Part 1

“Please tell me your name,” the man sitting across from me says.

 

I reach out and grip his arm for support. “Elexa Waters.”

 

“Hello, Elexa. My name is Ken, and I’m here to talk with you today about a very serious matter,” Ken tells me in an oddly pleasant tone.

 

“I know this serious matter you speak of, Ken. I’m the one who reported it,” I snap.

 

I feel his muscles tighten in his arm, and know he’s clenching his fist. Trying to stay calm.

 

“Well�"”

 

I interrupt him. “You can cut to the chase, okay? I’m not interested in formalities.”

 

He sighs angrily, but quietly, too. Then he speaks. “Alright, Elexa. I’ll cut to the chase. You came to this police station this morning claiming you’ve murdered dozens of people.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“Your seeing eye dog led you here.”

 

“Also correct,” I say.

 

“Me and my coworkers are having a bit of an issue understanding how a blind woman like yourself went about murdering dozens of people,” he says.

 

I snort a humourless laugh. “Ken, you and your cohorts have overlooked one minor detail: I wasn’t blind until I was sixteen.”

 

“Huh. Not what your file says,” he chirps skeptically.

 

“That file is all lies,” I inform him.

 

He sighs deeply. I have a feeling I’m going to hear lots of sighs today. “Listen, Elexa, we’re going to have a real problem if you don’t cooperate with us. We’re trusting the file, and the file says you’ve been blind since birth.”

 

I slap my free hand down on the cold, metal table and roar, “Would a blind person since birth be able to tell you that the sky takes on a dazzling red when it sets? And when the sun dips out of view, the world becomes this eerie grayish-blue until it slips into darkness? Would a blind person from birth be able to tell you that squirrels like to chase each other around the trunks of trees? That they crawl over each other and scurry as quick as lightning, dashing up and down the trunk, their bushes of tails waving like mad? Would a blind person since birth�"”

 

“I believe you’ve made your point, Elexa,” Ken interrupts, his voice perturbed.

 

I grunt a reply and slump back into my seat.

 

“Excuse me for a moment, Elexa,” Ken says, then pries my fingers away from his arm. He stands and leaves the room, the door closing with a definite slam.

 

I meekly pull my arm back to my body and hold it against my chest. I hate not being able to have someone to anchor me. I need to have an anchor, or else I feel like I’m just floating in a space of black nothingness, and there is no worse feeling than that. Minutes pass by and no one re enters the room. A panicky feeling rises in my chest. What if they’re going to just leave me here to die? Surely my snappy comebacks couldn’t’ve helped my situation. And now that they know there’s a possibility I was being honest when I confessed to dozens of murders, what if they’re going to just let me starve to death in this room?

 

Just when I’m about to start hyperventilating, I hear the door open and someone stomps in. I try and act like I hadn’t been freaking out.

 

I smile lightly. “Ah, Ken, that you?”

 

“Yes, it’s me.” Ken sounds mad.

 

I take advantage of this. “You sound upset, Ken. Care to tell me what’s the matter? Have I baffled your coworkers? Are you going to take me seriously yet?”

 

I fumble for his arm, desperate for the anchor, and even though he’s supposed to be against me and all, he lets me clutch his arm securely.

 

“Yes, we’re going to take you seriously . . . if you take us seriously.”

 

“Fair enough,” I say.

 

“Okay, good.” He takes a collective breath. “Now, how about you tell me about these murders?”

 

“Hmm, see, that sounds like an easy enough question, but all of this is a lot more complicated than it sounds,” I say.

 

“Why don’t you start with the very first one?” he prompts.

 

“I was thirteen,” I tell him. “Had just gotten my first period. What fun that was.”

 

“You killed someone at thirteen?” he asks, incredulous.

 

“I believe that’s what I just told you, Ken.”

 

I can feel him clench his hand into a fist again. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“Why, sure. What happened was me and this boy Roger Buckley had a staring contest that lasted longer than ten seconds. Less than twenty-four hours later, and he got run over by a car.”

 

Ken sighs again. “Elexa, that doesn’t answer my question at all.”

 

“Yes it does,” I insist. “I killed him with my eyes, you see?”

 

“No, I don’t see. That doesn’t make a sliver of sense.”

 

I grit my teeth. I’d known the cops would be hard to convince. “Listen, okay? It happened again with Kate Jess. We were in class one day, and she was trying to whisper something to me. I couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say and we didn’t break eye contact, me trying to decipher her whispers, she trying desperately to get her message across, until the teacher broke us apart. Later that night, she was brutally murdered in her home.”

 

“Hey . . . I worked that case,” Ken mutters to himself, but I hear him.

 

“Oh, then you must know that only Kate was murdered, even though her brother and mom and dad were all just a few doors away. Weird, huh?” I say.

 

“That doesn’t�"”

 

“Oh, and just a few days later, I had a long conversation with Bradley Carlson. We looked into each other’s eyes the whole time. Guess what happened? His house burned down that night and only he died! Seeing a pattern yet?” I feel myself getting more and more worked up. I shudder. Painful memories.

 

Clearly exasperated, Ken says, “No, I don’t see a pattern, Elexa. I see an inconvenient string of terrible tragedies that all happened around the time when you’ve made contact with the soon-to-be-deceased.”

 

“You don’t get it!” I shout. “It’s not some big coincidence! I watched all these people that I knew and talked with and hung out with die just after looking me right in the eye for a couple seconds!” I strain to hold in tears. “It’s damn horrible, you know . . . to know that you’re a monster without even meaning to be one.”

 

“This is preposterous,” Ken spits. “And you’re just an attention-seeking madwoman!”

 

A lone tear rolls down my cheek. “If only that were it, Ken.”

 

He stands and tears his arm away from my grip, then storms out of the room. Goodbye, anchor. 

Reviews

[Zachary_James]

Wow this is freaky. but in a good way that is!! This kept me on the edge of ny seat. Great>>>