It's hot, the stifling kind.

And it's early. I wonder how hot it will be this afternoon.

I stare outside of the window. I opened it up for air. And to look outside.

This house is weirdly dirty for something in this rich district. That's what the people who walk by say.

"Shall we go to the xxxxxxx exhibit now?" says the woman walking past.

A little boy is holding the woman's hand.

"Yay, mommy!"

He giggles, getting closer to his mommy.

I stare at them.

Bright smiles.

Unclouded eyes.

They're different from mama.

...I wonder what's an 'xxxxxxxx exhibit'.

Is it fun?

Probably.

The little boy looked happy.

I put my head in my arms, continuing to stare outside.

"Mommy!" "You're so cute" "I want it!" "Can I have it?" "Of course my dear." "Yes?" "How lovely" "What a beautiful day." "It's quite warm." "Beautiful." "I'm so excited!" "Incredible." "Hahaha." "Thanks." "What a darling." "I love you."

All the voices passing by start sounding weird.

I feel weird.

My throat is tight.

I cough a couple times.

It doesn't change anything.

My chest hurts.

I rub it.

It doesn't help.

Mama will be here soon. Probably.

Sometimes she doesn't come.

Those are the best days.

I cover my mouth.

I feel sick.

I hear a creaking sound.

I flinch.

That's the gate.

I pull the window closed, struggling a bit. The window is rusty. I hope it didn't make a sound.
Mama doesn't like me opening the window.

"John darling?" calls out a voice.

I don't reply and there's a moment of silence.

"Where are you?"

Footsteps.

Pause.

Slam.

"Not here."

I silently get up and tiptoe to the closet. I huddle in it, willing my breath to still.

Footsteps.

Pause.

Slam.

"You're pretty good at hiding."

Footsteps.

Pause.

A loud laugh.

Footsteps.

Pause.

Creak.

That's the door to this room.

I hear her coming in.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Not behind the door."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Not under the bed."

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"In the closet?"

I curl, making myself smaller.

Creak.

Light enters the dark place.

"There you are darling."

I look up.

A wide smile.

Mama likes hide and seek.

She grabs my arm and drags me out. She sits down on the bed and pulls me into her lap.

She ruffles my hair.

"What a good boy. What did you do while I was gone?"

I stiffen.

"I—"

"But how strange," she interrupts.

Thump.

"Why is the window open?"

Thump. Thump. Thump.

That's my heart.

It's so loud.

I turn my head to the window.

It didn't close completely.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I slowly look up at mother.

Empty eyes.

I look down.

I'm scared.

Her grip on me tightened.

It hurts.

"Did you open the window?"

"I...I..." I can't reply, chocking up.

She puts her hand on my head before digging her nails in my scalp.

"What did I say about it?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I sob.

It hurts.

Her hands drop from my head to my cheeks. She pinches them.

I stifle a pained cry.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Her nails scratch their way down from my cheeks to my neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She curled her fingers around my neck.

"I don't like liars darling."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"You should listen to your mother."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Her hands tightened their grip around my neck.

I wheeze, trying to breath.

I know it's no use but I instinctively scratch her.

A mistake.

Weird sounds escape my mouth.

She throws me off her lap. I land headfirst and curl on the floor, protecting my head.

Kick.

Slam.

Pain.

It hurts.

Laugh.

I don't know how much time it takes for her to finish. When she's done she kneels next to me and winds her arms around my aching body.

"You understand darling don't you?" she says in a sweet voice. "I really hate liars."

I nod.

She smiles and pats my head.

"Good boy."

She lies me down on the bed and gets up.

"That was fun.", she grins, stretching her arms. "I'm going now."

Already?

"Don't worry. I'll come back later. With a extremely fun gift."

Thump.

She closes the door behind her.

From the still-slightly-open window I can hear the creak of he hate opening and closing.

A gift.

An extremely fun gift.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I don't like fun gifts.

They hurt.

Slightly fun gifts don't hurt.

Fun gifts hurt a bit.

Very fun gifts hurt a lot.

Then what about extremely fun gifts?

I wheeze, my breath coming in short.

I grasp at my chest.

I don't like hurt.

I don't like gifts.

I'm scared.

I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared I'm scaredimscaredimscaredimscaredimscaredimscaredandthere's a knife in the kitchen.

I hide it from mama because I was afraid she would use it.

There's a knife.

I stumble to the kitchen.

I'm scared.

There's a knife.

I don't want to be scared.

I grip the knife.

I'm scared of gifts.

I don't like gifts.

I don't like hurt.

Creak.

The gate is open.

I look out the window.

It's darker out.

The knife gleams.

I'm behind the door now.

