SHORT STORIES: The Detective

I awoke this morning head pounding, stomach turning; most likely from the copious amounts of Whiskey I had consumed hours prior. I stumble from bed wearing the same clothes I had worn the previous day: a heavy winter’s coat, thick gloves, waterproof pants, and snow boots. I make my way to the den where the fire sits, blazing from last night’s use. I rub my temples and focus hard on the roaring flames. It is as if the dancing orange inferno is aching to tell me something, undoubtedly about how disturbing my actions were the evening prior. My eyes widen and began to water as I hold them open in a futile attempt to win this staring contest with the combustion reaction of elements and water vapor. Liquid begins to pour from my eyes, yet I can’t make out what the fire is so desperately trying to tell me. It’s murmur in too soft of a pitch for my hung-over ears to detect. How I envy that fire, able to see what crimes I had committed in my intoxicated state, able to listen to the incomprehensible rambling of my inebriated solitude, and able to watch as any ethical percentage of human decency I had left dwindle into nothingness.

I turn from the whispering flames, eyes glossy and thoughts as unclear as they always are the morning after my monthly rampages, which have recently come about more often and closer between than 30 day intervals. I grab a few pain medicine tablets that I had strategically placed, at some previous time, near the empty glass bottle that encased the liquid version of my personal downfall. I pop the pills and thank my former self for being so thoughtful and well prepared. My bloodshot eyes shift toward the ground of the foyer, moments later my brows furrow in confusion. My blurry vision focuses on the shiny surface of the large dining room candlestick which rests on its side a few inches from the front door. Its golden shaft stained with red as it lay motionless in a puddle of blood, as if it had been murdered.

This isn’t the most unusual thing I have observed the day after a drunken stupor, an inanimate object falling victim to the unspeakable crime of homicide. In fact, I have previously woken up to witness much worse: broken glass from every mirror scattered across the cold hardwood floors, blood oozing from some self-induced gash that insists on immediate medical attention, even to ex-partners screaming of abuse and fits of psychotic rage. The last of which happened to be the main factor that led to my condemned state of isolation deep within the mountains, divorced and alone. But women never made me as happy as booze did, so carefree and comfortable in my own skin. Regret was only felt the morning after, and it lasted only as long as it took to pour myself another drink.

I examine my clothed skin. No sign of an exit wound where the blood on the floor could have expelled. I feel no stinging beneath material that rubs at my flesh as I walk. I glance at the doorknob leading to the frigid temperatures of the outside air. It, too, is masked with dry blood, and not fully latched. The entire door sits crooked on its hinges and open several centimeters. This is truly the only occurrence that strikes me as odd. My curiosity about the death of the candlestick is quickly exchanged for alarm. The door has been slightly damaged since I bought the cabin a year before. It has to be lifted into its deformed wooden frame to latch shut. As far as I know, I am the only one who can properly do so, due to endless attempts when I first moved in, being that I was both too cheap and drunk to fix it properly. Yet, after each blackout I would awaken with the door not only shut, but locked. Even deep within my own frightening oblivion I know bears are a serious danger. This led to a realization that sent chills up my spine:

I only know one thing for sure: someone else was here last night.

I grasp the door handle and fling open the dense hunk of wood. A large gust of glacial mountain air stings my face like a thousand bees. I step onto the front porch while plumes of carbon dioxide became visible from each exhaled breath. Last night’s snowstorm had blanketed the ground for as far as the eye could see with the purest shade of white. As I hobble down the steps of the porch to brave the waves of frosted purity, each footfall ignites a new thought. With the first step I see the pain in my ex-wife’s glossy eyes as she left for the last time, with the second I calculate how long this detective bullshit will last and conclude I could have a beautiful, freshly opened bottle pressed to my lips in no more than three minutes, and finally, as I looked down, I roll my eyes and think shit. Small footprints lead from the last step of my porch to a wooden shack that stands thirty or so feet from my numb toes. Though this isn’t an unusual sight, my cabin is only a fourth of a mile from a popular trail and stragglers came and went as often as the wolves, these are different. Not only have they obviously come from within my home, but miniscule spots of blood dance around each light footprint. That what-the-hell-did-you-do-last-night feeling quickly returns.

I trace each previously laid step. The drops of blood have slightly melted the snow due to their warmth, and grown in size as I progress towards the shack. I stop beside a delicate imprint and compare the closer together, sunken in steps of my own boots.

“Why were you running?” I asked the wind as I outline the shape of a much smaller foot with the vague lump of my middle finger encased in thick glove.

I regain my momentum and moments later I’m standing at the shacks slightly opened doors. My heart begins to pound and for the first time since I’ve awoken, I can’t hear my brain being pulsated into its surrounding skull. Beads of sweat are birthed from every solitary pore across my forehead and begin cascading down my face like terrified waterfalls. I can feel my palms beneath each glove begin to clam up and every worst case scenario floods through my thoughts.

I pull open the double doors of the shed and gasp with horror. An unconscious woman, half clothed lay face down, sprawled across the floor. Torn skin folds in unnatural waves around lacerations she had recently acquired. Thick bruises run down the length of her body and sit bright against her pale skin. Ligature marks hang like bracelets around her wrists and blood erupts through volcanos created from cuts, scrapes and gashes. I run to her side and kneel before her, speaking harshly to awaken the poor girl. When I receive no response, I begin to shake her aggressively, but still to no avail. I push back long tufts of blonde hair to attempt to find a pulse. Shaking off a heavy glove to free my pointer, I freeze.

A layer of crusted red blood cells stains the sweaty flesh of my palm. My eyes fall from my hand and make their way back to the woman. Now visible, and beneath the copious amounts of blood that coat her hide, a bright purple strangulation mark in the shape of a man’s pudgy hand stretches across her tender neck. I hover my bloody hand above the print, a perfect match.

At this moment I only know two things for sure: one, the footprints leading from my front door belong to this woman, and two, I have killed her.

I study the woman’s lifeless body. No recollection of meeting this woman, torturing or murdering her comes to mind. It is obvious that I am what led to her demise but how, I will never know. This realization is possibly the worst one of all. I can live with the fact that I’m a pathetic drunk. I can take responsibility for my actions, but even I am unaware of what I’m capable of. I feel that I am nothing more than a shapeless nonentity.

Simply, I am the equivalent of what nightmares are made up.

Shaking my head, I stand and walk to the woman’s feet. Bending my knees slightly and gripping her left ankle, I begin to drag the limp body behind me. Her deadweight sinks into the fallen crystals, exchanging snow white for blood red as I heave the route back to the porch. I glance back as her heavy head knocks against each wooden step.

Looking down, I only know one thing for sure: I’ll have dinner for at least a week.