"What are you doing?" I heard Mr. Butler ask. I craned my neck and saw him standing at the door, staring at me.
"Just trying to see how the victim must have felt," I told him with confidence. It had taken me quite some time to feel the panic ebb away and my heart to settle. But Mr. Butler had been suspiciously walking around the apartment, not coming in to bother me.
"I advice you not to understand the perspective of the victim." His brow was arched as he said this. "Neither do I want you to picture yourself as the killer," he raised his finger to silence me.
"It is easy to slip into one of those roles, especially if you connect to them. But a someone viewing the scene, you need to be objective. The purpose of this visit is not only to collect evidence, but also to assess the motivation and psychological condition of the murderer during the time he was on his spree. This information can't always be taken from the criminal as they have a skewed perception of their self and the circumstances surrounding the serial murders." He paused for a bit to make sure that I had followed what he was saying.
"By identifying with the victim, you are demonizing the murderer—"
"But he is a monster—he killed people." I interrupted him.
"Yes, he is a murderer. But when you are reading a book you recognize the nuances of each character and why they do the things they do. Here, your role is to be the audience. You can only obverse. Your role is to understand the crime and the consequences of it. You are not responsible for what happened and you are not responsible for punishing anyone who is harming others." His rant was over.
"Even if I can help?"
"Of course, you can help, but jumping into a situation without understanding how grave it could turn, how dangerous it could be for you is also important. You are simply one person out of the many who are fit to provide help. And it is not your job to save everyone. It is not my job to save everyone. We can do only as much as we are given permission to."
"I want to leave," I told him curtly.
He did not reply. He simply followed me out.
I cringed in disgust as I removed the plastic footwear and gloves. I brushed my arm and saw residue from the table had clung on to my clothes, producing a gruesome picture. I grabbed at it and tried to eliminate it.
'Out!'
The furious scrubbing gave way to gentle brushes on the fabric.
"I need to take a shower." I heard Mr. Butler hum in agreement.
"I am not dirty. I just don't like the place."
'That's all.'
He didn't pester me or call me out on the smears on my clothes when I got into the car. He didn't even glance at me as I leaned into the seat and took a shuddering breath.
He knew everything that had transpired, but he had not said a single word in anger. He had not reprimanded me for losing myself in the market. He had not reprimanded me for behaving so peculiarly. He must have seen through me.
He must have.
"Why do I need permission to save someone?" I was looking out of the window as the words escaped my lips. I had not meant to say them out loud, but I felt at peace when I unburdened it.
"Because this permission comes with an acknowledgment of how well you can assess situations. It comes with years of training and understanding of the criminal. You need permission because without it you would do no one any good. Not those people who need your help or yourself. All you will do is kick yourself for not being able to do what you have intended to."
"And I can let it inspire me to improve," I fought.
"No, it will turn you incapable of seeing reality. It would make you fault yourself for not doing the right thing. You will hurt."
'I don't want to hurt.'
"You are not the problem, Evie," he said suddenly after a long moment of silence. "You are simply in a problem and you need help getting out of it." He glanced at me to see if I was listening to him.
'But I am the problem.'
"You are not the problem," he repeated, reading my mind. "I will drop you home."
I sat silently by his side, wondering how much he knew.
"Come over to my place if you need to, at any time." I looked around to see that we had already reached the apartment that I was staying in.
"Thank you. I don't think I will be going over." I told him pointedly.
"Drink some warm milk, wrap yourself in a blanket and try to get some sleep. The first crime scene can be overwhelming." He seemed unbothered by my declaration.
"I won't be needing your help."
"Ah, there are some official matters we need to resolve before I can free you from your obligations. I will call you." He ushered me out and waited as I made my way across the street and into the building. I looked back to see the car standing there, waiting for me to go inside.
I waved my arm at him even though I was embarrassed. I rushed away and entered the apartment.
Everything felt so foreign.
Everything felt so cold.
Mr. Butler's words played over and over in my mind as I glared at the wall.
I got up at a languid pace and dragged myself to the kitchen. A glass of milk and blanket accompanied me to bed.
Haunting images of the girl flashed before my eyes.
I had seen this face before in the mirror.
Years ago.
And I had dreaded this day.
I cuddled into the pillow, trying to concentrate on the warmth of the milk now residing in my stomach. I slowly faded into darkness as I tried to ignore the prickling sensation of being watched… or being touched.
I breathed heavier.
My eyes drooped.
And I thanked Mr. Butler for protecting me.
"You are not the problem." He had said. And he had believed it.
I wanted to believe it, too. How long would it take me to get there?
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