Thirty-seven

Content warning: violence, sexual assault, psychological trauma.

Thirty-seven days and thirty-eight tormenting nights have passed. I didn’t live through the days, only counted them—why, I don’t even know. Daylight went faster in the waking haze I’ve existed in for thirty-seven days. But when night comes, the lights go out, the noise dies, and in the silence of my soul the words return, echoing; my closed eyes see everything—red blood, green eyes, a white top, blonde hair matted with blood, a thick crimson pool on the floor before the white linens, blood and more blood, a terrified pair of green eyes and a slit throat. That’s what I saw thirty-seven days ago, and that’s what I see every time I close my eyes.

Something snapped inside me back then. I bent over her, lifted her head that was hanging off the bed, cradled her in my arms, turned her gently and laid her down on her snow-white bed. Blood still trickled from the wide gash on her neck. I lay down beside her and held her. Her body was still warm; I brushed the blood-soaked strands of hair off her pale face. I kissed her cooling lips—our first and last kiss. I heard the thud of the door, boots striking the corridor tiles. I held her tighter—they couldn’t take her from me.

Four men in black burst into the room. The barrels of their guns aimed at me. I heard shouting but couldn’t understand—didn’t care—the words slid through me without meaning. There was only pain and infinite emptiness inside me.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I whispered into Edit’s ear, stroking her so she would know I was there, with her, and I wouldn’t let anything hurt her. Rough hands grabbed me, yanked me away, threw me to the floor.

“No! Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt her!” I screamed at them. They pinned me down, twisted my arms back. Cold metal brushed my wrists as the cuffs clicked shut.

The following days were a blur of chaos, leaving barely a mark on me. Everyone was shouting. I answered their questions, hoping they’d leave me alone, give me silence at last—leave me alone with my shattered soul.

***

“Name?”

“Tom Schuller,” I said, as I had many times before.

“Why did you kill Edit Löven?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“How long had you known her?”

“Three months.”

“How did you meet?”

“She bought a TV from us.”

“From you?”

“I work in an electronics store.”

“What were you doing at her place yesterday?”

“She was my friend. She invited me over for a chat.”

“We checked her calls. She didn’t call anyone that day.”

“But she did. She called me.” Her voice was still in my head—full of warmth and kindness.

“What did she say?”

“She asked if I’d like to come over for some tea.”

“Did she often invite you for late-night tea?”

“No. This was the first time.”

“So you’d never been to her place before?”

“I had, a couple of times.”

They didn’t need to ask again, I repeated the occasions.

“Once, I helped her carry up the new TV. Another time we went for a walk in the park. It started to rain and she invited me up until it passed.”

“Did anyone see you then?”

“I don’t know.” How could I know that? I listened only to her.

“We showed your photo to the neighbours. None of them have ever seen you.”

“That’s possible. I didn’t care if anyone saw me, I don’t care now either.”

“Why did you kill her?”

“I didn’t do it.”

***

“We’ve got the autopsy report,” the stern man in the grey suit announced.

“Autopsy?”

“Yes. Edit Löven’s autopsy report.” He shoved a thin folder onto the table.

“Edit is dead?” The thought was unbearable.

“Don’t play games with me!” the man barked. “You were clutching her body when we found you. Did you rape her while she was still alive, or afterwards?”

“What?” My mind reeled. All I could see were her green eyes and the red cut on her throat. Yes. She really was dead. And I died with her.

“The autopsy shows she was raped, and her carotid artery was slit. Both of them! I want to hear the sequence from you.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“When did you arrive at her apartment?”

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t care. It was too late.

“You own a black Ford, licence plate MU-356 10N?”

“Yes.”

“Your car was parked outside Edit’s apartment all afternoon. You finished work at two. Time of death: between eight and half past eight. So where were you from two to eight?”

“At home.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Edit called me after eight…”

“She did not! No one called you that afternoon. I’ll ask again: where were you during that time?”

“I’m telling you, I was at home.” I didn’t understand this man. Edit was dead, and I couldn’t even grieve because this idiot kept hammering me with questions. His shouting scraped at my skull. I wanted silence.

“You raped and murdered Edit Löven!” he almost screamed.

“I didn’t do it.”

“We found you in bed with the corpse.”

Why couldn't he leave me alone? Why did he remind me every time? I was holding her. Clinging to her. But NO—I didn’t kill her.

“I didn’t do it.” I repeated flatly.

“Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”

I looked down at my hands. My fingertips were black, I didn’t remember why.

“I don’t have a weapon.”

“She was killed with a switchblade.”

“That’s Edit’s.”

“You’re saying the knife was hers?”

“There was a switchblade on the corner shelf. I remember. She gave it to me to cut the tape on the TV box.”

“You didn’t even remember she was dead, and now you recall little details like that?”

“That was the first time she touched me, when she handed me that knife. Edit is dead, and you’re arguing about a knife instead of hunting down her killer!” I shouted back.

“You killed her!”

“I didn’t do it, no matter how many times you repeat it.”

The man slammed the door as he left the room. I leaned against the table. Finally, there was silence.

***

The next day, I had to talk to a calmer man, and I hoped he would have more sensible questions.

“You knew Edit Löven?”

“Yes.”

“You know she’s dead?”

I was wrong.

“Yes, I held her in my arms.”

