I woke up the sound of beeping, a terribly annoying sound that made me want to claw my eardrums out just to stop it. I smelt something like hygienic products, a mixture of staleness and lemon mixed into one vomit-inducing concoction that made my stomach lurch.
I rolled to the side with a groan, and looked to the side to see a heart monitor beeping steadily, and a few other things hooked, including an IV machine and a drip filled with a clear liquid that I couldn’t decipher.
Just then someone walked in, and it was a semi-attractive man of about forty to forty-five, with bushy eyebrows that resembled caterpillars, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly slicked back with gel, a weathered but open face and kind sky-blue eyes that were clear and open.
He wore a light blue button-down shirt and black slacks, as well as a white lab coat. Pinned on it was a nametag of a picture of him, as well as the words, Dr. David Harrison III.
“Oh, you’re awake, Miss Miller,” he said, his voice unusually deep and gruff, sounding coarse as sandpaper.
I swallowed and nodded, suppressing the sarcasm that threatened to bubble out. Finally, I said, “Yeah, I’m awake. What happened?” I feigned innocence, deciding not give anything away.
He leant forward in the black leather seat he had taken, balancing a brown clipboard with the hospital’s crest emblazoned on the front. It was tipping precariously on his knees, but hung on for dear life. “Well, tell me how much you remember.”
I sighed and scrunched up my face, pretending to be deep in thought. Finally, I said, “Well, I remember everything happening in Mapleton Mall, and then it was only River, Jason and I. Something… something happened to Jason, and he lost it. He went for River, and River killed him. Then the authorities came, and that was it.” I raised my eyes to him. “Is River okay?”
The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably and shifted slightly in his seat, as if preparing himself for bad news. “I’m sorry, Miss. Miller,” he said. “But it seems you and Mr. Peterson were attacked while the authorities were trying to get in. The person killed River, and then managed to get you in the stomach. The police are guessing that the murderer got interrupted before he could kill you, and he fled. We… We still haven’t found him yet.”
“Were there any other survivors?” I whispered, making my face look as horror-struck as I could.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. You’re the only one.”
Even though he was acting like he had just given me the worst possible news, to me it was the best. Throughout the night I had had some minor technicalities, but it
had run pretty smoothly in the end. No survivors? Wow, I was good.
And no one ever suspected a thing.
But, of course, I couldn’t act with the total elation I felt right in that moment, and instead used a horror-struck tone. “I don’t remember any of it,” I whispered.
“You seem to have PTS, post-traumatic stress, as it can sometimes be called. You see, Miss. Miller, there are many different forms of this. One is that the body goes into such a high amount of shock that the remembering part of the brain shuts down. In extreme cases you can forget things even as you see them. This might’ve happened to you. Your body could no longer sustain the high amounts of shock and stress it had been made to deal with, and the memories flew out of your mind. These may come back in time.” He paused. “Or not at all.”
I pretended to mull this over slowly, and nodded, bowing my head. “Will I be okay? Is my mom here?”
He gave me a tentative smile, revealing straight, perfect white teeth, as if he were an orthodontist and not a doctor. “You’ll be fine. You have some minor cuts and bruising, but those should clear up, and your knife wound should heal over. You may have a scar, but it’s better than the other result.”
“And my mom? What about my mom?” I queried. I didn’t care about a couple of bruises and contusions. Or even the scar. I hardly looked in a mirror, when would I ever notice them?
He shook his head. “We haven’t been able to get in contact with her yet,” he informed me. “We’ll keep trying, but she’s not picking up.”
Figured. She had no idea about my other personalities, nor the things and crimes I had committed inside Mapleton Mall. As far as she knew, I was still missing. She was probably driving around town looking for her lost daughter. I felt a pang of guilt and sorrow, but pushed it from the forefront of my mind. I had just committed eight murders—with the help of Jason, but still—and I had other things to focus on right now.
