Amelia

The murder happened on a sticky, gloomy morning in August. The air was hot and heavy with moisture, and disappointed children regularly glanced at the sky, as if willing the oppressive cloud cover to part so they could enjoy their summer holiday. I know you recall the details well -- of course, everyone remembers that sensationalized crime, but I know you can conjure up every triviality of that summer day. I spent my days observing you, a favorite pastime of mine during those years of our relationship. I knew you well enough to recognize that even as you went about your day, even as you pored over routine chores as though nothing sinister was about to happen outside our window, you were in reality committing every detail to memory. I knew your easy, casual attitude that day was a front, that it meant that your mind was elsewhere -- for in truth, you were the last person I would have ever described as casual or easy. I could sense that you knew something I didn’t, that you were on edge -- of course, no one believes me when I say this. No one knew you as I did, though. Maybe someone else has cracked your code by now; I wouldn’t know. I haven’t laid eyes on you since that night, as you well know. I ask you -- is that your fault or mine?

If you’ll recall, which I know you will, you were perched on that tattered gray ottoman by the window, the one that I had been begging you to part with for months. I loved you, but oh, how I hated that ottoman. Funny, isn’t it, how something that spiked irritation then has become a soft, well-worn comfort of a memory to me now? Of course, you wouldn’t understand that type of sentimentality. You were always so rigidly practical: the ottoman was still functional, so you would continue using it until it gave out. That’s all there was to it, to you. “This is how you waste all of your money, Junie,” you told me each time I brought it up. “We don’t need a new one.” That’s another recollection that twists my mouth into a bitter smile now. What good is money to me now?

But I digress. You were sitting on the ottoman that day, computer on your lap, checking your emails and ignoring me, the way you did every morning. You looked out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been. This vexed you, of course. You always ensured that your life followed your meticulously constructed outlines; nothing would have displeased you more than your plans going awry because of someone else’s error. I observed your pale fingers as they worried the knot of auburn hair on top of your head -- as always, your long locks were neatly brushed away from your face and twisted into an impeccable bun. I sighed. What was bothering you so much?

“Amelia,” I started. You ignored me; while this wasn’t uncommon, I felt a little stab of resentment. “Amelia.”

You didn’t raise your eyes, but you grunted in my general direction, still clacking away at the keys of your laptop.

“What’s wrong? You keep looking outside.”

You made eye contact then, rolling your steely gray eyes at me. You always criticized the way I watched people, how I inferred deeper meanings from their actions. You’re overanalyzing again, Junie, you would say. You’re always seeing something that isn’t really there. It’s all in your head.

“Nothing,” you muttered, attention back on the screen. “The weather forecast said it would rain, that’s all.”

“And you hate when it’s wrong,” I said, chuckling. You didn’t grace this with a response. I backtracked, trying to cover up how stung I was by your lack of attention. “Anyway… coffee?”

A small cafe stood on the corner by our apartment. It was a sort of morning ritual at the time; you would check your emails while I sat impatiently by, picking at threads of my sweater or scrolling mindlessly through my phone, and then we would go for a coffee. You didn’t take me on many dates, remember, Amelia? So in a way, I had come to regard our morning coffee runs as dates, as little escapes we planned during the cracks in our days. As you’ll recall, you later said you didn’t see it that way. I still don’t know if you were lying.

Anyway, on the day in question, you shook your head. “Not in the mood.”

I frowned, head bowed as I fiddled with the end of my shirt. “But we go every morning.”

“I said I’m not in the mood, Junie.”

Faint comprehension stirred within me. I looked up. “Amelia, this isn’t because of that guy who was at the coffee shop yesterday, is it? Because if it is, that’s just ridiculous.”

“What?” you snapped at me, impatience and vexation coloring the voice I loved so much. “What are you talking about? Of course not. I just don’t want to get coffee.”

I let it go and picked up an unfinished novel I had left on the table, sulking slightly but unwilling to show you that your words had hurt me. I was sure that I had hit the nail on the head, though. You see, Amelia, I had noticed the way you had behaved at the cafe the day before. I had observed you, the way I always did, as you ordered your usual vanilla latte. You had tossed your head slightly as you told the barista what you wanted, haughty and put-together and unconcerned as ever. I loved those facets of your personality -- your confidence and pride -- but I knew that they attracted others too, much to my annoyance and, I admit, my jealousy. Can you blame me? And that barista the morning before had been no different. I was used to seeing it, Amelia. I knew exactly what I was looking for: the brightness returning to the previously dull, bored eyes of a man working a tedious shift at a mundane job. The way he stood up slightly taller, stiffening his shoulders and leaning in to be closer to you. Oh yes, I remember everything. I remember what he looked like, too -- jet-black hair, a model’s jawline, an annoyingly endearing smattering of stubble. How could I forget?

