Figure of a Killer

The Key Necklace

What do I do?

Her mind won't stop racing with desperate questions and thoughts. What do I do? Do I tell anyone? Do I tell Dad? Or Tom? No, I can't. But if I don't, will they find out? Will they find the knife?

Pacing in her immaculately neat room, images of the girl's cold, blood-soaked body flash into Tessa's head. She shakes it vigorously to rid herself of the horror. It doesn't work. Those glassy, blue eyes - the ones that have no life left in them - are forever ingrained in her memory. No joy, nor laughter; just emptiness, as though her soul has completely diminished. The pale, freckled skin, much like Tessa's own, sprawled across the icy, stone-ground, her limbs lifeless. Pools of blood paint the path, the putrid smell, which filled the ominously black and mist-filled alleyway, making her want to puke. Her hands begin to tremble uncontrollably, as if she'll erupt at any second, and her stomach churns with disgust. Her eyes dart around the room searching for a solution. Her brain whirrs with terror. Her hands veiled with the stickiness of her blood.

Tessa can't decide what to do. Who was she? ---- I'm a dead person walking.

Tessa's decision is final. She's going to tell him. It's getting to be too much to bear. Tessa's blood-drenched clothes that hang over the supple leather chair, as lifeless as her poor body, torment her. Who even was she? I don't recognise her. Slowly rising, Tessa walks past the horror-inducing outfit, staring at the vast collection of designer clothes before her eyes. The hollow figure in the mirror disturbs her greatly. I don't know them. I hate them.

An incessant buzzing noise shakes her from a self-loathing trance. It's a text from Tom. He wants to meet. Something seems off. His text looks sloppy. He's asked to meet at Bazaar Café at 12 pm. How appropriate.

Placing her phone down, Tessa turns her attention towards the wardrobe. She decides on a stark black pencil skirt and flowy white top paired with rose-red heels. I guess my sense of style has died too. Tossing on her copper key necklace, she grabs her car keys and rushes out the bedroom door. Just gotta make it through the maze of hallways.

Creeping along the creaky wooden floors, she steadily makes her way towards the front of the house, writhing in and out of the endless corridors. Tessa flicks a glance at the vacant alabaster walls in the hallway, surveying the meagre number of photos. Why do we have so few?

As she rounds the corner, something catches her eye. Retreating backward, her attention is drawn to one particular picture. It's an old photo of Mum and Dad. Tessa scans everything within the frame. Their happy faces beaming up at her. She notices something in her mother's hand. Is--is that my necklace? Her dad never much liked to talk about their family, so she drops her sudden curiosity, vanishing from her family's stunningly picturesque mansion without a peep.

The drive over to the café is one of great confusion. Why can't I remember killing that girl? Or anything from that night? As she passes over the Golden Gate Bridge, more questions strike her. Why, for the love of all things holy, did I do it? Did I, in fact, do it? Why...me?

Eventually, she arrives at the café. Exiting her shiny black Audi, Tessa overhears thunder rumbling. Looking up, she notices the weather taking a strange turn: rain clouds gathering and darkening rapidly. The wind picks up and whips her in the face. Her frazzled hair flies around her face.

Agasp from the obscurely chaotic weather, Tessa enters Bazaar Café; a forest full of wild animals, scrambling to gather food. A puzzling aroma of freshly made waffles combined with an asphyxiating smell of burning oil startles her. Leagues of rustic wooden tables paired with coloured metal chairs stand between her and the bedraggled figure situated at the back. It's him. His usually put-together appearance seems rushed; his clothes all crinkled, his beach blonde hair strewn like straw. Those sapphire blue eyes of his seem to be buried deep within his face; weary, with dark rings ghosting them. What's gotten him so worked up? He can't stop fidgeting, but when he spots her, his brooding expression alleviates. He quickly ushers her towards him in an isolated booth. The blood-red leather seats intensifies her anxiety. As they perch themselves, Tessa feels Tom glaring at her, boring holes into her soul. The buzz of the café life seemed to instantly hush, the tension surmounting between the two. Not a word falls from either's mouth; the absence of conversation almost causing Tessa to shatter into a million pieces. Eventually, Tessa breaks the silence.

"Hey, how are you?" she says shakily, hoping he doesn't hear her distress, "What's wr-"

"My sister's dead," he blurted, "some monster killed her." He makes eye contact once more, whispering, "Who could have done this?"

She freezes, words clawing at her throat, unable to escape.

Monster?

What do I do?