How Milo Fletcher became a Murderer

Part 5

A scream jerks me from my sleep. I jump out of bed before my eyes open. I rush towards the stairs. I stop at the bottom step. Something is tickling my throat.i stick my hand in my mouth and take out a matted clump of fur. What the hell? I can feel some still stuck in my throat but it's no longer the most concerning thing to me. I stare at me hands. They're covered in blood mixed with fur. What the hell.

"Milo!" My mom is at the foot of the stairs. "Are you okay?" Oh yeah she screamed. I gather my thoughts and shout "yeah mom. What's wrong?"

"Just come up here."

I grab a dirty tshirt off the floor and wipe off as much blood from my hands as possible. My heart races. What did I do?

My mom bunches over a box, cleaning supplies piled next to her. She's wearing her cleaning gloves but they're no longer just yellow. Blood is smeared all over them.

"What's going on?" I come up behind her and peer in the shoebox. I vomit all over it. Inside was a mangled mess of blood, bones, fur, and now half digested spaghetti. The paws ripped from the limbs. The head detached from the shredded body. Gramps.

Did I do this? The question rings in my ears. Did I do this? No I couldn't have. My legs threaten to give way.

"Sit down, Milo. It's okay." Her tone is calm and comforting. "An animal must have gotten in somehow."

I fall to the floor, black dots dancing across my vision, collecting and forming colonies. I wretch but nothing comes up.

"I was going to ask you to help clean this up. But why don't you go get a glass of milk and hop in the shower." Mom hunches back over the mess and squeezes hydrogen peroxide on the blood soaked carpet. Her face contorts at the sight.

"Are you sure? It was my cat?" My head and stomach have calmed enough for me to attempt to collect myself.

"Yes go on. You didn't even need to see this." I drag myself from the floor and do as she instructed. The milk washes down what fur remained in my mouth.

The hot water instantly turns my skin red but I don't mind it.

Surely I didn't do it. No way could I have done something like that whether or not I was unconscious. The idea of harming Gramps has never crossed my mind. Why would I carry out mutilating him in my sleep? I shove my eyes under the stream attempting to wash away the image now etched in them. Mom blamed it on an animal. But how would an animal get in the house, not leave any other trace, and conveniently let itself back out.

I scrub my arms until they're raw and the cuts have reopened. The water stings the nerves. I just need to go back to sleep. Maybe this will all be a dream when I wake up.