Strange Beings

.Ginny Stockman.

I couldn't fall asleep. Dawn rose into the sky, Harry and Puke slept, and the doctors left the room. I remained the lonesome waker, staring at Macy, whose curls haloed her head as if they hadn't ever been matted with blood. She didn't look angelic, just dead. The way she was situated on the bed juxtaposed what she truly looked like. They'd made her out to be a Sleeping Beauty, when really, she was practically on her deathbed.

This is the sort of scene that she would have painted; the kind I would've written about in excruciating detail; the type which might have dominated Harry's sculptures, if he was inclined to tragedy.

I was so absorbed in thought that I almost didn't realize that—in the midst of the deadly quiet—a pair of brown eyes finally opened, and were staring straight at me, though they seemed discombobulated by the scene.

"Macy?" I said in a hushed tone. Recognition took place in her eyes, but they drifted closed again, squinting as if the light hurt her as much as my voice did.

As if on cue, the faint noise of the door opening was followed by one of the doctors from the early morning's encounter entering. A pair of coppers in uniform followed him in, their heights contrasting greatly. Their faces were both stony and unreadable, as law enforcers should look.

"Sir," the doctor said, addressing me, "would you mind stepping into the hall while we ask Miss Kingston some questions?"

I nodded, though when I went into the hall, I made sure to look both ways down the hall, checking for other people before I pressed my ear to the door.

"...provocation that the young woman may have had to do this?" asked Lewitt.

What girl would have attacked Macy? I wondered. She didn't really have any female friends, just classmates she would collaborate with on occasion. For the most part, her social life was occupied with 1. Getting hung up on Puke, even though in the most recent week, she'd seemed more detached from him, 2. Studying for mundane classes with Harry and me, or 3. Hanging out with Harry and me. Everything else was basically her lonesome time.

First, she only mumbled, but she put words together enough to make herself understandable. "We've had bickering issues since middle school. Always fought about who the better artist was. Must've gotten real jealous." She sounded like she wasn't so affected by her concussion now, though the words were still kinda quiet.

"What exactly happened?"

"Came into my apartment, and she was there, tearing the place to bits. My paintings were all on the floor, many of them stepped on so that the canvas split. She chased me into my room, where she had already torn down my curtain rod and emptied my chest of valuables. Last thing I remember was her swinging the rod through the air."

Glenn spoke next. "Who did this?"

They must be terrible interrogators to be so forward.

The name she claimed next was unfamiliar to me. "Ginny Stockman."

I scavenged my mind for an answer, maybe just a memory of a mention of this girl named Ginny.

"Can you describe her?"

"Looks like me for the most part. Wavy brown hair, same colored eyes, roundish face, pointed nose. Freckles."

I heard them stand, offering only a brisk, "You can count on the NYPD," before lumbering toward me at the door. I moved away quickly, leaned against the wall for good measure. They didn't look at me once as they left.