by Topaz Hauyn
She closed her eyes in disgust.
“You’re alright”, said Mrs. Esslinger. “Most victims to shock talk way more chaotic. You managed to focus, somehow. And it’s good to talk it through for it lets you process the experience and feel better.”
Petra listened. Everything sounded straight and right. It felt wrong though.
“Shouldn’t I talk to the police officer of that?”, asked Petra.
Why would the doctor wrote down what she said? She never heard of such a thing.
“How will you make sure I can be asked by the police officer?”, asked Petra.
The doctor’s smile didn’t look pleasant anymore.
Outside she heard a siren drive by. Probably the ambulance, bringing a patient.
Mrs. Esslinger, the doctor, answered none of her questions. Only scribbled on the clipboard turning pages.
“I want this dictation”, said Petra.
She stretched out her hand.
“You are way too critical, Mrs. Nuß”, said Mrs. Esslinger. “I’ll make sure you get something against your headache.”
Petra watched the doctor pull a little white package with pills from the pocket of the white gown.
“Take one every half an hour”, said Mrs. Esslinger.
“No”, said Petra. “I want the dictation. Never did you inform me about you writing everything down.”
The doctor stared at her. The blue eyes looked angry.
But Petra was used to Stefan shouting and running around the office frustrated about the bad programming he deemed her failure. She kept her hand stretched out. “The papers! Give them to me.”
Petra heard steps and shouting outside her room.
What was going on there? She thought a hospital always a quiet place. Obviously she was wrong with that.
Mrs. Esslinger stared at the door.
Petra sat up and grabbed the papers, pulled them from the clipboard and stuffed them under her blanket and under her feet.
“I’ll return later”, said Mrs. Esslinger with an angry voice. She clung the clipboard against her chest.
“Why are you in a hurry now?”, asked Petra.
Something was odd.
The doctor shoved the package with pills in Petra’s hands and marched to the door.
The stench of sweet roses rose from the cardboard box. She only ever smelled that kind of sweet perfume once.
Startled Petra stared at the woman grabbing the door handle.
“Stop it. You’re the murder”, said Petra.
Petra pressed the emergency button on the remote control hanging from the triangular holder down to her bed.
“Help!”, screamed Petra again and again, hoping to be heard above the stomping and shouting in front of her door.
Petra heard the door smashed open, nearly clashing against the wall.
The only reason the door didn’t hit it was the killer, disguised as doctor Esslinger, being smashed between door and wall.
Several police officers stormed stomping into her room. Looking around, staring at her. Arms high and looking around alarmed. One even had a black weapon in his hand.
Petra stared at the round end. It frightened her.
“Why did you press the alarm?”, asked the first on, already standing at her bed.
“The murderess”, said Petra. “Behind the door. Disguised.”
Everyone turned.
Petra saw the people with the blue uniforms turning, moving around. Sunlight lit up the reflector stripes on the uniforms, blinding her sight.
She heard someone hitting the floor. Feet stomped around. Gasping filled the room together with sharp commands.
Then, Petra heard a high clatter of metal.
“Done”, said one voice, clearly satisfied.
Petra let out her breath.
“You got the wrong person”, shrieked the voice, Petra recognized as the doctors one. “I am doctor Esslinger. Release me!”
“You’re not”, said a sharp voice.
Petra recognized it too. This had to be police officer Scharff from yesterday. “You have the wrong eye color.”
Petra smiled. She hadn’t been wrong thinking this doctor false. Only a bit slow after yesterday’s experience. Then, she stopped breathing for a moment. “Where’s doctor Esslinger?”, shouted Petra.
The group split. She saw how the police officer called Scharff with the rectangular, unframed glasses and brown eyes, walked up to her. The light reflected on her blue uniform with the gray stripes.
“Mrs. Esslinger is safe. She called us, saying she slept in and will arrive later”, said Mrs. Scharff. “That’s why we’re here. We saw her walking in this morning already.”
Petra nodded.
At the door of the room, one police officer after the other left. They took the murderess with them. Only two remained.
“We keep a guard outside”, said one. Then, they closed the door.
It felt good, to Petra to know she was guarded against any other intruder.