"Hello?"

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Creak.

Tap.

I'm scared.

I don't like.

I raise the knife.

"Hello?"

Stab.

Blood.

I'm scared.

Screams.

Blood.

I'm scared.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"Wake up!"

I startle awake, my breath caught in my throat.

I struggle for breath and feel someone pounding on my back.

"Calm down. Calm down."

I grasp at the person holding me, my limbs shivering.

After a few moments—shorter than usual—I can finally breath normally.

"You okay?" asks Simon over the shoulder of the person holding me.

I nod, turning my attention to Jack who releases me.

"Thanks."

"Nightmare?" asks Simon, not looking very surprised.

It's not unusual for a police officer to have nightmares and panic attacks. We do work with corpses and psychopaths.

"I was going to say: 'I hope you had a good nap' but..." Simon smirks. "Guess not."

I give him the 'fuck you' finger.

He replies by putting a hand over his chest in mock horror.

"How very unprofessional of you, officer. Do you want to be fired?"

I ignore him and stretch, getting off the couch in the office. After interrogating almost the whole neighbourhood, we finally made our way back to the office. I was at my limit so I crashed.

I rub my stinging eyes. I really should get a good night's sleep tonight. Though I don't know if that's going to happen. I sigh as I stare at the piles of papers scattered everywhere in the office.

"You were so tired it's almost like you didn't take your pep pills," says Simon.

"Shut up. And what are you doing?"

He's sitting at the table, papers spread in front of him.

"I'm checking the victims. I collected photographs of all those who met Edmond Chase and died by murder, remember?"

Yes you did.

I stand up hovering over both Simon and Jack.

There are small photos of smiling people and countless more of bodies. The one Simon is studying right now is the one that gives me nausea.

Not mama.

Next to the woman, there's a shot of a dead body.

Mama's.

I've never looked at the shots of her dead body. I don't know why. I just didn't like it.

Killing was fine.

Looking was less fine.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and start studying the picture of mama.

My breath stills.

Thump.

Blue eyes. Dark hair.

Thump.

Thin lips, wide eyes, curved eyebrow.

Thump.

My eyes get drawn to the hairline.

Thump.

No beauty mark.

I take a step back, inhaling with difficulty.

Not mama.

I squeeze my eyes shut, heart pounding at my ears.

It's mama.

It had to be.

It can't not be her.

I will myself to look back at the corpse.

There's no beauty mark.

"Hello?"

Stab.

Screams.

Blood.

Not mama.

Not mama.

Not mama.

I didn't kill mama. I didn't kill mama. I didn't kill mama I didn't kill mama I didn't kill mama I didn't kill mama I didn'tkillmamaIdidntkillmamaididntkillmamaididntkillmamaididntkillmama.

I take another step back.

And another.

And another.

I feel sick.

I didn't kill mama.

Then...

Where is mama?

I cover my mouth.

I'm scared.

I'm scared.

Pain.

Hurt.

Slam.

"That was fun!"

A laugh.

I'm scared.

I don't like hurt.

There's a knife in the kitchen.

I want her to stop.

StOp HEr froM hUrtiNg ME!

Pain startles me out of my panic.

I dug my nails in my arms.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I'm in the restroom.

How did I get here?

I'm in a corner of one stall.

I'm huddled.

I stare at my hands.

Trembles course through them.

I'm scared.

I grit my teeth, shutting my eyes.

I imagine a box in my mind.

I shove all my unneeded feelings and thoughts in it.

I take a trembling breath of air.

I exhale.

I take a big breath of air.

I exhale, calmer.

I'm fine.

Mama's not dead.

I'll just kill her.

I don't know where she is.

I'll just find her.

Why was that woman there?

It doesn't matter.

Why does she resemble mama so much?

It doesn't matter.

All that matters is mama.

I'll find her.

I'll kill her.

Then...

It hurts.

It won't hurt anymore.

I'm scared.

I won't be scared anymore.

There'll be no more 'gifts'.

I get up, opening the stall's door.

I walk down the hall, back to the office.

There's a whole group now in the office, with Jack, Simon, Karl, Garry and the rest.

"Where did you go?" asks Jack, looking worried.

"Just the restroom," I reply, squeezing myself next to him.

Karl glances at me before looking back at the group.

"So, as I was saying," says Karl. "We'll be doing a house search on our main suspect's house. And in his second house. The group in charge of the main house is officer Simon, officer Rick, officer Timothy, officer Jack, officer William, officer Charles."

A chorus of 'yes sir's can be loudly heard in this small office.

"The group in charge of his the secondary housing is officer Garry, officer John, officer George, officer Peter and officer James."

