My feet hit the pavement hard. My leather school shoes aren't fit for running. My footsteps are heavy as I run. Come on, don't stop now. I urge myself on, but my breath is getting ragged. My legs ache from top to bottom, screaming at me to rest. My blue, white and black plaid skirt threatens to bunch up and rise as my strides lengthen. The sounds of second and third heaving breaths fill my ears. They've done well to keep up with my pace.
The second ambulance passes in a flash, sirens whirring in my ears, bright lights brightening my path as we advance. A crowd of murmuring people form in the center of the street. Even shop attendants have stepped away from behind their registers and into the busy street, cowering away when they see whatever is in the center of the street. Several police cars and ambulances are parked at awkward angles on the roads and men and women in police uniforms usher the crowd back, giving the crime scene a chance to breathe.
We join the crowd as a tired, sweaty messes. It was at least three kilometers from the school and running in a dress and a fat bag on your back is hard work. We had only heard of the incident a little before three o'clock. We weren't the only ones who raced out of the school to see. The odd blue, white and black skirt or school emblem embraided on a white shirt can be seen filtered throughout the mass of people.
This was the third murder in just under a month. Of course we weren't the only ones eager to see the crime scene.
"I want to get closer," the short, skinny girl with soft dark skin mumbles next to me. Amber isn't usually one to break a sweat, but her unique personality makes her strangely admire the fear that comes with seeing gore; a broken arm with the bone sticking out, a bloody nose, a dead body. Someone who watches a horror movie to help her sleep at night.
"I know you do," I mutter, watching her stand on her toes to see over the crowd. My height allows me to tower over most people, but even now, I am not yet tall enough to see the scene, either. Not that I really want to. Amber was the one who suggested it - crime scenes such as these are not my cup of tea.
"Then we'll get closer," the brunette boy behind us pushes our backs, forcing us forward, weaving us through the crowd. Alex is on the wrestling team, so even if I resisted, he would have no problems carrying me to the front. But god, do I want to resist. The possibilities have been running endlessly through my head. Will we get to the front and find myself face-to-face with the images of my dead parents? No, there's only one body. But what if it's only Mother? Or only Father? I shake my head slightly and squeeze my eyes shut briefly. The police would have called.
I can't explain the relief I'm feeling as I look at the crime scene. The weight at the bottom of my stomach has been lifted but is instantly replaced by dread and fear and disgust. I want to turn my head or close my eyes, but my whole body is frozen.
Street lights are bent dangerously at odd angles, their metal bodies twisted and disfigured. The bulbs at the end have been smashed and sharped to produce dagger-like ends. Glass litters on the road underneath, glistening under the warm afternoon sun. The street lights meet at the middle of the road at one certain point. The body.
A stranger floats a couple meters in the air, several razor-sharp street lights impaling his body at odd angles. Crimson blood is still dripping from his body like sweat; through his eyes, out of his mouth, arms, legs, the hole in his torso and stomach made by the street lights. His expression is blank, but his mouth hangs open, as if emitting a silent scream.
"Who knows?" I catch a quiet conversation on my right. "One moment everything was normal, ya know? I was just walking to my favorite burger place down the block, and all of a sudden there's this awful screeching – the sound of those lights moving. It was all over so quickly … poor man. I wonder who killed him."
"Isn't that Joyce's uncle?" Amber whispers to Alex and me, her voice deep and soft.
I nod. Joyce Byler's a girl in our class. She's quiet, pretty, and smart, always helping me with math's work if I don't understand it. She was one of the few people who didn't rush to the scene. I wonder if she already knew.
"This is the third murder in a month," Alex says, his voice shaking slightly. "A possible serial-killer. If the police haven't managed to catch the culprit yet … what will we do? Who's next?"
Amber hits Alex softly, a stern look crossing her face. "Stop it Alex, you're scaring Cora."
She cocks her head, looking sideways at me. I spin, facing the both of them, fixing the distressed look on my face. "I'm not scared. Just worried. For Joyce and … like Alex said, whoever's next. If there isn't a pattern in the victims they're chosing, the next person who gets murdered could be any one of us. Hell, the murderer could be here, visiting the crime scene."
Alex's plain brown eyes grow wide. "I never thought of that."
"Of course you didn't, you never think of anything logical," Amber snickers her tone joking, with a hint of sincerity. Her head turned back to the scene. I don't have the guts to look back. I feel sick. "Well, I think I've had enough of this anyway. I wanna go home and hug my family, or something. Might be the last time I get to see them."
