I sat frozen. Dreaming of the day I would ever see the light again. Dreaming that the “accident” never happened. What Accident, you may ask?
Well, it all started on a foggy Thursday night. He was standing on the old rigidity bridge, waiting. Waiting for my arrival. I was his love, at the time of the crime and he was mine. He had his best polo shirt and cargo pants on. Looking all dazzling in the moonlight, glazing at the shallow water and twiddling his thumbs together.
I was walking down the dark alley as I seen him on the bridge, lit just by a flickering street lamp. They say accident, but I say tragedy. As I continued my paced walk down the dark path, I could see him from a short distance and glared at him. He turned as he heard my presence.
I started to pick up my pace. I couldn’t fully comprehend what was racing through my head. All I knew was no good was coming and I regret not shouting to warn him. Warn him about the danger coming. By the time my foot reached the crooked bridge, he was gone..
His hair was to a frill and his mouth was full of dark red blood. His body was soaked in the dark fluid flowing from his chest. Scrapes and cuts were all over his bent arms and his chest had a large gash carved into his flesh. My heart began beating and my hands twitched and ached. My eyes filled with tears, my legs became numb, and my clothes were drenched in sweat. This was no accident to me. It was torture.
I regret it. The move I made to the step I took. It shouldn’t have been him that suffered. It should have been me. Then, piece by piece my mind began to collect the horrific night. As I lay down in the dark room on the bed, I began to remember the night from my perspective. I thought it was an illusion, but it was a nightmare. When I became a conclusion of what happened to him, my eyes began to water and jagged chills ran down my spine.
“I did it. I remember the breathe I took to the very lest step. I felt alive, and powerful. The way it felt when I grabbed his neck, the way it felt when I ran my knife across his chest and pushed it through his flesh. Hearing the tear and his cry for help. I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop till his body froze still. He was such a fuss for me and I could not handle it anymore.”
“Why did you do this to him?” A masked man said to me while I lay still on the course bed. Tied down by wires and thick rope. The restraints were so tight on my wrists that they were starting to slice into my skin. My brown, dampened hair was tangled and knotted, and my black clothing was torn and ripped to shreds. “Why? He did not deserve this!” The man said more stern.
“He deserved it all.” I finished my sentence and the man took his large, bruised hand and cuffed it around my neck. I slowly began to feel his grip tighten. I struggled to get my wrists free. I felt blood ooze from my wrist onto the black leather bed. His hand still grasped firmly on my neck. I began to lose my breathe. His raspy voice cracked as he began to hum a blood-curdling rhyme. It was Ring around the Rosie. My breathe became shorter and shorter. My mind began to break. The tune in my head, the blood on my hands, the slow breathing against my neck. I have had enough. He was torturing my head. He was breaking me. I felt calmer after he let go. I was scared and he knew it. This went on for weeks. The same tune over and over again with the horrific masked man hanging over my face with his hand against my neck. I don’t know what to do anymore. He knows what I did to his son and wants me to pay..