“Miss. Miller, what you went through last night was beyond traumatic, so I should let you come to terms with things and just rest.” The doctor stood, blotting his hands on his pant-clad thighs and gripping the clipboard. “We’ll keep contacting your mother until we reach her. Rest assured. But you should know, Miss. Miller, that we have on-sight counselors who would be happy to see you for the duration of your stay at Mapleton Medical Centre. And they can arrange for you to see a full-time counselor, if you wish. Everybody is here for you. Don’t feel alone.”
I gave him a small smile, feeling exhaustion press into my eyes as more morphine entered my body. There was a dull throbbing in my side, but it lessened considerably each passing second. “Thank you, Doctor Harrison,” I replied politely, closing my eyes.
I heard the door close softly behind him as he left, and thought about the night’s events, before slowly drifting off into a dreamless sleep.
~* ~
When I woke up hours later, thirsty and disoriented, my eyes met a pair of charcoal-grey eyes that pierced into mine, and I let out a yelp of shock at the sudden new addition to the cold, modern hospital room.
My eyes adjusted, and I saw three policemen standing there. The first was a tall woman with red hair that was tied back in a severe bun, and light-grey eyes the color of sheet metal. She was tall and wiry-thin, official and stern. She scared me just a little, even though she was only about thirty, give or take a year or two.
The next was an older man, maybe bridging on sixty to sixty-five. He had wisps of silver-white hair that were slicked back with gel. His face was covered in wrinkles, and he had puckered lips, a crooked nose and mossy green eyes. His nose was covered in freckles, and he was of average height, but robust, and jolly looking. He could easily play Santa at a Christmas party, if he had longer hair, a beard and a red-and-black suit.
The last was a man of about twenty, and I recognized him from school, before he had graduated and gone to police school. Daniel Machiavelli. He was cute, with white-blond hair, chocolate-brown eyes and an unblemished, open, tanned face. They all wore matching crisp, black uniforms pinned with badges advertising their names.
In the corner sat my mother, and when she saw I had awoken, she rushed over with a cry and flung her arms around my body. She was a short woman—shorter than me—with hair the same color as mine. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying, and she fussed about, asking me hurried questions about my wellbeing, and repeating over and over again how much she loved me. She was flustered and harried, but I didn’t mind. Any attention from my hair-brained mother was good attention. It wasn’t often I received it.
“Oh, my baby,” she cooed, pulling me closer and kissing the crown of my head gently, pushing back some of my dark hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you. I love you.”
I smiled. “I’m fine, Mom. I love you, too.”
She stood back and wiped her eyes. “When you didn’t come home by ten last night, I knew something was wrong. I called the police and they looked for you, but they couldn’t find you anywhere. We never thought of the mall. I thought you’d have been evacuated with everyone else. I never dreamed…” She smoothed back my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head vigorously, swallowing. “Don’t be sorry, Mom. It’s not your fault. I didn’t hear it.”
“I know, hon. I know.”
Someone cleared his or her throat, and pulled my eyes away from my mother’s face and at the girl who had interrupted us. She stepped forward. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we really need to ask Miss. Miller some questions,” she said, her voice clipped and detached from the situation, as if she were treating it with only a professional curiosity. Obviously she took her job very seriously.
Mom nodded. “Right. Okay.”
She stepped back and sat in an uncomfortable-looking plastic blue chair, and the officers stepped forward, building a wall around the hospital bed I was currently situated in.
“Miss. Miller, my name is Officer Mahoney,” the woman introduced, and I saw her name was Rita Mahoney, on her nametag. She offered a small smile, and pointed to the older man and then to Daniel. “This is Officer Shaw, and this is officer Machiavelli. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Okay,” I said unsurely, twisting under the blankets, a plethora of lies already at my disposal for any questions they might ask. Before the whole thing had happened, I had had cover stories and such prepared. It wasn’t like there was anyone to contradict my story, anyway.
