𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖

If there was one positive thing you could observe about today, it was that you could confidently say that all police stations smelled the same. Like burnt coffee, cigarettes, and copper. But even then, you debated whether or not the metallic smell was coming from the air or just the black patches of blood that stained your hands.

They did a good job of cleaning you up, but no amount of rubbing alcohol could wash away the lingering feeling of hot blood running down your fingertips, dripping into the grooves of your knuckles. But you were still too deep in shock to complain, so you did your best to ignore the red rings around your fingernails as you sipped daintily on the dixie cup of room-temperature water that Dewey had presented to you just a few minutes ago.

Despite the fact that he was stationed in Woodsboro, they offered him their biggest corner office while he lingered in town to work on the murder investigation. That was where you were now, sitting in a swivel chair with your legs crossed under you and a bomber jacket thrown over your shoulders like a weighted blanket.

It felt like hours that you sat there listening to the ringing of faraway phones and the jingling of handcuff keys on silver rings. Dewey paced back and forth in front of you, making shadows dance across his desk. His office was cramped yet empty. He hadn't brought much over from California besides a framed photograph of him and Tatum that sat under the table lamp at an awkward angle.

You still missed Tatum nearly every day and you didn't think there would ever be a time where you didn't. You used to have a thumb-sized photo of her and Sidney tacked above your desk, but it must've fallen off sometime during the week because you hadn't seen it since you came back from the hospital with a new scar to show for it.

You decided to bite the bullet and peel back your bandage yesterday night when you were completely alone in the comforts of your dorm room. It had scarred over nicely but the wound still felt as fresh as the night it was ripped through your flesh. It pulsed and drummed in rhythm with Dewey's unsure footsteps.

He'd barely spoken a word to you since he dragged you away from that van kicking and screaming. You nearly clawed your fingers into the cement, begging and pleading to stay with Randy just a moment longer. 

"He's breathing!" You swore, reaching out and making fists in the air as Dewey hauled you over his shoulder. "I can see him breathing!"

But now, the memories of seeing his chest rising and falling unsteadily in the hollowed body of that news van seemed like poor tricks of the light. Mean tricks. Horrible tricks that convinced you for a split second that the last person who could have possibly understood you was still somehow clinging to life despite being stabbed countless times in the chest and throat.

Like a vision passing before your eyes, you suddenly remembered a moment two months or so ago before today. Randy had gotten you tickets to a drive-in movie theater and you were curled up together in the back of his busted up Dodge Caravan, popcorn littering the bed of the truck around you.

"Motherfucker's still breathing!" You laughed into his arm, trying desperately to take the film seriously. He'd been so proud to show it to you — but it was cheaply made and the strawberry seeds in the blood spray were painfully obvious. One of the killable protagonists had just bit the dust, but his body was still wracking with breath.

"Nah," he chuckled, squeezing his arm tighter around you. You remembered how cold and rainy it had been, and how mist had collected on the glass of his car windows and compelled you to share body heat. "Sometimes when you die all of a sudden like that, the air trapped in your lungs makes it look like you're breathing for a few minutes afterwards."

"As if they would know that," you scoffed. "It's just bad acting."

"We'll see," he grinned smugly, shooting you a wink as he funneled another fistful of buttery popcorn into his mouth. "You can't be sure till the end."