The police usher the continuously building crowd away from the murder scene. Tall, bulky men with tasers strapped to their belts intimidate anyone who opposes their orders. We were just leaving anyway.
I leave Alex and Amber behind as we go our separate ways home. An hour bus ride to the opposite end of town, to my home, awaits me. I long for the silence of the bus. The endless thoughts that crowd my mind. The music that blasts in my ears, so much it hurts. But the pain is tolerable when the music is good.
The bus is almost empty. Only a group of several gossiping old ladies and the random quiet student from schools across the city fill the soft colorful seats. I prepare myself for the voyage, hoping today's gruesome scenes won't haunt my dreams tonight. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the cushioned seat, letting my head become empty. I'll scare myself more then I want to if I dwell on today. But even the throbbing bass of music can't silence my thoughts.
I was expecting the image of the dead body to appear behind my eyelids, but the only image I can think of is that of my own parents, lying in their own crimson blood, which leaks from their stomachs and the corners of their mouths. They're at the scene where the body was today, but in the deceased's place. The mangled bodies of the street lamps are inviting. They crave for my blood, too.
My eyes open slowly as I take a deep breath. No more closing my eyes. Even if it means no sleep tonight, as long as I don't have to see that image again, I'll deal with the sleep-deprivation. But even with my eyes open and my mind fixated on the music, the thought of a serial killer lurking down pitch black alleyways, hunting down a helpless teenage girl is horrifying.
A notification had popped up on our phones before Amber, Alex and I had split up. It was a message from the city's government informing every citizen to never walk the streets alone, during the day or at night. They said a special operations unit has been tasked with dealing with this serial killer, but no other information could be told.
I can't stop thinking about those street lights. The way the metal was bent, seemed off. It all happened too quickly, and in the middle of daylight for it to be possible to kill someone like this. Kill someone with a streetlight? It's like something out of a fictional novel. It seems like a death that is meant to be on show for the civilians of the city. Come to think of it, the first two deaths were on show to people, too. The first, a man who worked as a cashier at a small-time grocery store, had been shot through the head while at a basketball game at one of the high schools. A couple hundred people had attended that game. The second woman, a lawyer at a divorce agency was stabbed through the heart at a shopping center. It's like the killer wants to be known, wants to be seen.
I rise as the bus comes to a stop. I live in a hire-rise apartment, overlooking even the highest of buildings – excepting the skyscrapers in the center of the city. My apartment is a ten-minute drive to the outskirts of the city, but even here, away from the main center, its streets are teeming with life. After the death of yet another civilian, there are less people than usual, and those who are out, are rushing to get home. I also rush inside the building, anxious to get home. To see my parents, safe in their chairs on the balcony, where they wait every day for me to get home. Mother would already have dinner on the oven and ready by the time I entered the room. Todays Wednesday, so that means we're having stir-fry for dinner. My stomach growls as I think of Mother's perfectly cooked meals.
I pass Amie, the front-counter woman, on the way to the elevator. She smiles at me warmly as we pass each other, the same as any other day. I've never actually had a conversation with her, but she always greets me with a gentle smile when we see each other. A nice woman. I hope she's not the murderer's next target.
The elevator ride is a long one, one hundred and twelve stories high. I take my headphones out as I wait, saying goodbye to the heavy thrum of the music, and the pain in my ears. The elevator doors ding open and I step into the hallway, making my way across the hall to the door, which reads 1103.
The first thing that hits me when I walk in is a burnt smell. I drop my bag off at the doorway of my room and kick off my shoes, leaving them messy and toppled over against the wall. I step down the long hallway, where at the end, the kitchen will be.
"Mum, Dad," I yell down the hallway, the carpet soft underneath my feet. It beats running down a street in leather shoes with tiny heels. "What's burning? You better not have ruined stir-fry night –"
My voice cuts off as I near the kitchen, the smell growing stronger, and the sound of sizzling filling my ears. My whole body is frozen, so I can't move forward, but my limbs shake so furiously I fear my legs will give way. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. My eyes are fixated on the crimson red pool of blood on the tiled kitchen floor, oozing its way to the carpet. A few more minutes and it'll reach, staining the light grey color of the carpet forever.
"Mum? Dad?" my voice is barely audible and it cracks when I speak. The first tear doesn't roll down my cheek just yet, but I can feel my eyes welling up with tears. My lips tremble as I force myself to round the corner and into the kitchen.
I step in the pile of blood, ignoring the warm sensation of it soaking into my socks. Instead I am focused on what lies before me. I sink to my knees, splashing in the blood.