Creative Writing tasks

Flash-Fiction: 'Love Hurts'

What a twisted picture, Rebecca du Mort, my dear roommate and best friend, lying in a puddle of her own blood, her angelic face seemingly serene, as if she were simply asleep and not dead. My chest hurt, I couldn't breathe or blink. I knew that once I tried to fall asleep I wouldn't be able to see anything else but her cold body lying on the kitchen tiles, the pink retro kitchen forever tainted with her own blood. Bleach would not be able to wash away the pain in my heart. And what would I tell John, her stepbrother and my boyfriend? Rebecca had been his confidant, who had helped him three years ago, when he had begun losing his sight. She was the one who had given him the will to live anew.

Three hours later, the police force were still going through the murder scene, checking it for prints, signs of struggle, not to mention the fact that they had been drilling me with questions from the moment they had stepped into our tiny apartment.

'Mam, do you know if Ms. du Mort had any enemies?' asked me the young officer. I wanted to roll my eyes at being called 'mam', I was only 27-years-old, after all, but I refrained myself , he was just doing his job, plus, I could see he had been dragged out of bed, his hair messy and his eye-bags pronounced.

'For the third and last time, sir, I do not think so.' I answered exasperatedly.

'Salvatore? Why are you here? I thought you had changed your career?' I immediately recognized Oliver's mocking voice, and I look back to his stupid, proud mug staring back at me.

'Smooth, as usual, Oliver. No, I'm here because she was my friend.' -tears formed in my eyes, and I willed myself not to cry in front of this detestable man.

'Ugh...You know Ms. Salvatore, Oliver?' - the young officer looked confused.

'Oh, me and Ivy go way back, don't we, doll? Ivy here used to be a P.I. right here in Windy City, but she was so bad at it she had to start doing something else, taxi driving, right Salvatore?' - I wanted to scratch his eyes out.

'And I suppose you're comparable to Poirot, Oliver?' - I asked sarcastically. After seeing the frown in his face, I come to the conclusion he had probably never read a book in his life.

***

It's been 24-hours since the murder, and here's what I know: Rebecca was shot twice, one bullet went through her heart, the other one through her stomach. She must've known her killer, because he or she had been let in without sign of forced entry, and her phone was missing. I was now at the du Mort's residence, across Chicago sitting with John, he had yet to release my hand, and although he was holding it a bit too tight, I didn't have the courage to tell him, I needed the physical contact.

'She had been getting creepy phone calls at odd hours, Ivy.' - Mrs. du Mort confesses. ' She told me she felt followed by someone, but begged me not to tell you both anything, she believed you would overreact, especially you, Ivy.'

'Of course I would overreact! We're talking about a stalker!' - I feel myself explode.

'Hush, baby, we're all devastated here.' - John tries to soothe me. - 'Have you spoken to her friends yet?' - he asks.

'Only that weirdo Jane. She was a mess, more theatrics than anything, I suppose.' - I answer.

'Did you say Jane, as in Jane Twist?!' - Mrs. du Mort starts crying hysterically.

'Yes?' - my own eyes widden in surprise. 'What's this about?'

Mrs. du Mort suddenly jumps from her flowery green couch and continues yelling.

'I told Becky not to be friends with her. Jane used to leave her disgusting little packages on her locker when those two were teens.'

***

Not two minutes later I'm speeding in my rusty taxi towards Jane's house, I can feel it in my gut, she's the one, the murderer. Once I've parked my taxi in front of her place, I run to her door and kick it open with my well-placed Doc Marten. I know I'm acting recklessly, and I'm for sure going to get myself in trouble, but at times like these I simply am not able to act rationally.

Hearing nothing from the inside, I carefully step into the dusty hallway, pictures scattered everywhere, vases shattered in rage, and a bookshelf knocked down. Although her house is a complete mess, I cannot hear a sound, the air feels rusty in my nostrils. When I finally reach the living room, I see Jane, sitting in her chair by the cracked TV, a handgun in her lifeless hand and her brains sprayed all over the wall. There's a bag full of bank notes decorating the floor and Rebecca's pink Iphone laying right beside it.

***

'I'm so sorry for your loss, Ivy.' - Mateo, one of my best friends, hugs me close to him. Today is the funeral and I still haven't slept a wink. My chest is still hurting, for I loved Rebecca like a sister. How can I ever let go of the pain of losing her?