Dead Man's Match

Thirty-Two

I'm completely worn out.

My energy is the lowest it's been in months. The police asked questions and investigated the crime scene for over two hours. They told me to call my mom, who was surprised to discover I was at the buffet. I told her that I was hungry so we stopped off to get some study fuel. They tried to recreate the scene, and I'm glad it took Mom time to arrive so she didn't hear me talking about meeting a boy there. We don't mention the dating app, though I don't know if that's the right or wrong decision. Part of me thinks it's a bad move since they're going to check his phone.

Panic is bubbling inside me. Isaac died from electrocution. There was a tiny electrical pod inside the sink. When he turned the faucet on, he was electrocuted. I was the last person to enter the bathroom.

Could I have put the electrical pod there? I don't remember doing such a thing. Wouldn't I remember?

But then again, I was in the bathroom right before he was. I would've seen the pod in the sink, wouldn't I? And no one else entered after me. There's no other explanation. And plenty of other people used the bathroom before that and didn't get hurt. It was only when I reentered the bathroom to get my purse that that happened.

I'm sitting in the car, leaning against my arm which is propped against the window. My head hurts. Tears trickle down my cheeks, carving rivers into my raw skin. Mom glances in my direction every so often. Rain drizzles on the car, and the windshield wipers wipe the water away. I need windshield wipers for my face.

We stop at a traffic light right before turning into our development. Mom turns to me.

"How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Not great." A humorless, crying laugh breaks from my lips. I shake my head, staring out at the water-logged sidewalk. "I can't believe this."

"Me neither." Mom shakes her head. "Three times."

"Three times." So much for the third time's the charm.

The light turns green, and Mom makes a left-hand turn into our development. We round the corner, driving past the large houses on either side of the street. Water drenches the green lawns, stirring up mud and pooling on the sidewalks. Puddles splash as we drive through them and spray onto cars and mailboxes on the side of the road.

At last, our house comes into view. I'm ready to go inside and drown myself in music and tears. I need something to stifle the anxious thoughts pressing against me on all sides.

There may be another explanation.

I keep repeating this in my head. But deep down, I wonder what else could explain my presence at three murders. Sure, I could be framed. But that's more far fetched than me being a serial killer. No, there's a much simpler explanation. One I despise, yet have to come to terms with.

My head drops against the window. Pain ricochets through my skull from the impact.

I'm a serial killer.

I want to scream. I don't want this to be me, but it is. It is who I am. It is who I will ever be. A killer. A monster.

It isn't certain.

Give it a few days for the police to investigate. Then, they will draw the same conclusion as me, based on cold hard evidence. I'll be sent to prison, behind bars the rest of my life, as I should be. That's all I deserve. I deserve to be there right now.

I am a monster.

The garage door whirs open. As Mom drives inside, I unzip my purse to get my phone...