The Identity Crisis

Knock, Knock. Who's there?

She was covered in blood. That’s the first thing I noticed when I walked in the tiny apartment building that seemed to tower the city. Celine was the prettiest woman I’d ever met, her eyes dowey and soft like a melted candy bar, so I wasn’t used to the clear tears that now glistened the side of her cheeks. Her nose was buried in the carpet, as she sniffled and shook. When we were young, stealing coffee sticks from the local shops, she would always laugh a sound of a hundred pianos. Today the symphony was quiet.

“I didn’t do it,” she sniffled, her eyes glistening tears. She began to cry again on her dirty carpet. I closed the dusty shutters letting out a sigh. The sounds of sirens echoed into the night and smell of new soap stuck in the air. If I hadn’t known better I’d think it was another ordinary night. I would close my eyes and imagine that I didn’t suspect my best friend for murder. Nothing was ever ordinary with Celine.

“Hey,” I started, pulling out my cigar casually. “Who’s blood is this.”

She gave a whimper and started crying again. I stood looking at her incredulously as she began to shake on the ground, her blonde curls protecting her from my words. I didn’t like repeating questions, nor obvious statements. I took another drag. Tonight would be a very long night.

“You gotta help me, Diana,” she muttered, rocking on the floor. “You know what to do in situations like these.”

By situations like these she meant the task of cleaning up behind a murder, a job I wouldn’t recommend keeping on a resume. It was the same job that Celine called me about two years ago, the one I buried behind. The pay wasn’t that great.

“What situation?” I whispered, now interested. I pulled off my sweaty winter coat and placed it on the couch. Although the air was frigid, the snow outside was now a melted sludge. The weather in Angels Crook never changed. It was as if the world had encompassed only us in a snow globe, with no way out.

“The woman just showed up on my door,” she gave out a loud squeal, “She was bleeding and coughing up a mess!”

“Calm down Celine,” I snapped. “Where is she?”

“I put her in the bathtub,” Celine gestured to a door. Her polished nails pointed towards the short hallway. Music played softly from the radio balanced on top of her wooden cupboard.

The carpet flattened as if something was dragged. My best friend was not a murderer, per se. She just happened to be in the midst of what we called the deranged era. Some people were destined to be singers, dancer, or inspirational spokespersons. Celine was destined to end up in a jail cell. I prayed I didn’t end up with her.

I held Celine up as we descended down the hall, my hand pressed on the knob. The bedroom was even less tidy than usual, red stains on the ground and her off-centered lamp shade knocked over and broken. As I advanced towards the bathroom and opened the door a horrid smell made me shiver. Right in the bathtub, arms wide open in holiness, was a dead little brunette.

“She died right there,” Celine whispered. “I didn’t even have time to offer her a cup of tea.”

I gagged as I pressed my t-shirt towards my nose.

“She knocked on my door bloody, screaming about someone attacking her. I told her she could wash up in my bathroom,” Celine cried.  
“You didn’t call anyone?” I whispered.

“I called you,” she murmured.

I pulled my gloves out of my bag. “You remember how to pick up a body?”

She gave a solemn nod. “Where are we going to take it?” she began to cry again.

“We put it in the dumpster and we tell no one,” I murmur. “You didn’t kill this girl. You never met this girl.”

“Diana, I can’t do this again,” She started. “Can’t we just call the police?”

“The infamous Celine, the girl who every station thinks got away with a murder?” I snapped. “We barely got you out the last time. Another dead body at your house isn’t gonna cut it. They’ll send you to the cell, and I can’t talk them out of it this time.”  

She began to weep again.

“We’ll get you out of this,” I said softer. “I need another cigar.”

We both stared at the dead girl’s eyes for a while, lost in the pale lifeless blue.

“She’s pretty,” I whispered. “Was pretty, I mean.”

“Kinda looks like you in the right lighting,” Celine stated.

“My eyes are hazel,” I noted, but silently agreed. We had similar bone structures and even our hair color the same shade, mine much dirtier than hers. I could smell the tasteless perfume around her neck, see the expensive earrings that decorated her ears. A girl like that didn’t belong in Angel’s Crook, a statue hidden in rubble. I reached for the earrings, my hand frozen on the clasp.

And with the strike of a million gunshots, a knock on the door pulsed.

Celine became still, her eyes beginning to glaze over.

“Answer the door,” I murmured. “Please act normal Celine.”

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

“Please,” I seethed ripping the gloves from her hand. My fingers dug into her arms, a silent command that she needed to move fast.

She got up carefully, her eyes concentrated on the door. I held my breath hoping it was a nosy kid, a stranger with the wrong address. My breath was silent for what seemed like minutes.