The 'yes sir's are less evident, probably because the officers called out are less of 'justice enthusiasts'.

I pat Jack's back.

"Fare thee well."

Jack is about to reply when Simon butts in.

"You too. Hope you don't get traumatised," he smirks.

"Hope you don't get suspended again," I retort with a mocking grin.

I struck a nerve and he scowls.

Simon has already been suspended from duty once for his aggressive behaviour. It's a miracle he didn't hurt the people we interrogated today too much.

I bid my 'teary farewells' to both Simon and Jack and join my group.

Before we step out, I glance at the clock. Almost 3 PM.

I've been working for 12 hours straight, if you exclude the short nap.

I'm exhausted.

I should be able to sleep like a rock tonight.

But I won't be able.

I have to find mama.

I have to kill mama.

"John?" asks Garry, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Do you know about Edmond Chase?" he says.

I blink, then scoff.

Of course. Garry is and always will be a gossip lover.

"A bit," I say.

"I've heard he's a real piece of work," he says. "The rumours surrounding him is enough to make me believe he's a murderer."

I half-listen as he lists all of Edmond problems.

Edmond really is subject to that kind of rumour?

I frown.

He doesn't seem like the type to murder. But I guess he doesn't seem like someone who hires whores either.

"Don't trust the rumours," advises George, warning dripping from his voice. "Rumours are the talk of jealous people."

That's true. If what Garry says is true, Edmond is a Dom Juan, a psychopath and a rapist. From what I've seen, he's actually the quiet and calm type.

The opposite of mama.

Once I wished he would save me.

"And the prince saved the princess."

I put down the book.

I'm not a princess.

I'm a boy.

A prince won't save me.

But will somebody else save me?

I look out of the closed window, my hands pressing the glass.

A prince won't save me.

But...

Maybe papa will find me and save me?

That happened in a story.

I hope so.

I want help.

Save me, papa.

But I'm not surprised he didn't do it.

He didn't save me.

He looks like a coward.

He looks like he doesn't really care.

Well, it's not that surprising.

I'm just a 'mistake' he made after all.

I also discovered he was the one who gave mama the house.

That's probably the secondary house Karl was talking about.

But there isn't going to be anything there.

Edmond carefully emptied it after I killed mama—no. After I killed that woman.

He knows I killed mam—that woman.

He probably suspects I killed the others.

But he won't say anything.

Not if he doesn't want me to reveal to everyone I'm his son.

A fact that would make his businesses fail. And he enjoys his money more than anything. He didn't risk it for kinship, not to talk about justice.

While Garry was gossiping and George was being condescending, we arrived to the house.
I clench my teeth at the familiar sight. Tall grey walls with a small window at the top and two bigger ones on the first floor. The first window shows to the kitchen, the other to mama's bedroom. She slept here sometimes, when she didn't have a customer I guess. The small window higher up is—was— mine. The window I wasn't allowed to open and whose shutters never closed.

"But...why is the window open?"

Thump.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Sobs.

Crash.

Hurt.

"Man. The house is creepy. I always had to pass by it to go to school. It hasn't changed a bit," says Garry, lips curled in disgust.

I startle, glancing at him, then back at the house.

Creepy.

Yes it is.

It's creepy.

It's disgusting.

It's home.

"Garry and George will search the ground floor," orders our group's chief, James. "Peter will search the second floor. John will search the attic. I'll search the basement. Got it?"

"Yep."

"'Kay."

"Yes."

"Okay."

The attic.

I've never been there actually. It was always locked. I wasn't allowed.

Creak.

The short gate opens, as loud as always. We enter the small wild garden, where thorns and ivies are all too present. I stare up the tiny, hardly walkable path, to the front door.

I've never entered this way. The first time I touched that door was also the last.

"John!" exclaims George. "Be careful."

I blink, confused. He motions to my hand. I stare at it and see blood.

Hurt.

Scared.

Stab.

Screams.

Blood.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A thorn.

"Thanks," I tell George.

My gaze falls back on my hand. I'm really bleeding a lot.

I shove my other hand in my coat pocket and take out a white strip of fabric. I wrap it around my hand, tying it with a simple knot.

The others have already gone in now. I'm in front of the door.

Breath in.

Breath out.

One step.

Two steps.

I'm in.

I slip on my gloves—as protocol demands.

Let's do this quickly.

I don't linger in the hall, directly going for the stairs and climbing them. The stairs are loud as ever, groaning at my every step. I walk down the too-familiar hall and feel forced to stop in front of a dark door.

I clench my fist, my eyes closed.

A small room, with a bed on the right wall and a closet on the left. The walls are greyish and the floor made of wood.

My room.