What I remember most clearly, though, is the way you reacted. This is my doom, Amelia. No one knew you as I did. No one else would have noticed the little ways your behavior changed -- no one but me. So logically, no one believes me.

Here’s what I saw, though. I saw the flash of irritation in your eyes as the man’s gaze raked over you, pausing occasionally to stare indecently. Through the haze of my own burst of fury, I watched as he leaned slightly over the counter. I watched his lips move, and though I couldn’t hear the words, I discerned in his expression the lasciviousness of whatever he said. My flash of rage was nothing to yours, however. I remember laughing dryly to myself. The dark-haired man visibly recoiled at something in your eyes, quickly handed back your credit card, and backed away.

Your anger was always something to behold: never thunderous like mine. Rather, the subtle flashing of your eyes and the silent trembling of your small frame was somehow quietly lethal. I remember feeling coolly victorious when that barista backed off. You were mine, and I was almost as triumphant as I would have been if it were me who had frightened him.

So, Amelia, I just knew that day -- as I know today -- why you didn’t want to go back to the cafe. I knew you were planning something vindictive, for you would never spare someone who disrespected you the way that unwitting man did. I just didn’t know you would go this far. Everyone might discredit me, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that your rage would have never evaporated quietly. I know who you are, Amelia, even if no one else does.

We both know how the rest of the day went, even though you still insist on lying. Do you know how it feels, Amelia, to happen to glance outside your window and see the love of your life standing over a body, clutching a knife in white-knuckled hands? Do you know how it feels to know suddenly and definitively that your life is over? Because if you were doomed, so was I. That’s how much I loved you.

I told the detectives everything, Amelia, as you know. I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself, but I talked and talked and talked. I couldn’t stop. I told them about the barista, about your quiet anger, even about the ottoman I hated. I told them about you standing there, over the body, holding a knife that shone with your offender’s blood; I told them about the rain that you had expected, the rain that would have washed away the mess. Do you remember after my words were exhausted, how they called you in? That’s the only part of that fateful day I can no longer perfectly call to memory. Perhaps I’ve subconsciously erased it from my mind; perhaps I’ve simply rejected the memories of such outright fabrications. I can’t really contribute much here, other than little fragments of your voice that I’ve collected and compiled, like so many dried, pressed flowers of some poisonous variety:

“What? Junie, we’re not in a relationship.”

“I invited him here --”

“Sir, she’s just my roommate.”

“I have no idea.”

“She’s always been in her head a lot, if you know what I mean --”

“...just standing there, outside the window by the front door!”

“...delusional…”

“...white as a sheet, and a knife --”

“She was angry, sir --”

“I was interested in that barista.”

“Look -- here’s my receipt from yesterday, he’s written his phone number on it.”

“...a little unhinged…”

“...had no idea she loved me like that --”

“...thought we were in a relationship…”

Had I known then that I would never again hear your voice, I surely would have collected more memories. I miss you every day, Amelia. You will never understand how I feel about you, how gladly I have given up myself for you. I know why you did it, of course, and I am not angry. I know that’s why you haven’t visited me; I know that you’re scared of my rage, that you’re scared I don’t love you anymore. But I do.

I’m proud of myself, my love. I have lived the noblest, most courageous life. I have lived a life of sacrifice for my one and only. Yesterday, Dr. Taylor asked me to pretend I had been the murderer all along, now didn’t that feel right? Didn’t I feel some closure? I went along with it all for your sake, though it may not seem like it. I’m not imprisoned here, you know. I’m lucky. I can leave when they think I’m better, and when I’m free, Amelia, I can finally see you again.

Dr. Taylor seemed very pleased with me yesterday, in fact. I’m taking the pills they gave me, my love, and I’ll be home soon. I know we can’t live without one another, and I won’t let anything happen to you again. This time, no man or woman would dare try to take you from me. I love you, Amelia. I'm coming back for you.