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Crime Mystery Sad

They allowed me in; but not inside. Glass, thick, stood as a clear barrier. I could feel his eyes on me, but I wouldn't look. Out of the corner of my eyes I stole glances at him. He didn't seem scared not one bit, in fact he was as a dove, a white one for that matter, with a twig of olive caught in its beak.

I knew it! I was right! I hate him. He didn't care. He's not regretting anything. He didn't love him, Oooo! Summoning all the courage the universe could offer at that moment, I scornfully peered at him. Strapped non-slackly, his football-star chest and gymnast thighs pressed on the cot, his arms next to his body on either side, his face exhibited a bland smile.

"It's time", one in white said grabbing a bottle on the miniature table next to the cot.

Some words were clearly indicated on the bottle, I could read it ...p-e-n-t-o-b-a-r-b-i-t-a-l... It was injected into him, and almost immediately, his eyelids started flickering, then he stiff, the breathing movements made by the body were gradually coming to a halt. Then, he said something; but just as when they all in inside said something, I couldn't hear, very thick, only see-through but not hear-through. So, I read their lips to come to grips with what was going on inside there, I read his to --

"photo"

Ngrrr! ngrrr! ngrrr!

Dang it! I stretched out my arm and thrust it to the ground. Despite my attempt every morning to dismantle it, it still worked. Waking up each day had become hard. No! It had become empty, days filled with despondency. I couldn't stop thinking about what he said though, "photo".

He is Brian, my late wicked husband, who I don't regret saying he deserved to die. Yes, he did. Every night from when it happened, I have been dreaming, recalling how he died; I was there. I cried, I loved him; but I made it crystal clearly to him that my son was always first, and he didn't dispute it. He dearly loved him to. Why he ended him still baffles me.

Each time I dream of his death, it ends with the word LOVE; why did he say "photo" this time round?

Photo...photo...what photo? I searched through our photo album that was supposed to be filled our memorable pictures of us with the pyramids at Giza (Brian's favorite destination from the countable visited), honeymoon with a baby at Paris, trips to the park and picnics during the weekends. Deaths cut short all our trips. Death is a monster, yet I know some day I have to submit to it.

Oh! Photo... After his death, I was given all his belongings which I had never touched, I despised him. Dusty browny box in the basement. Opened and at the top, a photo. A picture of me holding Jaymie, my son, just after he was born, he was so tiny and he couldn't even open his eyes. He clasped my right forefinger with all the strength he had. Brian wasn't there, we hadn't even met yet.

I went back to the house and stretched my debilitated body on the second-hand sofa next to the open-concept kitchen. If not for water which was the only thing that could enter my mouth, I would probably be dead to. As I inspected the picture, there was nothing unique about it, perhaps my uniquely handsome son.

"You can be with him again"

"But how?"

"You have a pistol, remember!"

*** (slowly slipping into the bye byes) ***

Some time passed, maybe even a day or two. What is time if you don't have anyone to spend it with? Using the strength I had left, I got up to go and get a glass of nothing but water.

The photo fell. Its back on top. Some writings on its back, "Jaymie's room". I picked up the picture and headed up to Jaymie's room, curious, forgetting all about the water.

Beautiful picture of baby Jaymie liking his lolly on one of the paneled walls welcomed me in. I tried forcing back ties but they were stronger. The blue room reminded me of Jay; a peaceful child, with wide dark eyes, too friendly even to strangers (this often scared me). Now gone.

"I can't do this"

As I was hurriedly leaving the room, I knocked over something. I knocked over Jaymie's room, the nanny cam we had placed in his room, we had named it Jaymie's room. I had to go through it before I destroyed everything, soon; even though I didn't want to, I would have to eventually come to terms with the fact that they were gone, "Hopefully to a better place..." and I might be joining them soon.

I sat beside his bed and watched. Tears; lots of tears; too much tears. Then the day he was murdered; why Brian; you accepted us both; why couldn't you have just told me that you can't raise another's child? I would have understood.

He was having his afternoon nap; he could say a few words and had grown a bit, so we decided to give him his own room. He still slept a lot during the day just like a newborn.

Gloves; Brian's rainbow-colored jacket; knife; stabbed; escape; knife left; time passes. Brian comes in; removes knife deep within him; blood; bloody. I come in and he's holding the knife, what do I do? I scream; he's standing stock still; I call for help; he's arrested; maximum sentence; and I never talk to or visit him. He's a Murderer.

I re-watch it again from where Jaymie comes to sleep; so peaceful. Brian's jacket: big head in the jacket, long hair extending outside the hood, familiar gloves on hand, not Brian's walking style, familiar walking style.

Could it be a mistake? Could Brian have gone through all this trouble of disguising himself as was proved in court? How come he did not use this as his evidence in court? Why did he plead guilty? Could it be... No! Jane the nanny?

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July 20, 2021 19:43

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