Witness

One

It's been a terrible week. Probably the worst one of my life. I keep waiting for something to shift, for things to return to normal, but so far...no such luck.

It might be bearable if I could sleep. I've only managed to calm the adrenaline for a couple of hours total since last weekend, and those were filled with unspeakable nightmares. I'm in shock, I know. Traumatized. Altered. But I don't know what to do to fix it. I see them everywhere, broken angels made of gold.

It's all the worse because I saw them maybe half an hour before, whole and bright and shining. The market had been busy as most markets are on a Saturday morning in Manchester, and we ended up in the same aisle, debating cereals. I noticed the child first, standing up in the back of the trolley and reaching for the cereal boxes with the brightest characters and lowest nutritional value.

I must have chuckled out loud because she turned to me, and I think even without all the rest, her face would still be burned into my mind. She was so pretty, like a little doll with long golden curls and bright blue eyes. I remember the eyes especially, because although the girl was maybe three years old, there was a somber intelligence in her expression. Her eyes reminded me of my own baby pictures, taking me back to a time when my mum would give me the most curious looks, as though she was waiting for me to transform into a unicorn or something.

The little girl caught sight of the box of sugary cereal in my hands and she squealed with delight, leaning toward me, chubby fists grabbing.

"Addy, no," the girl's mother said sternly, pulling her back into the cart. She glanced at me and mouthed the word "sorry," her eyes repentant.

I meant to nod at her, to shrug, to do anything to imply that her apology was unnecessary, but I've never been great at talking to girls, and this one was well above average in the looks department. She shared her daughter's long blonde hair, but her eyes were greenish-grey. She wore a fluttery white dress with thin shoulder straps, and I remember thinking that I'd never seen a real person wear a dress like that. Just models on a beach or maybe in a flowery meadow for a perfume commercial. I didn't know much about women, being the comfortably gay man that I am, but I can say that she was wearing the hell out of that dress. By the time I had figured out something to say to her, she had pushed her trolley on down the line, and the little girl had become distracted by a different flashy cereal box.

It was such a brief encounter, something that should have left little to no lasting impression on me. In all truth, by the time I'd finished the shopping and waited in the ridiculous check-out line, I had forgotten all about the pair of pretty blondes.

In the fog of my current sleep deprivation, I have wondered about what happened next a thousand times. What if the lines hadn't been so long? What if I'd gotten there five minutes sooner? Ten? Could I have stopped it? But then I still don't understand how it happened at all, in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded car park. And of course, I still don't understand how I knew.

I had finished loading groceries into the back of the car, and was walking around to the driver's seat when I heard it--a faint drip, drip, drip. It caught my attention because it was a sound that never should have caught my attention. I never should have heard that horrible sound over the the sound of cars zooming around looking for spaces, people talking and laughing as they went in and out of the shop, and the roar of the busy road beyond.

But I did hear it, and the sound made me nauseous. I looked up and I saw a red Mazda crossover parked two rows over. It drew my gaze instantly, for no discernible reason, but I began walking toward it like someone in a trance. Horns blared as I stepped in front of circling traffic, but I ignored them and soon began to jog toward the Mazda. The rear passenger side door was open and so was the driver's door, but I couldn't see anyone near the car.