Violations and Wounds

Chapter 5

It was afternoon when Mella woke up. The alarm clock displayed that it was a quarter past one. She carried out her routine, but did not have the appetite to eat breakfast, nor lunch. She preferred a light snack, so she made her way into the kitchen. She watched her feet take steps across the floorboards; her footfalls made no sound at all.

Still dressed in a pair of gray-striped pajamas and fuzzy slippers, she opened the top cabinet and groped for a jar of shortbreads. Feeling the familiar shape of the jar in her palm, she picked it up and gobbled the contents inside.

She ambled into the sitting room, and her eyes rested upon the black bag. She stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed on her chest, eyeing the bag gingerly. 

She found herself walking across the porch and tossing the bag into the bin. The shining white covering on the roofs and yards transformed the neighbourhood into a theatre backdrop. Though beautiful, the snow was crisp and sharp as it bit at her hands and the wind brushed her cheeks. The snow had ceased falling; only a heavy blanket was left of it.

Mella could hear the distinct sound of her ringtone coming from inside the house. ​Her feet took off into a light jog, up the steps and into the living room. The sound was louder inside the house, and it was coming from her room. 

Eyes fixed on the mobile, she could hear the faint vibration as it quivered on the dressing table.

​​Although the casing was dented and the screen was scratched, the phone was still functioning normally. Clutching the phone in her right hand and observing the caller's identity on the brightly lit screen, she expected it to be one of her colleagues. 

To her surprise, there was no name shown; an ordinary mobile number was displayed on the screen. Without further thoughts, she brought the phone to her ear and answered the call in a professional speech.

"Hello?" She tried her best not to sound shaky or disturbed by the sudden call. 

​"Your aunt is dead." 

"Who are you?" she responded. She could discern that it was a male's voice, possibly a grown man. 

"Your aunt is dead," the caller repeated. ​

"Who are you? Why are you calling me? How did you get my number?" she interrogated. ​The anonymous person had begun to raise her temper. He sounded like a bot.

Or was this a recorded message?, the thought occurred to her.​

​"Your aunt is dead." 

Outraged, she ended the call with a tap of her finger and sat at the edge of the bed. It was definitely a trick to startle her. What other explanation could there be? 

She refused to believe that her aunt was dead; she was very much alive and jolly with two children and a workaholic husband.

The last time Mella had seen her was six years ago; plump and wavy-haired, clad in mourning and a spotted veil for Patricia's funeral. She was a friendly 42 year old woman, but she could be easily steamed. Mella did not have a close relationship, but she knew enough as a niece. 

She dismissed the call as a monotonous prank. Her relatives would've contacted her, in lieu of this unidentified man. 

. . .

Mella cooked pasta for dinner. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a bowl in one hand and a fork in the other, the speakers blasting with the latest tracks. The music drowned out every other sound: the chirping of crickets; the barking dogs from the neighbour's backyard. 

At 10 o'clock, she ​tucked herself into bed, the quilt pulled up to her chin, the room engulfed in darkness and tranquillity.  

. . .

Mella woke up at ​exactly half past nine. She watched the news on the 40-inch television while eating a slice of toasted bread with peanut butter spread.

A handsome reporter came on the screen, gesturing to the cameraman to pan everything in sight. The neighbourhood seemed very familiar to Mella. The cameraman did as he was told. As he did a thorough pan of the area, she immediately recognized what it was.

"It was reported here early yesterday afternoon that a resident of Flamingo Woods was brutally murdered. The victim, Cecilia Havard, was stabbed three times in the abdomen and slashed across the chest. The victim laid undressed on the kitchen floor, as what our forensic team presume as a result of rape," the reporter briefed. 

A feeling of horror crept up from the pit of her stomach. An icy wave embalmed her as the hair rose from the back of her neck and her mouth ran dry. She froze on the couch, her eyes widened, her grip tighter on the remote as minutes went by. 

​"Here we'll be interviewing the victim's husband, Lathan Havard," the reporter announced before he passed the microphone to a bony man; Cecilia's husband. His hair was brown and greasy, plastered to his skull in thin strips. He was trembling and looking down at his feet. The mike quivered as it fell into his grasp. 

"So, where were you on the day of the murder?" the reporter queried. 

"U-uh, I-I was in wo-ork as usual..." The camera zoomed in to Lathan's face as he quavered.

"What about your two children? Were they home with your wife?" 

"Y-yes-s... wait, no-o, I dropped them off a-at a d-daycare centre bef-fore headi-ing to work​ i-in the morning," Lathan stammered. 

"So, your wife was home alone?"

"Y-yes."

​​​"All right," the reporter said as he snatched the microphone away from the man's trembling hands. "That is all for this report. We will be updating the case in an hour's time so that you—​​" he jabbed a finger into the camera. "— the audience at home— will be​​​​ involved in this case as well. I'm Anderson Flynn, keeping you—" 

Mella switched off the television before he could conclude his report. ​​​​​​Before she felt her stomach-churning, she thought back to the call she received yesterday, and asked herself this one question:

Who is this man? ​