was underwater, everything that came from his moving lips was nothing more than distorted mumble, and every time I tried to focus, this ocean of black pulled me back.

Deeper into the unknown. Deeper into the underwater underworld.

Something tugged at my leg, and my insides jumped. My mouth went dry.

Dr Roovera, in the back, eyed me down, confusion was written all over her body like the other three men, but her expression quickly changed when they landed on my legs. Likewise, her male counterparts' faces, her's was now painted with horror and disbelief.

What are they looking at?

Another sudden pull rippled up the same leg. This time more forceful, I bit my bottom lip to refrain myself from shaking too much.

God, no. Not now. Not here.

Praying and quivering, I broke eye contact with Torres and peeped down in fear of the worst. Panic widened my eyes.

A boiling pool of black had formed under the legs of the chair. From it unfurled thin black fingers now wrapping around my ankles.

Paralysis filled my veins. Its claws climbed past my calves into the depths of my skirt. But it was too late.

A sharp pain ripped across my belly, forcing me to lean forward and gurgle in agony. The blurry long trickle of crimson red liquid kissing my heel was the last thing I witnessed before the gates of the underworld opened and swallowed me whole.