Murderer
Murderer.
The word just keeps ringing in my ear as I sit in the interrogation room. That’s what they think I am. A murderer. What has my life become in only a matter of hours. This morning my husband is alive and a few hours later he’s dead with his blood plastered all over the walls of our living room. Blood all over the designer furniture that I hand picked for our home. Blood all over the rug, and all over our family photos. Family.
I can still see the horror on my children’s faces when they saw their father’s body. I was in so much shock and trying to console my children that I didn’t have the energy to cry right then and there. I know that to the police me not being an emotional wreck upon seeing my husband butchered seems suspicious. What they don’t understand is that I don’t have to be crying to be going completely broken over it. The tears still haven’t came. I really wish they would. Crying would let me know that this is real and that I’m not in some horrible nightmare.
I’m pulled out of the chasm of confusion that is my mind by the detective entering the room. He sits in front of me looking me in the eyes. I stare into his eyes in return. After about 30 seconds of us staring each other down, he finally speaks.
“Mrs. Rossmore, I’m Detective Reyes. Do you know why you’re here,” he spoke.
“You think I killed my husband,” I said.
“Mrs. Rossmore, we’re not saying that you killed your husband. We just want to get to the bottom of this,” he replied before he gets up to leave.
“Do you have kids Detective, ” I asked.
“Yes. I have two boys, ” Detective Reyes answered.
“Boys.....” I said.
He walks out. I just sit and stare at the wall. I stare at it as if I expect it to crumble. It sure would resemble my life right now. I tear my eyes away from the wall looking down at my hands. The door opens again. I hear the person sit in front of me. I look up to see someone that I never thought I would ever see again. He looks up at me the reality that we’re really in the same room hitting him.
All the horrible memories obviously come flooding back. All the hurt and pain of the past come crashing in like waves hitting the shore. I can see the fire behind his eyes as he stares at me. If your inward emotions about a person could come true I would be burnt to crisp. I don’t blame him though. It’s not his fault that he had to cross paths with someone like me. I jump as he slams his fist down on the table. I half expect him to say something to me, but no. He just closes the file in his hand and walks out.
It’s like the sound of the door slamming closed triggered something inside of me. I feel the tears flow down my face. I smile and laugh at bitterly. It’s real.
I’m just gonna let this one marinate for a little bit. Be prepared to answer questions as you read because like the detectives on this case you’re on a search for the truth.
