The Coolness of A Dead Man's Hand - Prodigal Son

seven - i'll always be right here

Blood. 

There's blood everywhere.

Blood stains the bed and sheets, splatters across the walls. 

It even flung so far as to dance across the spines of the books that were so well, so treasured by their owner.

 They were inanimate and blissfully unaware of how loved they were by the woman with the bludgeoned skull. 

"It was a crime of passion," Malcolm says, tucking his hands into his long coat. 

She was loved by so many, and loved so many back.

I feel a cry building up in my throat and I wanted nothing more than to run and grab her hands and beg her to wake up, begging her to open her eyes and say it was a joke. 

"Look at the blood splatter," Malcolm's eyes follow the splatter across the walls and ceiling and books. "The amount of force needed to create a splatter like this… this murder wasn't planned. It was a heat of passion, a moment of rage. An ember sparked that created a fire. The question is why." 

I step closer to the body, and catch the first glimpse of the soulless eyes staring back to me. A small whimper escapes my lips. 

"Edrisa?" Gil steps behind me, but I barely notice. "Are you okay?" 

"I… I need a minute, please." I turn and rush out of the room. I still fight against the tears as the memory of her soulless, lifeless eyes and imagine her cool skin and wonder how scared she must've been. 

I press my back against the wall, tilt my head back, and feel my breath get heavier and heavier. 

"Risa, I'm gonna win. You know it. There's no way I can lose!" The woman says, smiling, and racing in front. 

"Sure, Kitty, sure." I run to keep up with her. 

She turns and looks over her shoulder, yellow hair framing her face in the sunlight as she laughs. 

"Come on! Try and keep up!"

"Edrisa?" A distorted voice says, the words muffled as if they were on land and I was submerged in water. 

I push my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut, still fighting the tears that have already began to fall. 

"Edrisa? Edrisa, are you okay?" The voice says again. 

I peak through the tears and see Malcolm standing in front of me, a concerned look on his beautiful features. 

"I'm okay, I just need a minute." I sniff.

"You're obviously not." Malcolm says. He reaches and touches my shoulders squeezing softly. "What's the matter?" 

"Her name was Catherine, but everyone called her Kitty." I look up at Malcolm. "She is thirty nine years old, a writer and artist, and her favourite colour is yellow." 

"You knew her?" His concerned look turns confused. 

"Yeah, I knew her. She was my best friend in college. She wanted to be a nurse, but things didn't turn out the way she hoped. So she followed her other dream--a writer and artist."

I remember her passion for writing and art, and how happy she got whenever someone said they liked her work. 

I remember her yellow hair, always falling into her face no matter how many times she pushed it back. 

I remember her smile and laugh and the brightness she brought wherever she went.

"I… I'm so sorry, Edrisa." He sighs. 

By now the tears fall freely, and I know it's useless to fight them. 

Malcolm turns toward me, and holds his arms open. 

I sniffle, confused at his gesture. 

I have never been shy about my liking of Malcolm, his brilliant mind and beauty is undeniable. 

But affection in return is something I never expected. 

"Come here," Malcolm whispers. "I know what it's like to lose someone I love, and in that moment the only thing that can help is a hug." 

I wipe my face on my sleeve and give a crumpled smile, and step toward him. 

Malcolm wraps his arms around my small frame--I'm very small, there's no denying it, and in comparison Malcolm towers over me.

Pushing aside whatever confidence I had left, I began to sob into Malcolm's chest. 

I remember Kitty's smile and laugh, her yellow hair, her stories, her paintings--her.

She was my best friend, or at least used to be. We drifted apart after college, but we texted at least once a week. Sometimes we'd meet up on the weekends for coffee or lunch. 

We'd talk and laugh and share stories about our lives. I'd even told her stories about Malcolm, and she liked him almost as much as I did.

The more I think about Kitty, the more I cry. 

I know it's unprofessional, and I'm sure the rest of the team knows I'm gone. I wonder what Gil told them.

At a point I realize I've cried to the point where I have no more tears left to cry. 

When I fall silent, Malcolm holds tighter. 

"I understand what you're feeling right now, believe me." He whispers, rubbing his hand up and down my back. "I know what it's like to hurt and lose someone you love." 

"I just… I just… I don't know." I mumble, sniffling, unable to form a coherent thought. 

"I know, it's okay." He holds me tighter. Had he not had his arms wrapped so tightly around me, I would've fallen to my knees. 

I keep my face pressed to his chest as if that would help keep me from completely falling apart. Silent tears still slip down my cheeks and at a point I realize my tears must be staining Malcolm's silk suit. 

Would he care my tears stain his silk shirt? Would he, after I'm out of sight, wipe at the stains in disgust and wonder why he held me so tightly?

"You're okay, Edrisa." He murmurs. "You're gonna be okay, I'm right here. I'll always be right here." 

"Thank you, Malcolm." I sniffle and wipe my tears with my jacket sleeve. I look and see now how large of a year stain there is on Malcolm's silk shirt. 

"I'm sorry about your shirt..." I whisper and gesture to the stain. He looks down and shrugs. 

"Don't worry about it, Edrisa." He smiles softly. "A tear stained shirt is nothing if it means I was able to help you. In that moment, I know what it's like to be alone--you don't deserve that. You can cry on all my shirts for that matter if it means you won't be alone in your darkest moments." 

I laugh softly and look up at Malcolm. He reaches down and thumbs away what's left of my tears and I can't help but laugh. 

"Oh, and, Malcolm… could you do something for me?" I reach down and grab his hand, and fiddle with his fingers absentmindedly. 

"Of course, Edrisa. What is it?" 

"Find the son of a bitch who did this to my Kitty."