Make It Stop

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⑪ Eyewitness

I’m not too good at giving statements or writing non-fiction, since I usually forget what it is I’m actually writing about and the importance of it all while I’m going. But I think it’s different this time. Only problem is, I don’t know which point of view to write it in. Maybe I can do it in fourth-person? That’s got to be a thing now.

I find that writing down real-life events makes everything a lot more final and factual, but in this case, I don’t see how that’s possible anymore. See, there’s been a murder in our apartment, and I saw it all happen.

Was I there? Well, of course I wasn’t. Not literally - not standing there next to the murderer, acting like a cold-hearted, frozen bystander. No, I saw it all happen, but the strange thing about it is that I saw it all through the murderer’s eyes.

Why would I joke? You’ve got to believe me - all the evidence of the murder, the stab wounds and marks, the timing - it all adds up and proves that what I’m telling you is true. It was at two thirty-six in the morning, when everyone was bound to be asleep, and no, they didn’t climb in through the window. How could they? The victim was on the sixth floor. No, they got a spare key from the reception area on the ground floor, snuck upstairs and simply let themself in. You’re following so far, aren’t you? Okay.

It was incredibly dark out since it was gone midnight, which gave the whole thing more of a sickly, vicious aura. They didn’t have a torch, but I don’t think they needed one since they knew their way around. From the smooth, expert way they were advancing to the door and soundlessly entering the room, it’s safe to say they were quite determined on what they were about to do. They didn’t look back once. They could’ve been scared to, sure, but that doesn’t seem likely. Anyway, how should I know? Just because you can see through the eyes of another, that capability doesn’t grant you the ability to recognise their emotions too.

They were fast asleep in their bed, palms of their hands exposed and directed upwards from the backs resting on their pillow. The hollow tubes of moonlight shining in from the window opposite the bed rested and highlighted a part of their face, so for a moment they looked almost ethereal - but in the worst way. Well, of course you don’t know what I mean by that, because you weren’t there, were you? Right, I’ll carry on.

The murderer was wielding a knife of some kind in their right hand, only it was an odd make, since there were two handles, most probably made out of steel. The blade itself looked and was extremely sharp, as it should be, and the handles had five holes going down each middle, getting a little smaller each time until it reached the blade...

A butterfly knife? Fitting name. Yes, that was it then.

They must have been angry or felt threatened. No, well, the first strike was the one that killed them, without waking them up or them making a fuss. There was a lot of red, so much red, staining the crisp white sheets something terrible. I doubt any amount of Vanish will truly be able to save them now. Alright, alright, back to the point.

So, the first strike and the victim as gone. Made such an awful noise, really it did, but the murderer didn’t stop there. They kept on going, relentlessly, which was quite sickening if you ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the blade’s point is blunt now. You saw the bloodbath, didn’t you? You’re asking me about everything, and to read out what I wrote about it, so I don’t doubt your methods for a second, but you don’t seem convinced.

There was a total of twelve stab wounds, deep ones at that, and a picture in a delicate glass frame cracked and ruined by the same knife. The murderer left after that, going back downstairs to the floor their room’s on, and everything went black.

Now it’s your turn to talk. And you seem absolutely disgusted. I guess good cops are only a thing in movies.

You’re saying that there’s no way anybody could experience looking through another person’s eyes because it’s impossible. It sounds mystic and twisted, and it was, but you’re not having any of it, are you? You’re convinced that I’ve got problems, big problems because you think that the sadistic murderer was... me.

That doesn’t sound fair.

But now you’re pulling out the same knife - yeah, I recognise it - but not because I held it myself!

You say fingerprint testing begs to differ. I don’t like you very much.

See now I feel somewhat powerless. There’s this cruel fact in life that you can’t reset or delete an action, not like you could in a game or on a computer. You can simply try to cover it over or make amends, but that doesn’t change much. I didn’t ask to be here, but here I am. You still don’t think I’m as upset by the murder as I should be. How do you know how upset I should be? How many people have you been? You’ve only ever been yourself.

All I am is an eyewitness, not figuratively, but literally. But you’re shaking your head and now another couple of black-and-white uninformed people are coming in, looking very calm and collected as they clamp cool metal around my wrists behind my back. Maybe they’re surprised that I can’t be bothered to fight them off. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t.

The photograph that was mauled by the butterfly knife was one of myself and the victim, and you know I hated them. That doesn’t prove anything. Small-minded people for a small-minded world. I’d rather stay in a neutral room and talk to feeble people with glasses who are paid to hear me out anyway. So sure, I’ll get in the car.

It’s so strange, because I was so numb while it all happened, like I wasn’t in control of my body when I knew I could easily take back control whenever I wanted. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. You won’t even look at me now.

So maybe I was the murderer I never knew I was. But I’m not feeling it. I’m an expert eyewitness in my opinion. No more, no less. Nothing wrong with that. Not when the victims had a reversed role, once upon a time.

I’m still seeing red, even now, though it’s not dripping like it was before. I haven’t managed to give a fourth-person statement amazingly, but I’ve got a lifetime to learn how. I doubt I’ll forget what I’m writing about now. I can see everything.

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