Officer Mahoney stepped toward my bedside, and Daniel—I couldn’t face calling him Officer Machiavelli—and Officer Shaw followed suit. “Now, Miss. Miller, I want you to understand that the thoughts and opinions you express are purely your own. You do not have to answer any questions you don’t feel comfortable answering, but be warned that the less information you give, the harder our investigation will be. Even the slightest little detail could make a major difference. You are permitted to tell the truth, but once again, anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, you have no obligation to answer. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Happy with my answers, she pulled out a detective pad and threw me an onslaught of questions, mostly to do with the murders, things I had seen and heard, any little details or memories I had of the man.
The thing with lying is that in order to make the most successful lie, you have to infuse a bit of truth in there, so that if they happen to untangle something in your lie, they will think that it is the truth based on evidence that supports the lie. It’s foolproof, really.
When they asked what I knew about the killer, I told them I remembered the camouflage jacket I had come across, but not if I knew who owned it. I told them specifications that matched Jason’s, about broad shoulders, about six inches two or three. I told them the gory details about the murders, since they were things that didn’t need to be lied about. I’m sure they’d already received coroner reports about the murders, and I wouldn’t let details like the condition of the cadavers undo me.
My mother sat in the corner, staring in horror at me as I explained the violence and rawness and blood. She hated even watching scary movies that involved blood, so I was quite surprised she didn’t immediately launch out of her seat and haul into the wastebasket in the corner of the private room.
Daniel seemed fascinated by my tales, and I knew he must’ve been new to the police force, and had not yet grown accustomed to terrible stories and malicious crimes. He probably worked a job at the desk, and rarely saw action. I was glad to give him something worth listening to, then.
“What about the people you were trapped in the mall with?” Officer Mahoney asked, staring determinedly at her notepad as she scribbled something down with a ballpoint pen. She looked up at me and searched my face with speculative eyes. “Anything about them seem suspicious?”
I debated the question for a while, wondering whether to go with the truth or lie my way out of this one. Lying seemed better, but saying Jason seemed odd would throw them off of my course.
“There was this one guy…” I said finally, toying with the scratchy blue hospital blanket.
Everyone leant forward. “Yes?” the older woman asked, raising an eyebrow.
“His name was Jason Harris,” I informed them, sighing. “He disappeared sometimes, and I think he was the one that… killed Steve,” I told them, dropping my gaze. “At least, that’s what I think. He tried to hurt River as well.”
“What makes you think Jason was responsible for the death of Steve Southers?” Officer Mahoney questioned.
“Well, he tried to hurt me, and Jason said he took him away and told him not to come back. Not even an hour later we found his body.”
The officers seemed intrigued by this, and I knew telling them this tidbit of information was a good idea. They had a fresh lead, and I had no idea how they could link it back to me. It wasn’t like Steve could come out and say I was the killer. None of them could. And there was no way they could tie me to Jason, either. Any of our meetings had been private; in deserted alleyways and backseats of cars down by abandoned railway tracks. We were safe; we’d made sure. Well, that was back before Jason knew he was going to die. I hadn’t been planning on letting him die, but I liked it better this way. Jason could be annoying and persistent, and I was glad to have him out of my hair.
They asked a few more questions about the events of the mall, and I supplied them with more lies entangled with the truth, laborious tales about seeing the blood, the horrible messages and the fear. I acted like the frightened, worried seventeen-year-old girl I pretended to be, an innocent victim of the Mapleton Massacre II. Not the one behind the whole thing. I still struggled to believe I’d gotten away with this. It was amazing.
Finally, they thanked me, told me I’d been a good help, and clapped me on the back. Officer Shaw nodded respectfully at me, seeming satisfied with my answers. He also looked extremely pitying and sympathetic, which I appreciated. It meant he believed my story. Officer Mahoney searched me one last time with her eyes, and Daniel offered me a small, comforting smile, inclining his head in a friendly gesture, which I returned with a small, tentative smile.
When they left, I looked over at my mother, who was shaking in the corner. She didn’t say anything, but seemed horrified at the idea that her daughter had been put through something like this. After a few minutes of silence and staring intently at each other, she finally closed her eyes and dozed off to sleep, and her small, comforting snores filled the hospital room.
About an hour later, I drifted off, too.
~ * ~
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