I take a deep breath and force myself to keep walking.

I halt at the wall that blocks the hall. I turn my head up to see the closed entrance. The attic.

"W-what's there?"

Mama likes when I ask questions.

When she's in a good mood.

"There?" she smiles. "There's nothing."

I shake my head.

There's a cupboard in the left wall of the hall, which I slide open. In it, in a corner, an attic stick is hanging, a poll to reach for the attic. I take the stick and make the hook grab the ring of the attic's door. I pull and retractable stairs fall down.

I find my muscles locked as I try to step on the first march.

"Don't ever go there okay?"

A smile.

Scary.

"Promise?"

Fear.

"I promise."

I force my foot on the fist march.

Fear.

I try to breath properly.

She's not here.

She's going to hurt me.

I'm not a kid anymore.

I'm scared.

I'll be fine.

MaMA.

I'm almost up now.

I feel dizzy.

I drop to my knees, hugging the last march. Steadying myself.

I'm fine.

I'm alright.

The last step.

I'm finally up.

I collapse on the floor, my eyes shut and my hands gripping my coat.

Inhale.

Exhale.

My heart is hammering against my ribs.

I breath in and out.

When I'm calmer, I decide to have a look around the place.

The ceiling to this place is low and curved down on the sides. I would have to crawl on my hands and knees to move anywhere. I sit up, back slightly curving forward, and search the place with my eyes. There doesn't seem to be anything here but flying dust and crawling insects.

All that drama for nothing.

Fuck.

I dig my nails into the wood, cursing internally.

I knew there would be nothing.

Why did I bother coming here?!

The disappointment stings.

I concentrate on my breaths, granting my mind a moment to cool down. Then I dangle my feet out of the entrance and place them on the first step. I take another step down, now able to stand straight.

I take one last look around—you never know, maybe I missed something—but only find myself sighing in disappointment.

I duck my head out of the attic and quickly climb down.

My feet hardly touch the ground that a burst of relief fills me.

I don't like the attic.

I don't like.

Now that I'm back down, I can hear shouts coming from downstairs.

I clench my fists.

Did they find something?

I quickly stride through the hall and run down the stairs two-by-two.

Everybody's gathered around the basement's door. There was nothing in the basement the one time I went there. Mama never told me not to go in but never told me to go in either. The one time I went was because I'd lost my book, and I'd thought mama could've hidden it in there. I was wrong. She'd thrown the book in the fire pit.

"John! We found something," announces Peter, behind the group and the first to see me.
I suddenly struggle to breath.

"What is it?" I force out.

"The basement is closed and the keys the suspect gave us don't work."

"Yeah. Very suspicious," grins Garry.

I exhale.

So that's all.

"Maybe the key is in a closet or something," I say lightly.

They're in the third compartment from the right and the second from the top.

Peter blinks in surprise before bursting out laughing.

"Damn. I'm a moron. Didn't even think about it. And that makes so much sense."

The others also grin.

"You bastard," says James, putting an arm around Peter's neck. "We we're about to break our necks trying to break down that door," he turns to me and gives me a thumbs up. "Thanks for your heroic rescue Johnny."

"Johnny?" I ask. "What kind of crappy nickname is that?"

James clicks his tongue as the others grin.

"Don't insult my naming sense Johnny boy. I'm better than Jack anyway."

At that, everybody agrees, laughing. After a good laugh, James claps his hand and puts us back to work.

There are two closets, both on each side of the basement's door. Garry opens the one on the left and Peter takes care of the right one. Of course, like any good policeman, they bet on the results. 50 dollars to the guy who finds the key. After a couple minutes of frantic searches, Peter gives a triumphant shout.

"I got it!"

"Good job Peter. Finding what you were already suppose to find," says Garry, venom on his tongue.

"Don't be a bitter loser," snarks Peter. "You owe me a fifty."

"You mothe—" starts Garry, red in the face.

"Okay. Calm down now. Let's do our jobs," says George, replacing Jack as a peacemaker.

He puts a hard hand on both the victorious Peter and the bitter Garry's shoulders as he talks.

They stop arguing.

George may be a giant softie but he's a strong one. A softie that survived the war. A softie who's hobby is boxing. All that doesn't sound softie like does it... But when you get to know him you realise that if you take away those facts, he's a giant marshmallow teddy bear with rainbows and sunshine. And when you truly know him, you'll find that he's a giant marshmallow teddy bear with rainbows and sunshine and a sharp ruler. To make it simple, he's a sucker for discipline. ...He's got a lot of layers.

Peter and Garry quickly nod. Peter inserts the old rusty key in the keyhole and twists it. He then pushes the door that opens with a long tired groan.

