"Identity" Liliana Hartley
A cool breeze flung up stale fall leaves that circled the feet of the police officer walking towards my door. The blinds cracked as they morphed back into their shape. I took a few steps backward before fixing my posture into a confident upright position. I had nothing to be scared of, still, that fear of detectives was instilled into my veins from the moment I
discovered what kind of news and chaos they wrought.
A heavy knock on the door, followed by the man identifying who he was, although it was a bit muffled, startled me out of my stupor. I drug my body over to the lock while letting a wave of reserved horror and curiosity wash over my features, before opening the door and letting the man in.
He splayed out a variety of gruesome crime photos in front of me as soon as he took a seat at my cluttered kitchen table. My heart raced as a bloody scene flashed into my head, a tragedy that plagued my every waking second and kept me awake most nights. I let out a shaky inhale as a tear rolled down my perturbed features. They kept pooling and spilling out of my eyes, falling onto an old ripped-up envelope, and staining it with salty water. The words rushed out of my mouth as I recalled that fateful day and explained to him what my husband did to them and has been doing to me ever since. Soon the table fell into more disorder with my addition of snot and tear-filled tissues carelessly dropped as another sniffle started up.
The detective left with a hard stare and a promise I knew he would do anything to keep. I could almost imagine the cold feel of the handcuffs cutting into my wrists while I watched my husband get dragged off despite his manic protests. The lights from the sirens lit up my watery eyes and danced in the midnight. I profusely thanked and threw myself over the detective who had kept his promise, declaring again and again that he was my savior. I had never felt more carefree in my entire life, it was finally over.
A pitter-patter of rain was all I could focus on as a small reserved smile played on my lips while I watched my husband get shoved into a car. That car would take him to suffer the fate of the preparator of a bloody crime.
Once the night turned back into a melodic stillness and the only light that shone over the mod podge of puddles was the moon, I allowed myself to bubble up into a senseless fit of laughter. I felt simply euphoric, I could almost feel the savory taste of blood when I ran my tongue over my chapped lips. The pleas to stop and the smell of Lysol that coated my house and clothes for weeks rung clear in my memory.