“What did you feel?” He looked at me with curious eyes, as if he truly cared about my answer. His hair was greying at the temples.

“Emptiness. Edit could have been part of my life, but someone took her away before that could happen. I lost her before she was ever mine. Her killer didn’t just kill her.”

“But?”

“He killed me too. He stole my hope.”

“But you barely knew her.”

He didn’t understand me. But now, for the first time, I tried to explain.

“That’s the point, don’t you see? I never got to know her, and now I never will. I’ll never know how she would have kissed me, how she loved, if she loved, how she would have thrown me out when she grew tired of me. He killed a part of my life that never even had the chance to begin!”

“So you didn’t kill Edit?”

“No.” I said it quietly, lowering my head.

“How did you end up there?”

And I told him again.

“Edit called me. Asked me over for tea. It was late. I admit I hoped she wanted me to stay the night. I left right away—I didn’t want to make her wait, in case she changed her mind.”

“What did you do when you got there?”

“At first I couldn’t find a parking space. I circled the block until I found one.”

“Did you go straight up to her place?”

“No. I stopped by the shop and bought a bottle of rosé.”

“I thought you were going for tea?”

“I couldn’t show up empty-handed.”

“I see. What happened next?”

“I ran up the stairs, caught my breath before I knocked. But the door was ajar. I knew she was expecting me, so I walked in. From the back room, I heard music and saw the light.”

“Do you remember the music?”

“It was soft, but sad. I didn’t know the song, but I still hear it in my head.” I hummed the tune.

“What did you see when you entered the room?”

“Blood. So much blood. Edit was lying on the bed, her head hanging off the edge, her eyes staring at me, and a deep slash on her throat.”

“What did you feel?”

“Nothing. The void. Like I still do.”

“What did you do?”

“I… I think I tried to help her. To protect her. So nothing more could hurt her.”

“Was she alive?” He looked at me in disbelief.

“No,” I shook my head slowly. “But I still wanted to protect her. I don’t know from what.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly, jotting notes in his small pad. “When did your parents divorce?”

“A long time ago. I must have been four. Why?”

“Who did you stay with?”

“My father.”

“Why not your mother?”

“I don’t know. She left. I had to stay with my father. They never explained, and later there was no one to ask. He died two years later.”

“What colour were your mother’s eyes?”

“Green.”

“If we let you out of here, what would you do first?”

“I’d kill him. The one who did this.”

“Did you love Edit?”

“I’ll never know,” I said, bowing my head again. The man left the room.

***

One day, a young guy walked in, wearing a cheap suit. He said he was my lawyer and that it would be best if I spoke to no one but him. He opened his briefcase and shuffled some papers around while talking, as if he were nervous. He looked too young to be a court-appointed lawyer. Maybe just an intern. Maybe I was his very first case. He even mentioned his name, but with all his mumbling, it just slipped past me.

His crooked purple-red tie, however, held all my attention. He was talking about me, about what awaited me, but I couldn’t hear him—only stared at that tilted triangle at his neck, swaying as he spoke. What if I straightened it for him? Showed him how to tie a proper knot? Or… just pulled it. Tighter and tighter. Right under his bobbing Adam’s apple. Until it cut into his neck. Until I could see the veins swelling under his fake-tanned skin. Until I no longer heard him speak. Until I no longer heard him breathe.

With a sharp snap, he closed his briefcase, yanking me back into reality.

“I trust you understood everything.”

I gave a small nod.

“Good. Guards!” At his shout, the door opened. The crooked-tie man was let out, and I was escorted back to my cell.

***

Days went by. I didn’t live them, just counted them. People kept coming, asking the same questions over and over. Sometimes I answered out of boredom, sometimes with irritation. The only real anger I felt was toward the killer. Somewhere in the dark fog of my mind, a hunger for revenge began to take shape.

I barely remember the trial. People argued over me. Eventually, they called my name.

“Defendant, stand up!” I stood.

“Do you have anything to say to what has been presented here?”

“I didn’t do it.” I had nothing else to say, because that was the truth. I had been repeating this for so long, like a mantra, no matter what they asked me: “I didn’t do it.”

Thirty-seven days had passed. Thirty-eight nights soaked in blood. The bars opened, guards came for me. Two of them stayed behind, while the third snapped the cuffs on my wrists. They were taking me out again. The same questions, the same corridors. But this time, at the end of the row of cells, we turned in a different direction. A tall priest in a long black robe joined us. He kept talking as we walked down the narrow hallway, but I didn’t hear his words. Only the faint clinking of the chains around my ankles with every dragging step.

The guards stopped and pushed me through a door. The smell of disinfectant and cold metal hit my nose—almost refreshing after thirty-seven days of nothing but the sweet, cloying scent of Edit’s blood.

They sat me in a large chair, unfastened the cuffs, then strapped me down with wide leather belts. I looked up; the wall in front of me was like a mirror, but I didn’t see myself. My grey jumpsuit faded, Edit’s green eyes burned through.

They pulled a hood over my head. In the darkness, I still saw her—the terrified green of her eyes. And then, as if a glass wall shattered, the silence inside me cracked, and I heard her screams. I felt the warmth of her body, struggling against my arms. Through her screams, I heard the blade slice through her beautiful skin. I felt her last trembling movements.

“I kill the one who did this to you. I love you.”