Vellichor: A Short Story Collection

It Lies in Our Home

Written 25 June 2020
Genres/Tags: Mystery, Family, Death, Thriller, Lawsuit

Inspo: Back in 12th grade, a schoolmate of mine performed a monologue about a woman who killed her husband's mistress.

00241.

My tears won't stop from sprinting down my cheeks, which were, right now, burning red due to heat, and the constant feeling of the panic inside.

I continued to wipe my flowing tears. The feeling was all mixed up.

A jumble of grief, anger, and regret. I feel anxious as I held my chest.

I felt my body shrink and my head continued to bow even more.

As seconds went by, it's getting quieter, and the only sound I hear was my whimpers as it gradually loudened.  

I couldn't breathe. I feel like suffocating.

My anxiety grows every minute. It had only been twenty-nine hours, but I regret it already like it happened years back.

Wait. I don't.

I have nothing to regret. 

Bit by bit, my whimpers started to soften.

These tears were flowing for hours now, and I have no tears left to cry. As my anxiety starts to rise, my sense of feeling starts to collapse.

For the first time in twenty-nine hours, I couldn't feel a thing. Not pain, not grief—and not regret.

Slowly, I blinked, trying to open my eyes.

I finally caught a glimpse of what this place looked like.

I scanned the four-cornered room with these eyes wide open—it had dirty, white walls, with traces of sins, probably the worst these people have done—crimes. 

I glanced upwards to the right from where I was sitting, and I see nothing but orange, gloomy, orange.

Very little light passes through the tiny steel railings, but it was enough to keep me away from pitch-black and extreme heat caused by a lack of fresh air.  

I sighed and looked down at my feet.

It took only five seconds for my hands to get my attention. 

My hands used to be beautiful. These hands were a part of me that my husband and daughter loved the most.

For decades, these hands took care of them, brought them comfort and warmth whenever they needed it. Cooked meals for them and cleaned their rubbish. Even softer than any mother's touch, these hands have healed them from pain and saved them from despair. 

Little did they know, and little did I know—that these very hands that they loved for long were the same instrument a mother used;

To kill. 

Two police officers came to fetch me. One stared at me so intently and spoke, "00241, please come with us," as he opened the prison cell. 

It was 00241, printed on the back of my shirt. In the past, I used to wear peach ones – never have I ever worn something orange. But now I am.

I followed. With my hands handcuffed, they escorted me to the vehicle. I believe we're heading to another place—to the court, perhaps.

No one would ever get a nice sleep after getting accused of committing murder, so, as expected, I still feel exhausted—my eyes had dark circles under them due to lack of sleep, and my body felt like jelly.