Monster Minds [completed]

Chapter 22

"We do whatever we enjoy doing. Whether it happens to be good or evil is a matter for others to decide."

- Ian Brady, along with partner Myra Hindley, was responsible for the  'Moors Murders' that took place between 1963 and 1965 in England. They killed five children and were sentenced to life in prison.

Chapter 22

When I awoke it was to the sound of batteries clattering against the ground. My eyes snapped open, my senses sharpened, and my thoughts began to gather.

My father was replacing the batteries in my recorder. I could hear him gently sliding them into the socket and the soft click the 'rewind' button made as he pressed it. I could smell the sweetness of his cologne, seeping off of his clothing and into the surrounding air, tempting me to cough. But I couldn't see him because all the lights were still off in the early hours of the morning.

I sprung up from my bed and slammed my hand onto the light switch. The room flooded with white light, illuminating my father's stocky figure, which faced the wall away from me. He stood hunched over what was left of my desk. The papers and files were not in their usual neat piles. Instead, they were clustered in messy heaps like a mini tornado had swept through my room. All my draws were open and the contents were spilling out onto the floor. Even worse, it looked as if my father had tired to hack into my computer, as a lockout timer was displayed on the screen.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, panic and fear welding together inside of my chest.

"Finding the truth." He said, without turning to face me.

He then did the one thing that made my blood run cold with silent terror, like something out of a nightmare. He pressed the play button.

The sound of deadly guilt began to seep into the air around us, flowing from the mouth of a friend. My father had managed to rewind it to the perfect moment of partial confession.

"I—I black out. I lose time sometimes... its what happened when—when I first did what I did to get in here, Emily. So I don't know—I don't know if I killed him."

Muffled, but clear, George's voice told my father what he wanted to hear. I no longer had a chance to prove his innocence. In my fathers mind, 'I don't know' comes from confusion, confusion comes from guilt, and guilt comes from committing murder.

George was already a dead man.

As the thought dawned on me, the air seemed to still and time seemed to slow. A deafening ringing clogged my ears before it exploded inside of my head. I wobbled on the flat surface of the floor and clutched my head, pleading with all the God's to rewind time instead of the recorder.

The second click of the recorder sounded like a firing cannon. Then, as quickly as it came, the noise stopped. And so did the recorder.

A thick silence settled over the room. My heart thudded loudly. The recorder dropped to the ground.

"You knew. You knew and you didn't tell me." His voice came out in a harsh whisper. Deadly, like a viper waiting to strike.

I knew I had to be carful with my words and decided not to reply. I needed to know what he was thinking before I jumped to conclusions. But if I knew one thing for sure, it was that I needed to defend my friend, no matter what the consequences were.

"You had a chance to tell me at dinner. But instead you chose to lie to me." He spat, continuing to face the wall. I could see his shoulders rising and falling quickly and the back of his neck turned red. He was more than angry.