Wings

Chapter 1

"Miss, you're positive you didn't hear anything?"

    "Yes, I'm positive." I've been asked this question a thousand times now by countless different officers. I simply continue to stare and my hands in my lap.

    "And, as far as you know, there was no one plotting against your friend, Monica?"

    "No, everyone loved her; she was happy and bright. She didn't deserve this." I look up at his face and the sorrow in his eyes.

"Ma'am, I'm going to show you some pictures of the scene. Would that be alright?" I nod.

He brings a briefcase out from beside his chair and sets it on the table facing himself. The bald man pulls out a beige file folder. It gets laid on the table and he looks cautiously into my eyes. "What sits before you are pictures from the scene. Are you sure you are okay with seeing them? Anything you can tell us could help with the investigation."

"Yes, I'm ready."

The man takes a deep breath and folds open the folder. The first thing I see is her face, so different from when I saw her only moments before her death. Strewn across her face is fear and panic. I had never known there was that much blood in a person. It was spread all across the bed and the room. The carpets and the walls stained red. My mind had shut out the images from our apartment but I now realize it's unforgettable emotion.

I remember the event clearly. I was humming to myself as I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my pale form. I brushed my long, black hair and put it up in a towel. I started doing my makeup in preparation for work. I slide on my black dress and heels. I let down my hair and shake it a bit then sigh because I know it'll only ever be slightly wavy. I strut out of the bathroom into the kitchen. The clock says 5:03pm. I must be leaving soon. I quickly go to make a sandwich but stop suddenly at the handprint of blood on the countertop and then another grasping at a knife in the rack. My eyes go wide and I scan the floor. The trail of blood leads down the hall. I follow it while calling out to Monica. She doesn't answer. I follow the trail in a hurry and shove open the door to her room and scream at the sight. My friend, covered in blood and sheets.

He removes the image and shows me another one. This one of her left wrist. Her watch stained red from the erratic slashes in her wrist. He lays two more pictures beside it, both quite similar in wounds but on her neck and other wrist. But there's something quite odd about the cuts; they're not from a blade. They're jagged, as if ripped: not cut.

"Sir, could I please go home now?"

    "Not yet," he collects his pictures and snaps his briefcase shut causing me to jump. "We have further investigations to run. Is there-," a knock at the door stops the officer, "Come in."

    The door slides open and a broad, blonde man enters the room, "May I have a word with," he checks his clipboard, "Pandora?"

    The officer nods to him, stands, and exits without another word. The new man sits in his place. Before he speaks, he gives me time to compose myself.

    "Well, Pandora."

    "You can call me Pan, Pansy, anything but Pandora."

    His jaw tenses, "As you wish, Ann." He snickers. "I just have a few questions for you. First, do you know of anyone who could possibly want to harm you?"

    "I don't believe so."

    "Okay. Do your parents know this has happened?"

    "Probably not considering my mother died of cancer when I was seven and my father was shot and killed last year."