Alexander's Disappearance

14

         I don't want to wake up and still have the case on my mind. It provokes me to react and yet I still do. This was not how I wanted to cope with these thoughts, and this was not how I wanted to live. This is not the life I want. Regarding the case, I haven't heard from Detective West and Arkham for a while now. This may have led me to assume the worst. They're hiding something from me. I am the suspect—the main suspect. I am the suspect who is in the spotlight, skipping away from what she has caused, and going through the motions of life with the nagging feeling of the fear of getting caught. And every day, her motivation to live decreases gradually. Until she meets someone who she feels close to—drawn to. As if the stars aligned for once and the man she will see today could be the last of the last. The light at the end of the tunnel, the destination from a long journey—the reward that she was looking for. Everything happens for a reason, that is what a friend I had said to me. It lingered, and it remains in my mind every time something happens. 

         Amor fati—love of one's fate. 

       The sun shone brightly today. Although it was winter, today was a bright morning. December was usually a festive month for me. Alexander and I would rarely celebrate, but we'd make little gingerbread cookies and talk by the fireplace. There was no Christmas tree up. It was solely our talking. Usually, I'd get the staff presents. I think it's a kind gesture, knowing the amount of effort and work to keep everything organized and clean. And if there was nothing else to talk about, Alexander would go upstairs, fall asleep, and I'd quietly read a book by the fireplace. The staff stayed sometimes, and just us, we'd talk. I'd usually do most of the talking. I wouldn't be surprised if the staff favoured Alexander more than me. 

         When I left my bed, I put on my favourite Catherine D'Lish robe—pink this time. I scraped my tongue, brushed my teeth, and swished some mouthwash before spitting it out. I washed my face with oil and foam cleanser, patted my face down with serum, and moisturized. I waited a bit to apply sunscreen. After I was done, I was just about to walk downstairs until my phone rang. West's contact name popped up. For days I thought the case was cold. I'd hate to say that that was why I was feeling better and relieved, but I can't lie to myself anymore. Alexander's case was a burden to me. I know it was. I think everyone knows it was. Still, some may say that I was in the wrong—that I was evil and I could've confessed and done my time. Some can only empathize, and some cannot. When we discuss good and evil, who are we to decide? If you murder for self-defence, you can pick a handful of people who will call you guilty. Moral relativism, that's what it was. We can talk for days and hours about morality, but it's a hard subject to debate. Who is it to decide that what I did was wrong? The law? Of course. But in my eyes, I did no wrong. I have no guilt for killing my husband because it was an accident. I have no guilt because it saved my life. If I was wrong for that, then I am wrong. But I am proud to be wrong.

        With the money I have, I could get away with it. Simply, I just never wanted to be in this situation at all. It's too late to confess. Besides, I'm not certain if that night was a hallucination or if it was real. It's not like me not to differentiate the lines between the real and the fake, but through all the things I've heard and witnessed, I'm questioning my own sanity. 

      "Hello?" I put the phone next to my ear.

      "Mrs. Harrington," West greeted, and I cringe when he says it. "We have information that may possibly find out where your husband is. But we cannot update you on the information because as of now, most of it is just speculation. Rest assured, we are still working on it."

        I let out a silent sigh of relief. "Just get back to me when you have the chance. Please don't give up on me."

      I hope he gives up.