Short Stories

The First Ones Always The Worst

Blood. So much blood. Too much blood. On my hands. In my hair. Staining my face. I was practically painted in it. I doubt even my mother would recognise me if she saw me. When I find someone, if I find someone they would see the blood first. they would see the whites of my eyes and the red blood staining my cheeks and running down my jaw. they would see it coating my hands like red lace gloves. they would be horrified without even knowing the true scale of the horror that happened.

I ran down that gravel road, struggling,stumbling. My breath sawing in and out of my lungs like a jagged knife plunging deeper and deeper into my chest with every forceful gasp, ragged, hot and painful. The night air hung low and thick. It was too heavy, too thick, it was like running through tar. My legs were rubber beneath me, threatening to collapse into the tiny pebbles littering the road. my sweat leaked from every pore, peeling my skin away, leaving me red, raw and bloody. 

It replayed over and over in my mind. The images flashing like strobe lights; flooding my brain with the horrific nightmares that could have come from a movie. Random scenes from a movie. The flailing limbs clawing out in desperation. The silver flash of a gleaming knife. The blood spraying everywhere. The knife slick with crimson, hot blood. Screaming. Screaming. The images of agony laying before me. The blood. So much blood. Too much blood.

I could taste it, metallic and bitter in my mouth. The sweet taste of sweat mixing with the saltiness of my tears. A nauseating cocktail swirling through my mouth. I could smell it. I could sense it clogging my throat.  I gagged. The stench of fear, blood and body odour, of urine, vomit and faeces. A memory so strong i choked on it. The sight of life leaving  petrified eyes, leaving them dark, powerless, empty holes to what a person used to be. I cried.

They never prepare you for your first murder. 

The air was thick, damp and hot from the night, it hung low about the place. An ominous cloud circling vulture-like across the house. Waiting

Forensic Pathologist Dr J Nelson arrived at the scene at 9:00am Monday morning.  6 Hours later.

Behind her bounced Junior Pathologist Dr P Clegg. An eager puppy to his first murder scene. "Oh man, I knew I should have worn thinner layers." He complained as they pulled on the clean paper like body suits, blue plastic shoe covering, thick plastic glasses, hard, itchy masks and stretchy white gloves that sucked all the moisture out of their skin and held it on the surface of the epidermis layer. Uncomfortable. 

On the outside everything seemed normal, excluding the yellow police tape and half a dozen police cars surrounding the building in question. Dr Nelson strode confidently, Dr Clegg bounding at her heels. Dust. Thick spinning particles danced in front of their eyes and irritated their throats. Blood. A lot of blood, it infested itself on the yellowed wallpaper and etched into the wooden banister were long lacerations carved wildly into the oak. The auxiliary flash glared up angrily from the camera, capturing the horrific events that had previously occurred. Every blood stain or scratched wood or misplaced objects was painstakingly photographed, a tedious job for someone as eager as Clegg. Still the clicking of a button, flashing of a light and the clunk of the shutters recorded each and every piece of evidence usable or otherwise captured on the cameras card.  Nelson and Clegg trod slowly, methodically, solemnly; taking each step as carefully as possible. Any disturbance to evidence can cost a forensic scientist a case. The staircase loomed above them as if it was jeering at them, daring them to discover what lay above.

More blood. Too much blood. It pooled still down the hallway leading the trail back to its source, the sense of a struggle came to Nelson's mind, a robbery gone wrong?  The blood accumulated itself at the entrance of two bedrooms down the far east end of the house.  Doorway two was soaked in blood. The now blackening liquid marked the entrance to a small, navy coloured bedroom. The curtains drawn across the windows masking the scene in shrouded darkness, concealing the secrets under the safety blanket of blackness. 

Nelson wove her fingers to the wall and flicked the light switch with ease that only an experienced pathologist could show. The light unveiled the horror.

A young boy, no older than eight or nine lay mutilated on the bedroom floor. one arm lay outflung, a hand curled under a bloodied chest, one leg straight out; stiff and the other bent at the knee. Frozen by the process of death. The picture of violence butchered into the picture of innocence; painted stark red by the brush of a madman. An audible gasp escaped Dr Clegg's mouth and he turned his back sharply on the boy. Nelson felt her own compassion for the boy rise up from deep within her gut. She imagined her own son Cameron lying in the position of this boy. Another mother's son. Nelson delved into her work, her safety net, detaching all emotion she could, the boy was not her own, he was dead. Whether dead in place of someone else or dead by planned actions. The boy was dead. Clegg tried his best to work beside her yet, she could notice that the trauma of his first murder victim would haunt him.

 "The first ones always the worst Pete." She attempted to console him.

 "I'll try to remember that Jen." He half whispered in reply. She pitied him in this moment. Clegg too had a young child of his own and he was clearly having difficulty at detaching emotion from science. She made no attempts to console him again, he would work it out in his own time, all junior pathologists do eventually. Even with all the the training in the world, with every lecture attended, every post-mortem... 

Nothing could prepare you for your first murder.