Turquoise Puppet

Chapter 1

All the crimes I try to atone for, you never blamed me.

A week later, you are discharged from the hospital. The staff at the hotel seem relieved and afraid at the same time; one nurse in particular came to tell you, as soon as you woke up, that it must be the work of either the angel or devil—a bullet through your eye should have killed you, she said. In response, you only cast your gaze down to the cold, white sheets, knowing but keeping to yourself that it was most definitely the latter.

An angel would never save the likes of me, you thought to yourself.

Now, you make your way out of the hospital—but you are not yet free to roam this cruel world. Like the nurse had said, you survived a bullet. You do not know why it was you that death spared, and not the more innocent person involved in the incident. Nevertheless, whatever the reason is, your duty now is to give your testimony.

In the room are a female and a male officer. You sign a document, and verbally express that you understand your words may be used against you in court. The male officer presses a button on the tape recorder set on the middle of the table; the female officer lifts her pen.

However unwillingly, you recall the whole incident for the first of many times to come.

☆☆☆

That evening, you and Esmae Faix—your female companion—were on a date of sorts. No, she was not your girlfriend. No, you were not in the process of courting her. Why were you on a date, then? Oh, you called it a date simply because it was the easier way to put it. If you were to be more precise, you and Esmae were...hanging out, yes. You had bought groceries and the two of you cooked dinner at your home. Is it normal for a young man and woman who are not in a relationship to be alone in one of their homes? No, perhaps not. At the same time, though, it isn't too unusual either. Officer, please let me finish? —thank you.

In any case, you and Esmae were alone in your home. You cooked, you ate your dinner, and it was slightly past nine-thirty when the doorbell rang. At the time, you and your companion each had a glass of wine in hand, though you had just opened the bottle a few minutes ago and neither of you had drunk much of it yet. So neither of you were drunk? No, you had barely begun drinking at all, as aforementioned. The doorbell rang, and you went to answer it—naturally, it was your home after all. Upon answering the door, you recognized the now-deceased criminal, Alec Warrensword.

You were quite surprised at the moment, because you had not seen Alec in years. Your old acquaintance—hm? His relationship with you and Esmae Faix? Later, please, lest you get the events mixed up. —thank you.

Anyway, your old acquaintance looked to be in a frenzy. As long as you had known him, Alec's hair was never quite neat, but it looked particularly messy that evening, and there was a sort of craze in his eyes. You could not quite describe it, as you could not quite understand it. Without waiting for your invitation, Alec stormed into your house—but taking care to close the door behind him. He scanned the living room and immediately found Esmae sitting on the couch, glass in hand.

Esmae was just as stunned as you were. She put down her glass and stood to greet your unexpected visitor. Being the bubbly young woman that she was, she smiled graciously at Alec and went to give him a friendly hug. He shoved her away roughly before she could even reach him. Then, all of a sudden, Alec pulled out a gun from the black duffel bag he had brought with him and pointed it at Esmae. He asked if she had already forsaken him, if she didn't love him anymore. She replied that they had only ever been friends, as she was with you now—nothing more than that. Alec was furious, and fired at her on the spot. So it happened that quickly? Was there no drama? No, it happened just like that. There was no drag. You could not begin to understand Alec's motivations aside from what this one conversation showed.

Even more shocked now, you stepped back instinctively, forgetting that you were standing just in front of the coffee table. You didn't knock the table over, but you did knock the wine glasses over. Perhaps seeing that as a defensive move of sorts, Alec immediately shot at you next.

Naturally, you know nothing about what—if anything—happened after that.

☆☆☆

"Alec Warrensword is suspected to have shot himself after committing two murders," the male officer informs you before continuing with his next question, "What was his relationship with you and Esmae Faix?"

"We were all friends when we were younger. Alec and I in particular grew up in the same town, but we all eventually moved out for college and went on with our lives," you answer.

"When was the last time you met him, before the incident?"

"I haven't seen him since our high school graduation, sir."

"What about Esmae Faix?"

"We attended the same college, and so we have been in consistent contact."

The female officer looks at her notes, then raises another question. "Mr. Bauder, do you know how it is that you survived the gunshot? According to our information, the bullet went through your eye."

The police sure are brutal, you think to yourself. What if you were an ordinary survivor of an extraordinary crime? What if you had been an ordinary victim, and not guilty yourself? Would the normal victim survive a questioning like this—being questioned as if they were the aggressor? And how many more times would you have to recall the same incident until the whole case is solved?

You sigh.

You sigh for the incompetence of the officers and the flaws in the legal system, the gap between legal terms and the way humanity actually works.

Yet, you deliver the reason for your sigh as something else entirely.

"I'm sorry, I don't know." Saying thus, you look down at your hands, giving a wry smile. "I wish I were dead instead, then I wouldn't have to deal with all this."

Survivor's guilt. It will be written down as just that, you assume, and fairly soon, you will receive recommendations to see a psychiatrist or something. It's better this way, you think. It's better than the truth.