“Here”, said Petra and held up her hand with the cardboard pill box. “The murderess tried to make me take these hourly. Against shock.”
The police officer pulled a transparent plastic bag from a pocket. Petra dropped the box into the plastic bag.
She deemed it a good idea talking with the police officer. Mrs. Esslinger could call her stupid later. But Mrs. Scharff had saved her from damage, probably her life.
“How’s the man with the newspaper doing?”, asked Petra.
She assumed him dead, but wanted to know still.
“Dead.” Mrs. Scharff’s face was a mask. Not a muscle twitched.
The confirmation hit Petra like a rock falling down on her. She felt guilty of wishing the man to vanish, leave her alone in her precious quiet.
Petra shifted uneasily in her bed. The paper leaves crinkled against her upper legs uncomfortably. As the hospital dress was all pushed up, and she sat with her bare skin on the paper. She pulled them out and handed them to Mrs. Scharff.
“That’s what I told her while she was here. Or at least that’s what she wrote down. Maybe it’s of use”, said Petra.
*
Petra sat in a soft seat covered with a blue casing. This was an older ICE 3. The seats were well-worn and smelled like all the other trains she ever used: Like a well-used living room with old upholstered furniture.
The constant rocking of the train lulled her nearly to sleep. She closed her eyes and saw her last travel before her eyes again. The man with the newspaper, sunken together, with the red stones glowing on the handle of the knife.
She shuddered.
She opened her eyes to make certain she wasn’t back on that awful trip, weeks back. Today she had a police officer as a fellow passenger. He sat, in his blue uniform on the aisle seat, shielding her from the people passing by on the aisle.
After three weeks in hospital, going through medical tests, talking to psychologists, she still feared another attack in the train. The police officer was there to safely accompany her home to Hamburg.
Petra knew, she hadn’t caused the attack on the man with her wishing him away.
Wishes didn’t come true. She knew that deep down in her essence. Otherwise, the world would be a cleaner, saver place.
Nonetheless, she felt bad about the death of her former fellow passenger. No matter how much she had talked with the psychologists.
In the future, Petra swore to herself, she’d think before she wished for anything.
THE END
Excerpt:
The One Time Chance
Tunja signed the last cream-white paper document of forty-something. The black pen in her hand was slippery from her sweat and the warmth of her hand. She clutched the pen hard to keep it between her thumb and index finger. Both burned from the unused exercise. Heck her whole hand hurt as if each bone was set on fire.
“Tunja Reckmir” stood in red ink on the dotted line, written in a spidery signature. Compared to her signature on the first d
ocument, which was clean, elongate and beautiful, this one seemed to be done from a different person.
Come to think of it. She was a different person now.
Plotting the death of her victim in detail. Laying it out in multiple dozen documents. Adding reasons and argumentation about the why’s, how’s and when’s. An exhausting exercise.
Yet, an important one. For her.
She wanted to live her live freely afterwards.
Without filling out all the paperwork she would be sent to prison for killing her neighbor Max Willmer tomorrow night with a knife. She chose to kill him during his sleep to give him no chance for defense. Taking the night after getting the permission for the murder would rob him of the time to set up any defense.
Tunja thought about the five pages she had filled in about how she thought Mr. Willmer would react to the message of his murder. To her observation during the last five years, Mr. Willmer was a man of habits. Habits he refused to break. Even, if it would cause others extra work like snow shoveling during winter. He did it at seven in the morning at twelve before lunch and after dinner at eight in the evening. No matter the real snow. Even if the sun shone and everything was dry.
Tunja remembered the pain, when she slipped at ten in the morning on a day with heavy snowfall. Her left leg and right arm were broken.
She gritted her teeth. Half a year of hard work and exercises was needed after the healing to be back walking around, living on her own.
Revenge, Tunja thought, revenge would help her live through this. Mr. Willmer hadn’t even sent an apology, let alone asked if she needed help. A walker had found her and called the ambulance last winter.
Tunja shoved the sheets together into a neat heap, stuffed the wet pen into the outer pocket of her blue cotton blazer. Then she picked up the stack of forms and turned towards the open door.
Excerpt end of: The One Time Chance
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