Wish I May, Wish I Might

Chapter 7

My parents had given me back my phone before we left the precinct, but I hadn't looked at it. There's a psychological phenomenon of shutting down during times of crisis, and it was suggested that this is what I was doing. I don't know if that's the case. It was likely more avoidance than anything else.

My parents told me they wanted to talk when we got home. I wanted to do anything else, including, but not limited to, finding out what the hell people were saying about me on Twitter and throwing myself off the nearest cliff. So when the garage door opened, reminding me about the police's questions about whether or not the garage door's records would reflect what time I had arrived at my house before the murder, I didn't go into the house. Instead, I walked out to the front.

Tucker's yard and the sidewalk was still marked off as a crime scene. Yellow tape surrounded the area, and there was an outline of a body marked on the asphalt. A few officers were milling about, their radios buzzing. One of them looked up and saw me, and nudged his partner.

"Hey," he said, and I looked up. "You're the kid that found him, right?"

I nodded.

"You okay?"

I shook my head.

They both nodded in sympathy. "It sucks, I get it." He swatted at a bug buzzing around his head. "Hey, did you ever notice if he ever had people over?"

I tried to think of any time I had ever seen any other car other than Tucker's old rustbucket pickup truck in the driveway or heard someone knocking at his door. I couldn't. In fact, I couldn't remember him ever actually talking to anyone that wasn't living in my household or visiting here. "No, I can't think of anyone."

"No worries," the partner said. "We'll see if we can find any family or friends. Did you guys know each other?"

I thought about Tucker's final moments as he fought against the phantom pressure on his neck, the phantom pressure that I caused. The terror he had felt in his last few seconds on this planet. "Not really," I said. "I guess. I..." my voice crackled pathetically and my cheeks and eyes burned. "We-"

"Hey, it's okay," the first guy said. "We'll find out who did this. They'll get what's coming." He gestured to the house. "When we've got this all cleared up, do you maybe want to walk around in the house? You tried to help him, so I'm sure wherever he is now, he wouldn't mind you talking a look around."

I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but I nodded. The cops gave me a gentle smile, and I pictured a cartoon bear smiling at the fox that was new to that part of the enchanted forest, but the bear didn't know the fox was about to eat all the bunnies and birds in the forest.

That night, I probably emptied a lake with the length of my shower. The cold water hitting my skin like bullets was grounding. By the time I got out, my flesh was raw and colored red.

I stared at myself for what felt like hours on end. My bruise was a dark purple color, almost black, going from my cheekbone to surrounding my left eye. My skin was pale enough I felt that if you really tried, you could see through it to the blood and fragile bones underneath. My eyes were red, thanks to the crying and the soap I had gotten in them trying to scrub off my makeup with only suds before I eventually just hissed a frustrated wish to make it disintegrate into the water.

I looked like someone who had just seen a murder, definitely. And I had, I thought as I slowly changed into my pajamas. It had just been me committing the murder.

That night, sleep was difficult to find. I didn't know what the next day would bring, or the day after that. All I knew was that those detectives knew I was more involved than just finding the body and getting somebody to call the police, and that a man was dead, and it was my fault, and there were no wishes that could change that.