ENTRY 7:
[ SWOLLEN LIPS WHISPERING TO DEAF EARS ]
DEAR YOU,
Dead, was all I heard.
They said that they found you in a creek near our apartment. That two little boys had stumbled across you, and contaminated the scene. They thought you were a mannequin, because of your ghostly flesh and inhuman posture. You were covered in leafs and moss. They said that you were dead, said that you were gone.
I couldn't believe them, it couldn't have been real. You couldn't have been dead. They said it was true, that you were dead, that you had died. I asked if it had been painless, asked if you had suffered. I hoped that you hadn't suffered.
They said, it wasn't painless, I'm afraid—it was painful, brutal, and twisted.
They described to me the feeling of drowning; that the water fills your lungs, until it burns and fills you up. Then you die. Not slowly. Not painlessly. That you can feel everything.
I asked them to stop, said I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to hear about you're suffering. But they described it anyway, described it to me so vividly, I thought I had been there.
They said it had happened on top of the cliff, that someone had shoved you, your body had been sprawled out bellow. Your lungs had been filled with water, that you had drowned.
I said, please stop.
They continued; they said your arms were mangled, twisted above your head. Your skin was white and littered with bruises, said that fish had started eating your fingertips. They said that you were beaten, that I had hurt you. That they matched my fingerprints. I said that what we did, I said that was our kink. They laughed in my face, said I was a liar.
You killed her! They accused. Admit it!
I sobbed, I didn't.
They said that your back swayed against a jagged rock, till it was nothing but flesh and bone.
I felt the bile in my throat surface when they spoke.
I said, don't say anymore.
They didn't listen.
They showed me pictures.
You.
Twisted like willow branches.
You.
Nothing but moss and leafs, tangled with broken skin.
You.
Ghostly like before.
They talked and talked, I couldn't hear anymore. I was crying so hard I could feel my chest heave. They talked and talked—till my guts spilled out, littering the floor with my disgust. I heaved in a breath, gulped it down, and asked them not to say anymore.
The officers grimaced, said that was enough.
They asked if I knew anyone that wanted to hurt you; I said no one, because no one did. They asked if I knew anyone that you had fought with; I said no one, because you never did. They asked if I wanted you dead; I said no, because I never did.
They cuffed me again, locked me away in a dark room.
I would never hurt you, I loved you.
I spend five hours in a cell, before my mother entered the hallway. Said that we were going home, she said that they couldn't hold me. They had no proof. That I had done nothing wrong. She walked beside me as we left, her hand hovering over mine—but they never touched—I whimpered, rubbing my eyes with my sleeve.
They stared at me as I left, they whispered that I looked like a little boy.
I felt my knees buckle and I walked. I felt weak. I wanted to drop and not walk at all. I couldn't stop seeing it—seeing you. It burned in the back of my skull.
I said, please, please—catch the person that killed my sweet, sweet baby.
They grimaced as I left.
FROM ME.
