Voices From Beyond

Chapter 11

I think back to a couple months ago, I was sitting behind Kennedy in history class. We were learning about a man named Lucius Aemilius Paullus Macedonicus, a two-time consul of the Roman Republic and a noted general. I don't remember much about him, but a quote of his has ran through my head about a million times in the past 24 hours. That's how long it's been since I committed murder. 24 hours since I stabbed my best-friend in the chest and held her hand while she took her last dying breath. Aemilius Paullus once said, "It is easier to commit murder than to justify it,". I can see the back of Kennedy's head, her hair is dangling onto the front of my desk. A brief memory of braiding her hair flashes through my mind, and I see a glimpse of her enter the diner the night we played the ouija board, her hair was in those very braids I had done earlier that day. I return to the moment where I'm looking at the back of her head in history, I'm drumming my mechanic pencil on my thigh. She spins around in her chair, quietly sliding me a note. I read the words written in her sloppy handwriting, This class sucks. Want to skip?

Her eyes look eager, full of excitement. I nod, crumbling the note and dropping it into the trashcan I sit next to. She raises her hand first, she asks to go to the bathroom. I wait five minutes before I ask to go to my locker. Before I know it, we're slipping out the back entrance of the school and practically sprinting through the parking lot.

Who knew I would kill her only a short couple months later.

Sydney and I carefully explained everything to the police, we planned out every intricate detail of our story. My hands were bloody and shaking as I recounted what happened through my tears. Another sheriff's deputy placed a blanket over Sydney's shoulders, and then another blanket around mine.

"Kennedy has always been suicidal, she hadn't told anyone but us two," Sydney's face was hardened over as she says this, she lied so well that even I almost could have believed it.

"She was fighting with her boyfriend Bryce all day, then suddenly she threw her phone at my wall and went crazy almost," I spoke as clearly as I could, refusing to let myself break eye contact with the officer.

"She ran into the kitchen first, we followed after her but by the time we reached her she had already grabbed a knife," Sydney added, both of us stopped crying at that point.

"I tried to stop her, she got angry at me. She started yelling and flailing her arms. We were so scared," my voice was scratchy as I said this, the officer looked sympathetic.

"Cora tried reaching for the knife and Kennedy took a swipe at her, got her right there on the arm," Sydney gestured to my arm, "then she got angry and stabbed the pantry, we ran behind the table when she charged after us," she continued.

"I flipped the table over at her to try and stop her but she just got angrier. She chased us into the living room and we knocked the vase over on our way to the bathroom, Kennedy tripped on the carpet and hit her head on the shards. After we called 911, we came out of the bathroom just as she stabbed herself. I tried to stop her. I pulled the knife from her chest," I finished recounting.

Our story checked out. My mom and brother met me in the hospital, we're staying at my dad's house until our house is back to normal. It's a crime scene as of right now. I have stitches in my arm, even though I know deep down that I don't deserve to heal from this. I deserve far worse than what I got.

We pull in to my dad's driveway. I stare at the trees overhead through the passenger window, the sun shines through the leaves. My heart wrenches. Kennedy will never be able to see things like this again. I took that from her. There's a little voice in my head, it torments me, telling me what I already know too well. I'm a killer. It makes me wonder how anyone could kill another living, breathing person, or multiple at that. But then again, I did it. I had no intention of doing it. But I still did it. My mom reaches over and gives my trembling hand a squeeze. I don't realize I'm shaking until she does that small gesture to show me that she cares and that I'm not alone. I appreciate her and everything she does for me, but I don't deserve her sympathy.