A bang of cold air slaps us in the face.

"This place looks like it hasn't been used in years..." remarks Peter, squinting as he tries to see more clearly in the dark place.

I notice a torch to the left of the basement's door, inside. I take out the lighter I have in my jacket and click it on, a fluttering flame bursting out. I take the torch from its stand and light it, allowing it to shed light on this dark place. The orange halo reveals a bare place, filled with only cobweb and dust. It looks like the attic. Except the walls are of stone, not wood. And the ceiling is regular.
We take a couple moments to search but end up with nothing for our efforts.

"Nothing," sighs Peter, disappointed.

There's a moment of silence searching, before James breaks it.

"No, wait. I found somethin'," he says, crouched in a corner.

He pushes a smooth but heavy stone aside with a grunt and reveals an alcove.

As we come closer, he gets down on his stomach and sticks his arm in the hole. He wiggles for a while before his hand finally connects to something.

"There's somethin' here."

With difficulty, he manages to drag the object out of the alcove.

It's a brown box, its latches of silver. It looks old but not that old, as if someone had bought it ten years ago or something.

With a click, James opens the chest, revealing a strange—to say the least—composition.

"What the hell?" exclaims Peter.

He picks up the dark wig. If he were to wear it, the slight curls would stop at his breast.

This hair...looks just like mama's.

And those dresses...

No.

"Wow," smirks Garry. "We've stumbles across one hell of a secret."

Peter snorts.

"Stop it," says George.

"If we were being serious... I wonder what use could a man have for all that."

There's makeup and a couple familiar dresses and blue lentils.

An absurd thought comes to me.

No.

"Maybe he's keeping that for a friend?" says Peter.

"Hidden, in the basement, behind a lock, in an alcove?" Garry raises an eyebrow. "Of course."

"Do you think he might be disguising himself as a woman to get close to whores?"

No.

No way.

"That'd be ridiculous," I say, voice slightly trembling.

"I'm with John on this one. Look at those. They're too old," James points to the clothes. "My wife wore that kind of clothes before, but the industry that made them collapsed about ten years ago. You won't find clothes like that anymore."

Ten years ago.

No. No. No. No!

Just a coincidence.

Just a coincidence that I recognise those flappy dresses.

Just a coincidence that they're where mama lived.

Don't think about it.

Just coincidences.

Like Edmond, my father, being thought of as a murderer.

Like that woman resembling mama too much.

I hear a grating sound and stiffen.

It's only Garry and Peter taking the trunk off the floor and into their arms.

We follow their grunting forms out of the house and onto the street. Garry sighs as he drops the trunk.

"I'm glad to be out."

"Yeah. That house sure is creepy," says Peter. "It looks like a demon lived there."

"An ancient one if so," adds James. "All of the furniture was old. I'm not sure the suspect even uses that house anymore."

"Maybe he's never used it," says Garry. "He gave the house to the demon as an offering. Maybe he asked the demon to murder in exchange."

Peter and Garry laugh. George frowns, not enjoying the joke while James sighs.

I roll my hands into fists.

The worst is, he's not even that far from the truth.

This house was an offering from a father who didn't want the demon to reveal he had a devil's spawn.

I want to burn this house to the ground.

This disgusting, creepy, haunted house.

But it's still home.

I want to burn the memories to the ground.

But they'll always stay.

Until I kill mama.

Until she's dead.

I'll always be haunted.

I'll always be scared.

Our walk back to the police station seems to take hours, with Garry and Peter at the back carrying the chest full of women accessories. Garry and Peter complain the whole way back.

When we're finally inside the police station and have given the chest to the group in charge of evidence and such, we head to the office. It's empty, I notice as I throw my gloves in the bin. We're the first ones back, unsurprisingly. Edmond's main house must be way larger than any secondary housing.

"Rest time!" exclaims Peter, jumping on the couch.

I want to sleep.

But then I remember the nightmare.

"Food time for me," I say. "I haven't eaten a thing today."

"I have a sandwich if you want," says George. "I'm not hungry."

"Thanks. I'll take you up on that."

"Coffee?"

"Definitely."

"Me too!" exclaims Peter, raising a hand from the couch.

"Me three," says Garry.

"Me four," says James. "But I'm going to be nice and help you bring all that."

While they go out to grab that very needed beverage and meal, I sit down at the table, where the pictures Simon was studying are still spread out.

I hesitate, feeling an urge to check that photograph again. I hesitate and ultimately decide it would be better to make sure. Maybe I didn't see right. That would solve everything. Maybe...

As I reach out, my fingertips almost touching, the door opens with a bang.

I startle, almost unscrewing my head as I turn it to the door.

