It had been a week since I killed Nico.
I had been in my apartement ever since, replaying the events of Nico's death in my mind. My hands were still stained with dried blood, which had now turned brown. I lay on the couch that I had been on for days, eyes stinging from the lack of sleep and my mouth dry. I just realised how parched my throat was. Getting up for a glass of water, I stumbled slightly, struggling to walk. After all- it had been days since I had gotten up. I stood at the sink, staring at the plastered walls. Suddenly, an array of irritation swept over me. I grabbed the glass that sat beside the cabinet and threw it to the ground, a high-pitched shatter echoing in the walls of the kitchen. The small splinters of glass littered the floor, some causing a minor laceration on my legs. I let out a shrill and hysterical yell, slamming my fist against the wall. "YOU MADE ME DO IT NICO!" I screamed, "IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!" panting heavily, I trudged into the main room, throwing myself onto the sofa. I pulled at my hair, my nails scraping my scalp. My head was throbbing. "What am I going to do, what am I going to do, what am I going to do-" I repeated under my breath. The scream had chilled the back of my throat and my vision was blurred. I began to laugh. A manic laughter escaped from my parted lips, getting louder by each breath. "Look Nico!" I said, "You're making me crazy!" I laughed again.
"Killing you was so fun I want to do it all over again!" I shrieked, my eyes widening. I looked at the blood on my hands, now dried up and shrivelled beneath my skin. Stroking it, a large smile stretched across my face. "Oh Nico..." I sighed, "I should've cut up your body and stored it as a good memory!"
I looked at the ground. Filthy. Clothes were scattered everywhere, wrappers invading every corner of the room. I got up from the couch and grabbed a cigarette from my back pocket, not noticing the ring slide off of my finger. Just as I was about to light it, a loud knock came from outside the door. "Who's there?" I yelled, my voice cracking slightly.
"Marlowe!" came a voice, loud and clear. "Detective Marlowe."
The word echoed around my mind: 'Detective, detective, detective'.
Did they find out already? Was this already the end?
"Uh..." called out a voice from outside, "Are you going to open this door or what?"
I had to act quickly. 'Open the door, or try and escape.' I thought. Sighing heavily, I trampled over the mountain of clothes piled on the ground, and arrived at the front door. I twisted the key, and with a loud 'click' the door unlocked. The door let out an exhausted moan as it opened slowly.
The man at the front door smiled, then waved. The door was completely open now, revealing the mess inside. I nodded my head and offered for him to come inside. The man stumbled inside quickly, as if he had something to look for. He stood up next to the coach that had scattered beer cans all over it. I mumbled under my breath and cleared away a place for him to sit. "So..." I started, "What brings you here?" My voice was harsh and dry.
"You, Ryder." He said, giving me a look that looked like an attempt to be intimidating.
"How do you know my name?" I asked, trying to sound confused.
"I'm a detective, it's my job." Marlowe chuckled.
I shot him a look.
"Alright, I'll admit, I don't know everything." Marlowe swung his leg on top of the other, leaning back on the couch, "It's me, from the orphanage. Marlowe Davis."
My eyes widened.
There was nobody I despised more.
In the orphanage, nobody dared to come near me, yet alone speak to me. Except for Marlowe. In fact, he dared to spread the news of my Father.
He was the one who told everybody. He was the one who ruined my life, destroying the chance of me ever making friends.
"Well it's nice to see you again." I said, grimacing. I got up and leant against the wall.
Marlowe sat completely still.
"I see you're a detective now," I exclaimed, trying to make conversation, "You can't have come all this way just to see me."
He let out a long sigh and said, "I suppose you're right. Well, as you probably know, Nicholas Archer who lives down on Durey Road unfortunately commit suicide last week. I'm here to ask you some questions."
I cleared my throat, "If he committed suicide I see no use for asking questions.
"Yes, I suppose you might be correct in that case. But in this case, you see, I don't believe it was a suicide. In fact, I know it wasn't a suicide. And I think you know that too, Ryder." Marlowe's words cut through me like the sharp edge of a knife.