All Will Be Forgotten

I didn’t mean to shoot the gun. You have to believe me, it was all a tunnel-vision induced accident. A terrible, misfortunate accident that I will pay for until my days are over.

The cold metal of the handcuffs bites into my skin, bruises litter my complexion. How could anyone look at this destroyed body and think me guilty? A woman scorned, the very flesh and blood of Adam and Eve. Of course, when has faith ever been fair? I could laugh at the thought. Only, I’m not sure I could. My throat is raw from screaming and the cold I’ve yet to recover from. My knees are stained with blood. Mine or his—who can tell. I’m sure I look pathetic.

I replay the night’s events in my head. I was there, on the sofa in our shit excuse for a living room. The lights of my husband’s truck gleam through the window, temporarily blinding me, as he’s never been one to waste his high-beams. I knew I had a little less than thirty seconds to make myself agreeable and avoid distress.

The door slams open, the knob disappearing into a hole that’s been abused longer than I have. I figured he’d been out drinking, men always seem to be drunk when they beat their wives. Perhaps it makes them feel less guilty, not being in their right state of mind. But the body left scarred knows better. A woman pays the price of existence with eternal blood. A man receives the gift of life with fresh-brewed coffee every morning. Two creams, one sugar.

He comes in, anger plastered on his face. Fists ready to go and I know I will not dream tonight.

I’m summoned from my thoughts when I hear the door to the interrogation room open. A man in uniform walks in. He’s older, and I’m sure he has a daughter. Men with no hair often are surrounded by women. He introduces himself as Detective Barrett, then takes a seat opposite me.

I meet his eyes, I’ve learned never to back away from a man’s gaze, and he stares at me for a minute.

“Mrs. Wood, I want to help you.” He says.

I scoff at these words, then immediately regret it when my throat begins to burn. I’m sure every detective, cop, judge, and potential jury member already believes me evil. There’s no getting away from the cell.

Detective Barrett looks inquisitively at me, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, handing it to me. I smooth it out as best as I can and flip it over. Only it is not just a piece of paper. What I’m holding is a picture of the happiest girl I’ve ever seen. With long flowing braids and eyes that gleam with mischief and a mouth that looks like it’s never stopped smiling.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, suspicion lacing my tongue. “Are you giving me one last taste of freedom? Is this some psychological torture?”

“That,” he answers, “is my daughter Alyssa.”

I raise an eyebrow, still not understanding the point. “Well, she’s very happy.”

Detective Barrett smiles at me, but I can smell sadness in the air. “She was, at that point in her life. Now, however, she’s above, or below, or in the air around us, whatever you choose to believe.”

“Oh.” I rasp out. I never know what to say in situations like this. I’m sorry and she’s in a better place now. It always sounds so superficial.

“I want to ask you, Mrs. Wood, where do you believe she is now?” Detective Barrett questions, and I notice for the first time that he hasn’t hit the record button on the tape.

I look at him inquisitively. I’m not sure what his point is, asking me about my beliefs. But I also can’t imagine the pain of losing a child. I remember the grief I felt when my childhood dog died, the absence, the flaws that all of a sudden didn’t seem so bad.

I think about it for a minute. The photograph lays on the table in front of me. Her braids speckled with dazzling jewels.The bright yellow sundress that stands out against her skin. She looks so happy. Looking at that photo, I can feel her presence. It’s as if she is the sun itself.

“I believe she’s in this very picture.” I tell Detective Barrett. “I believe her to be the very energy of life. I’m sure she’s great to know.” I’m surprised to find just how much I mean it. “This picture makes me want to feel even an ounce of her spirit.”

Detective Barrett smiles fondly at the picture. He meets my eyes and I ask, “Where do you believe she is?” I’m curious—and I’m not sure why—but I want to find this girl.

“I don’t know.” He answers me sincerely, his voice an inch from a whisper. “I don’t want her to be anywhere but here. However, she was always fond of daffodils. I hope, if she’s not here, that she might be surrounded by sun and daffodils. Who knows, maybe she has reincarnated and become a rabbit.”

Somehow, this seems like a fitting fate for her.

“Mrs. Wood.” Detective Barrett says this time, turning serious. “I know you killed your husband.”

My husband slowly walks towards me. The house is a mess, I’ve been sick for the last two days. Sickness has never stopped an angry man before. I force my eyes to stare through my husband, imagining his skeleton, picturing his soul being exhaled through his nose. He’s close to my face now, and I note that his breath smells peculiar. As if it were missing something. I don’t think it was always like this. There had to have been a time when our relationship was sweet. He got me roses once. Probably.

I grew up believing true love would find me. I watched the documentaries with my mom. I heard people whisper to strangers “Why didn’t she just leave him?” about the women in the papers. I swore I would never be like them. I know better now, but I’m sure when my story comes to light the same questions will be asked about me. Must a woman always bear the blade?

I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the kitchen counter. A few of the cabinets have flung off the hinges in the past year. My husband is so close to my face I can smell his breath. Suddenly, I realized what was missing. There was an absence of alcohol on his breath.

I stare at Detective Barrett with a look of contempt. “Of course I killed my husband.” I’ve already confessed to every policeman I’ve come across. “But I’m not guilty.”