It's James and George, back with the coffee and my sandwich.

I swipe the photographs to the side, creating a small place for both my snack and my drink.

"Thanks George," I give him a thin smile as he drops the food in my hand.

"You're welcome," he replies, before taking his drink to the couch.

I sigh, putting a hand on my forehead.

I know what I saw.

I don't want to believe it but I know.

I really didn't kill mama.

I killed some stranger.

I never killed mama.

I just killed strangers.

I—

I grab my cup and gulp down the burning liquid. I splutter and cough but see clearer.

There's no use in thinking about it.

What's done is done.

I just have to repair my error by killing mama.

Then it'll be over.

I look at the sandwich, filled in what seems like ham and completed with fat sauce dripping.

I feel nauseous. But I have to eat.

I promptly bite into the chewy texture, trying to swallow before the greasy flavour fills my mouth. But that's an impossible feat to pull.

I quickly finish the food and stand up, not being able to stand the aftertaste. Thankfully, I know where Jack keeps his water; and he told me to feel free to take it whenever.

I grab the water bottle and unscrew the cork. I down a quarter of the bottle before putting it back in his locker.

The door swings open and I see Jack cross the threshold.

"Hey y'a all!" he greets.

The others behind him also mutter some greeting before all spreading out.

Karl drags a chair next to me and plops down.

"Already done?" asks James, also sitting down, to Karl.

"Yeah," Karl nods. "It was an easier search than what we thought."

"The suspect didn't complain?"

Karl shakes his head.

"No, thankfully. It would've been awful if he had."

James nods with a small sigh.

"We would've had to push back the investigation."

They start planning while I zone out.

I nibble on my lower lip.

I have a bad feeling.

I don't feel good.

Someone slaps a hand on my shoulder and I startle.

"Everything went smoothly!" tells me Jack with a grin.

"I heard," I say as he also sits down, on my other side.

"Too smoothly," scowls Karl.

"You really didn't like him," Jack gives him a smile before frowning in thought. "But I didn't really feel him either."

"Why not? Did he give off the aura of a killer?" chimes in Peter, humour in his tone.

"Maybe," laughs Jack.

"If you could recognise psychos by their auras, us policemen wouldn't have such a hard job," says James.

They all laugh at that.

"Going back to serious matter, we're going to interrogate the suspect. Jack, John and Simon, you're on it," orders Karl.

"Are we such a good interrogation team?" jokes Jack. "Maybe you should name us the 'best interrogation trio'."

Karl scowls at the humour.

"Stay somber."

"'Kay! Let's put our somber cap and get going, detective," says Jack, hooking his arm with mine. "SIMON! We're off!"

Simon, gone to get yet another cup of coffee and more information, snaps his head up in surprise.

He pats Garry's shoulder with a couple last words and head towards us, now in front of the office's entrance.

"What's up?" he asks.

"The best trio is going to yet another interrogation landmine," replies Jack.

Simon just looks confused but Jack doesn't let him get a word in, leading us out onto the street.

"Best trio?" asks Simon as we walk.

"Don't ask," I say.

"But I am."

I sigh.

"Typical Jack," I reply.

"Oh. Okay," he nods in understanding.

To everyone's annoyance, to get to the cars, we have to walk around the police building, which is, give or take, a five minute jog. It makes for an irritating setback when there's urgent business. When our jog is finally finished and we're in front of the garage, the big bay is already opened thanks to someone's call. At least we don't have to wait infuriating seconds for the door to slide open.

I scowl, my nose curling as I step in the grim space.

The place is as stinky as ever, oil and gasoline permeating the air.

We cross the place and Jack takes a keychain. The keys clink together as he looks for the right one. When he finds it, he holds it up triumphantly. It's an old key, donning a worn-down number and ruff edges.

He inserts it in the car's door and a click later, the metal swings open.

"Who's driving?" asks Jack, turning back to us.

I shrug, not caring and Simon replies with an outstretched hand.

"I'll do it pals."

Jack drops the keys in Simon's hand, that promptly curls shut around them.

Simon slides in the driver's seat while Jack takes the backseat seat and I plump down beside him.

It's a ten-fifteen minutes drive down the street and into the boulevard where we take a left turn.
It's a gravelly road from there; Edmond lives in a isolated wooded area.

"You okay? You look on edge John," Jack asks.

I drag my gaze to him.

"I'm fine. Just feeling..." I trail off.

Tired?

Murderous?

"Out of it," I finish lamely.

He nods.

"Awful business, isn't it."

I shrug.

And choke when the car hits a bump.

Jack swears, gripping my arm.

"This is one hell of a dangerous road!" he exclaims.

