Today I am red. She is still here, lying on me, her blood seeps into me, soaking through my threads, binding me to her forever in a way I never wanted. Now I am looking at the faces in front of me. Some stand frozen in wide-eyed shock, mouths agape, unable to process the horror in front of them. Others remain numb, staring blankly, their expressions drained of life, refusing to register the reality. Tears stream down one's face as they cry out in agony, hands trembling over their mouth. Another struggles to hold it together, lips quivering, breath shaky, fighting back the wave of emotions. A silent scream escapes one as they clutch their chest in terror.
But not all are horrified—some person lets a dark smirk flicker across their lips before quickly hiding it. Panic sets in for some as their eyes dart around nervously, checking if anyone is watching. A few gag in disgust, faces twisting in revulsion as they turn away.
Another clenches their fists, eyes burning with rage and vengeance, vowing to uncover the truth. And then, there are those who simply sigh, shoulders dropping, the slow numb realization sinking in—"It's over, isn't it?"
The officers spoke in hushed but firm voices, their hands pulling bright yellow ribbons across the doorway, sealing off the world beyond. I watched as they leaned in close to her—Dakshi, my keeper—lying so eerily still. One of them pressed two fingers against her wrist, another to the side of her throat. A solemn shake of the head, a murmured confirmation. And just like that, she was no longer a girl but a case, a body, a question waiting to be answered.
They moved with a delicate kind of precision, their eyes tracing the outlines of the room, as if the walls might whisper back the truth. Cameras clicked, capturing me in the periphery, my soft fabric darkened by something I did not want to name. A gloved hand lifted me, turning me over—slow, deliberate, searching for the story my fibers might tell. Footsteps circled, marking paths that had been walked before, measuring the distance from her to me, to the overturned chair, to the shattered glass gleaming like fallen stars on the floor. A man in a long coat crouched beside her, muttering words I barely understood—lividity, strangulation, elapsed time. Their voices weaved together, stitching a narrative in the air, one that would soon take on a life of its own.
And then, the questions began. To the neighbors, to the witnesses—what did they hear? What did they see? What did they know? But none turned their questions to me, the one who had felt her final breath, who had absorbed her last, unspoken words. I lay discarded on the floor, my fabric stained with whispers of violence, longing to be heard. But pillows do not speak, and secrets, when left in silence, fester like wounds waiting to be uncovered.
The room felt heavier as time passed, each corner holding the weight of unanswered questions. Footsteps grew more hurried, voices more clipped, as if urgency might force the truth into the open. The officers worked tirelessly, their eyes scanning every inch of the space, but they didn't linger on me for long. I was just a pillow, after all—a soft, silent object that couldn't possibly hold the answers they sought.
But I knew the truth. I had seen the shadow that moved in the dim light, heard the sharp intake of breath before the silence swallowed everything. Her heartbeat, once steady, had faltered. I had felt it—her panic, her despair—as it bled into me, leaving a part of her behind.
The man in the long coat returned, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He spoke softly to another officer, gesturing toward the shattered glass and the overturned chair. "It doesn't add up," he murmured. "Something's missing. The scene feels…staged."
His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. The others nodded, their gazes darkening with suspicion. The questions started again, this time sharper, more pointed. Neighbors hesitated under the weight of those questions, their voices shaky and uncertain.
"She was quiet," one said. "Kept to herself mostly."
"But there was a visitor last night," another added, their eyes darting nervously. "I heard voices. Raised ones."
The officers took note, their pens scratching across paper. A lead, perhaps. A thread to pull. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.
Meanwhile, I remained on the floor, discarded and overlooked. I wanted to scream, to tell them what I knew. But how could I? I was trapped in this mute existence, cursed to witness but never to reveal.
The hours stretched on, the sun dipping lower in the sky. Shadows crept across the room, wrapping everything in a somber gloom. And then, a breakthrough—a fingerprint, faint but distinct, lifted from the glass. The officers exchanged glances, their faces a mix of relief and determination.
"This could be it," one of them said. "Run it through the database."
I watched as the evidence was carefully packed away, piece by piece. They lifted me once more, placing me into a sterile bag. The touch was clinical, detached, as though I were just another object. But I wasn't. I was the keeper of her last moments, the witness to her final cry.
The ride to the lab was cold and quiet. I lay in darkness, surrounded by other pieces of evidence. Each object told a story, but mine was the most personal. I carried her essence, her last breaths, and the truth no one else could see.
At the lab, bright lights and sterile surfaces greeted me. Gloved hands examined me, swabbing my fabric, searching for traces of DNA, fibers, anything that could point to what had happened. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if my very soul were being unraveled.
Hours turned into days as the investigation unfolded. The fingerprint led to a name, a suspect. The pieces began to fall into place, but the full story remained elusive. And all the while, I sat in silence, yearning to reveal the truth, knowing I never could.
I was a pillow, after all. My purpose was to comfort, to cradle dreams, not to witness nightmares. But here I was, forever changed, my threads woven with the weight of a tragedy I could never forget.
And so, I waited. For justice. For closure. For someone to finally see me, not as an object, but as a silent witness to the story that needed to be told.