“No, you’re not.” He replies calmly. “I want to help you get out of this.”

I’m silent. I can’t understand his plan for me. This is an impossible man to read.

“Why?” Is all I can reply with.

“Nobody should have to experience what you’ve gone through.”

“But they do, and they will.” I respond.

“What if I told you I could give you a fresh start?. A way out of this hole.” Detective Barrett asks me, and I become even more confused.

“I’d say you’d have to find me one hell of a lawyer.” I’m almost angry now, with this man for playing with my life.

“We don’t need a lawyer. I have tea.” He informs me.

“How is tea supposed to help me?” I ask, the urge of maniacal laughter bubbles up. “I don’t even like tea.”

He stands up and leaves the room. Refusing me an answer. I sit there alone for who knows how long, there are no clocks in the room. I try to keep my thoughts on what's in front of me, and not replay the night I became a murderer. I’m not sorry, just regretful. I should have done it sooner. The detective comes back in. This time with a plain white mug, steam making its escape.

“Drink this.” He tells me, setting the cup in front of me and resuming his seat.

I look from the cup to him, astonishment written on my face. “I suppose you want me to down a bottle of pills too.” I say, sliding the cup away from me.

This earns a chuckle from him. “It’ll help with your throat. I assure you, I only want what’s best for you.” He reassures me.

I think of the last time I had anything to drink and can’t recall. The water at my house was disgusting. I give in and grab the mug, taking a long swig, only slightly disgusted at the taste. The drink makes my stomach drop, as if I’m on a roller coaster. Suddenly, my mouth becomes very dry and I’m reminded of the first time I tried weed in high school with some older friends. I can’t believe it. This man has drugged me.

“How did your daughter die?” I manage to slur out as the room spins around.

“A man.” Is the only response I get before succumbing to darkness.

My husband is not drunk. This realization hits me harder than any blow I’ve been dealt. It’s easy to excuse those you love, or want to love, or those you wish loved you, when you can believe they aren’t consciously hurting you. But he’s not drunk. There is no lingering substance on his breath. I turn to look at the man. He’s so ugly I could actually laugh. I don’t know how I ended up with this coward, but I won’t bear it any longer. I get up. My legs are aching and I can feel the bruises forming on my skin, and can taste the blood on my lip. He was especially angry today. And he wasn’t even drunk.

I hardly notice the pain, I feel as though I am floating towards the cabinet in the living room that I know contains his gun. In a way, I guess I did mean to shoot him, but, like I said, I was not in my right state of mind.

Wherever I’ve ended up is soft and warm. There’s an incessant ringing happening close to my ear, it is very annoying. I don’t want to escape the comfort of the back of my eyelids, but I need to know where this noise is coming from. I crack my eyes open, only a sliver, as if I’m trying to convince my mom I’m asleep and won’t sneak out of my room to watch T.V. It’s an alarm clock. I have not had one in months since my body now knows when to get up. I sit up to turn it off and realize I am very far from the ground. On a bed, in a small room littered with pictures and posters and artwork. I think I’m in a dorm room.

I never went to college, I always wanted to. I spot a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror across the room. I look like me, if I were 10 years younger. I get out of the bed to turn off that annoying alarm clock. Perhaps this is life after death.

There’s a second bed in the room, but from what I can tell nobody possesses it. I do a full turn to assess what’s around me. Two beds, two closets, two chairs, two desks. The room is tidy, excusing the bed I just came from. There is little clutter, and seems to be mainly essentials. On one of the desks is a framed photograph of me and my parents. How strange this all is.

I notice a piece of paper lying on the desk. It’s a note—from who, I’m not sure.

Written in messy black ink is the message : Leave this room, and all will be forgotten. -Barrett. If this is a threat or a promise I’m not sure. The note leaves no further instruction. If I leave, will I forget everything? Or will I become a different me, with different memories, and a different future?

I hope for the latter and step outside.

I have just finished my last final of the year and the summer sun is beautifully welcome on my skin. I've had a strange feeling of freedom these past couple months, and I'm not sure why. All I know is I've been overwhelmingly happy.

I lift my head towards the sun and close my eyes for a moment. I let myself breathe. I can feel my soul dancing in the bridge of my nose.

When I resign myself to abandoning my fantasies, I meet a pair of eyes. They are looking at me so strangely I feel as if they were present the day I was born.

The eyes belong to the most radiant woman I've ever beheld. My heart feels as though it's skipped a beat, although I know it hasn't, because I'd be dead. She's taken my breath away, I feel as if I've been starved of sunshine all my life.

She's wearing a yellow blouse with jeans, and in her braided hair are an arrangement of sea-like beads and jewels. A mermaid born of the sun-god I'm sure.

"Hello." The melodic voice says to me. "I'm passing out flyers for the play the Shakespeare club is doing! Do you like Macbeth?"

"Yes." I reply. I'm sure I could love anything that she loves.

"Perfect! Hopefully I'll see you there." She turns to walk away.

Only when she's too many yards away do I yell after her. She turns around very suddenly and cocks her head at me.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Alyssa Barrett." She replies with a sweet smile, and I'd kill to be able to see it all my life.