"We're almost there," announces Simon.

"Thank goodness," sighs Jack.

He releases me just as Simon makes a last turn and stops.

We climb off the deadly car and my stare gets drawn up to the massif mansion.

"Let's go in then," says Simon, having stared enough.

We meet the 'gardien' that promptly guides us through the gardens and to Edmond's study room.

He gives two knocks and waits for an answer. After a moment of waiting, the door opens and reveals Edmond.

My father.

I don't hate him.

He's not the reason for what happened. But I'm not glad to be his son. I don't like the similar features we share, like our chestnut hair and lean face. I wouldn't call him a father.

His eyes flick towards me, showing no emotion, before looking at the butler.

"Yes?" he asks smoothly.

"It's the police," says the butler. "Again."

"We'd like to ask some questions," says Simon.

"Oh. Of course," he smiles at us.

Simon cringes and Jack bumps his shoulder with a look of warning.

Edmond ignores their reaction and turns to the butler. "Bring them to the waiting room. I will be available in a moment."

He nods elegantly at us and the door closes.

"Damn," mutters Jack when we're alone in the parlour. "That's what you call a silk-stocking guy."

"That's what you call a criminal," says Simon slumping down on a plump seat.

Jack raises an eyebrow.

"You really think he's a murderer? I mean... he's a strange guy sure, but not necessarily a criminal."

"Did you see his smile?" Simon shudders. "Creepy."

Jack looks appalled by Simon's reason.

"Says you," he says.

I tune out their quibbling.

I nibble on my lower lip, the sliver of doubt that crept in earlier growing larger.

What if—

"He'll meet you now."

I clear my mind of all the absurd impossibilities and follow the butler.

"Welcome," smiles Edmond, gesturing at us to sit down.

We comply, taking the seats in front of him and his desk.

"We've already taken your testimony and alibis. Now, as you know, we visited your second house, and we found...strange things," says Jack.

Edmond raised his eyebrows.

"By which you mean...?"

Jack shows some photos of the clothes and the chest we found.

When did Jack get that? Never mind. Someone probably gave him some time.

Edmond stares at the pictures, a sparkle in his gaze.

"Do you recognise these?" asks Simon.

Edmond doesn't hesitate when nodding.

"We found blood on these," adds Simon.

I try not to flinch.

Maybe mama's clothes.

Edmond taps his finger against his lip, looking hesitant. He glances at me, long enough for me to notice but the others to stay ignorant.

"It's embarrassing to admit but I have a hobby..."

...no.

"...it involves dressing as a woman and living in that house."

...no...shut up.

"I don't do that anymore now. I've grown up I guess."

Shut up! No. No. No!

A sickening twirl fills my stomach when I see Edmond's lips curl into a smile.

"But it was quite a fun time."

He swipes his hair away from his eyes and stares at me, the beauty mark evident on his hairline.

****

I don't know how I came back home. I wanted to kill mama. I was scared. I wanted to kill her. I was scared. Die. Die. Jack and Simone were there. It doesn't matter. I waNT to kiLL HeR. Him. Her. Him. Her. Mama. Did I look weird? How did I make it home? I think Jack told me to rest. I'm not home anymore. I'M ScArEd. I want mama to be gone. The familiar stifling feeling is back. I have to kill mama. Make it go away. Kill mama. It's dark. I grip the steel in my pocket.

The mansion is dark at night.

I shiver. It's cold. I forgot my coat. It doesn't matter.

I walk up to the gate and barely touch it before it slowly groans open. I stare at my hand. I stare at the gate. It wasn't locked. She...he...mama's waiting.

MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED!MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED! MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED!

I'm inside the mansion.

MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED! MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED! MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED! MAKE HER GO AWAY! MAKE IT GO AWAY! I'm SCaRED. I'M ScArED!

I'm outside of her-his door. Office.

"Mama?" I call out.

Silence.

I don't call out again. If she's in there, she heard me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I clench my fist around the hilt of my knife.

I can make her go away.

There's a swirling in my stomach.

I can make it go away.

I open the door.

She grins, seated beyond another chair and facing me.

"Hello, darling," she drawls with her-his honey voice.

And suddenly I'm a little kid again. Waiting.

"Sit down."

I obey.

"It's been a long time," he smiles. "I've missed being able to talk to you like this."

I feel calm. Like the calm before the storm. Fake.

"Why?"

"Because you're my son?" she replied, looking astonished by the question.

"No. Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow. Open it again.

She's amused.

She's feeling good. You can ask questions.

"Disguise yourself as a woman. A living woman," I say, voice dry.

He laughs.

I can't stop my flinch.

"A living woman? Oh dear. Your mother would be disappointed if she heard you call her that."

...what?

"She'd begged for years to be allowed to see you. I thought it would be funny to see your interaction," he snickered. "I never thought you'd actually murder her."

...

...

...

No.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no,no,no no no no no no nonononononononononono! No!

The acid in my stomach threatens to spill over.

I shake my head in refusal.

"Stop it. Stop. Stop lying!"

That's impossible.

No.

Suddenly, her hand clamps around my jaw and she pulls it towards her.

"Don't call me a liar."

I shiver.

"Stop," I say with a trembling voice.

"What are you going to do?" she mocks. "Kill me?"

My hand, still in my pocket, feels the knife.

"You can't kill me, darling," she grins.

"I can," I say, gripping the hilt tighter.

Her—his face goes blank and her eyes turn frozen.

"I don't like liars."

A shiver spreads through my body.

I'm ScArEd!

I don't like.

I'm ScArEd!

Please.

Help.

"You could never kill me. You're too scared."

And the fragile thread snaps.

I stab her in the neck.

Blood spills over my hands, the same warm blood that spilled from my veins, and belongs to the person who always scared me, even as a ghost.

He chokes, too stunned to react as I draw the blade out of his skin and stab her in the chest, slowly only because of the muscles and bones. A gurgling sound escapes her windpipe, maybe a cry for help, maybe a plead.

It doesn't matter.

She'll be gone soon. She won't be scary anymore. She'll leave me alone.

I'm on the floor, on her. He tries to struggle. But his body is thin, unhealthy. He can't just escape. He can't survive.

I stab her again. And again.

She's already gone.

I stab again.

I want her to stay gone.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The stifling feeling dissipates and the emptiness comes.

I'm not scared.

She's gone.

She's gone.

I stay still, the blood dripping off my hands.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I stand up and carefully avoid the body as I step out the office.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I'm not scared anymore. I'm not scared anymore. I feel empty.

But I don't. Not today. I feel bad. Why? I know why.

"She'd begged for years to be allowed to see you." "The bastard had taken her son." "I thought it would be funny to see your interaction." "She looked like a little kid. So excited to see her child..." "I never thought you'd actually murder her." "She never came back."

I feel sick. I don't like it. I'm sick of all this. The memories, the fear, the impulse, the blood, the emptiness. Make it stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

I run.

I don't know why. Why? Why? Why? Why did that happen? Why me? What did I do? I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted it to stop. "I never thought you'd actually murder her." Laughing. Blood dripping. Dead. She's dead. He's dead.

I stumble to the ground and stay down, my body aching.

Why? "I thought it would be funny to see your interaction." Just make it stop. Just make it stop. Stop!

My body heaves as sobs escape me. I drag myself up, my sight blurry. I stumble on.

Where am I going? "It's embarrassing to admit but I have a hobby, it involves dressing as a woman and living in that house." "Why is the window open?" "I'm sorry mama, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Shut up!" I shout, banging my hand against my head. "Stop it! Stop it!"

"Can papa save me?" Papa is mama. Mama is papa. I don't understand.

I drop my hands. I'm tired. I just want it to stop. I'm tired. Make it stop. I slip my hand in my pocket. Make it stop. Make it stop. I grab the handle. I slip the slippery knife out. There's already blood on it.

Make it stop.

I raise the knife.

Make it sto—

"Mister?"

I violently startle, dropping the knife. I turn around.

It's that boy again.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I can't answer, mind blank.

He has a worried frown on his face.

Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.

"Go away," I say, my voice strangely blank.

He ignores me, coming closer. I stay still. He pinches my cheeks with his frozen hands.

"Ouch!" I cry out, swiping his hands away. "What did you do that for?!"

"You looked weird," he says before grinning toothily. "You're not making a weird face anymore."

I stare at him.

A huff escapes me.

"How stupid."

I look at the bloody knife on the ground.

I feel empty.

I pick it up and slip it in my pocket.

The boy trails behind me, giggling every couple moments, as I silently walk to my house. I enter my home, closing the door shut behind me.

It's silent.

"I never—" "Ma—" "She loo—" "That bas—" "She begg—"

A giggle.

I swing the door open. The boy is still outside, shivering in the cold. I motion to him.

He tilts his head on the side.

"Well, come in," I say.

His eyes brighten up and he trots up to me. I close the door behind him.

"What do you want to eat?" I ask him, going to the kitchen.

"I—" a sneeze interrupts him.

I look back to see him rubbing his red nose. I sigh.

"You better take a hot shower first."

I glance at the clock as I lead him to the bathroom.

The clock finally strikes midnight, ending this hellish day.