by Amy Cross
"Sure," I reply, turning and heading to the door. I guess I don't have much dignity left, but at least I manage to walk out without showing that I care; as soon as I'm on the sidewalk, however, I feel as if I'm about to crumple into a heap. I expected a few of the locals to be funny with me, but I never thought that I'd be shunned even by people I've never met. Taking a deep breath, I look along the street and suddenly I can't help imagining the same thing happening in every shop I reach. What if this whole goddamn town has organized its response to my return, and my picture is on display behind every register? It's one thing to know that this kind of thing might happen, but it's another thing entirely to come face to face with it.
Taking another deep breath, I try to tell myself that I'm just being paranoid. Although I desperately want to just go home and climb into bed, I figure I have to stop being paranoid and focus instead on proving that the incident in the bar was just a one-off; every step feels heavy, but I force myself to wander along the street, headed for the grocery store on the corner. There are a few people around, and although I kinda expect them to start spitting at me, they just seem to be going about their usual business, not even noticing me. By the time I reach the grocery store, I'm starting to feel as if things are a little more normal again. Maybe I just let that asshole in the bar get to me; maybe the world isn't full of idiots after all.
When I push the door open, I see that the grocery store hasn't changed at all since I was last here. I'd been expecting it to have been taken over and turned into some fancy new modern place, but it looks exactly the same as it did back when Jim Macken and his wife used to run the place. Grabbing a basket, I figure I'll just buy a couple of things, as kind of 'test purchases' to make sure that I haven't spiraled all the way off the deep end. I have to conserve my money, though, so I stick to small items. The crazy thing is, by the time I get to the register and see Jim Macken waiting to serve me, my heart is pounding. If he turns me away, I think I might just break down right in the middle of the store.
"Hey," I say nervously, placing my items on the counter.
He nods politely and starts scanning. So far, so good. Jim Macken was never much of a talker, and he's obviously willing to let me buy things from his store. I'm so grateful, I could lean across and kiss him, but I figure I should just play it cool and act like a normal customer. Glancing over at a nearby notice board, I spot an advert for workers right here in the grocery store. Frankly, right now, a simple job in this place would feel like a huge victory, and although I don't want to push my luck, I can't help wondering if this might be a good opportunity for me to get back on my feet. After all, I need the money, and I need the normality.
"Four dollars twenty," Jim says when he's done.
I hand him some notes. My heart's pounding as I get ready to ask about the job. What if he cuts me down? What if he tells me I'm a murderous piece of scum?
"Eighty cents," he says, placing my change on the counter.
Without saying anything, I scoop up the coins before grabbing my items and heading to the door. I guess I could always come and ask about the job tomorrow instead, when things seem to have settled down a bit, but at the last moment I decide to throw caution to the wind. I stop at the door for a moment, and then I head back to the counter. By this point, my heart is racing so fast, I feel as if I might start hyperventilating at any moment.
"Hey," I say, aware that he must think I'm pretty strange. "I saw that you're looking for someone to work in -"
"No," he says firmly.
I pause. "I have experience with -"
"No," he says again, fixing me with a cold, determined stare.
"Is that because -"
"Job's filled," he says, grabbing the notice and pulling it down.
I open my mouth to try again, but something about the look in his eyes tells me that he's made his decision.
"Is there anything else you want?" he asks.
Realizing that there's no point arguing, I turn and head out of the store. I guess Jim Macken's willing to take my money, but anything more than that is asking too much. By the time I'm back out on the sidewalk, I don't know who I hate more: the asshole in the bar, who refused me altogether, or Jim Macken, who took my money but then showed that he doesn't want anything more to do with me. I glance over at a woman who's walking past, and as we briefly make eye contact, I swear to God I can see a look of absolute hatred in her eyes. I turn and watch as she walks away, and moments later a guy walks past and the same thing happens.
Maybe I'm being paranoid, but suddenly I feel as if everyone in this entire town not only knows who I am, but they also know what I'm supposed to have done. Is this one of those temporary things, or am I going to end up being driven out of town? Then again, I guess I can understand why they're being like this with me. After all, from their point of view, they think they know what I did. They think I killed Bobby Madison and got away with it. Never mind that I spent five years in jail, or that I was almost chewed to pieces by the legal system; these people believe in their hearts that I literally got away with murder, in which case they probably think that I'm back to flaunt my freedom. I'd give anything in the world to prove to them that they're wrong. Well, almost anything.
Realizing that I'm in danger of losing my mind, and that I can't face going home, I decide that I need to be alone. As dark clouds gather overhead and threaten rain, I head toward the park.
Florence Madison
It's going to rain soon. I need to get this done before I lose my nerve, but she's still too close to the main road. The park is large, and hopefully she'll go toward the river, which should give us a nice, secluded spot. That's when I'll do it.
I keep running over the moment in my mind. All I have to do is step up behind her and force the knife into her body. The most important thing is to make sure that she can't get away, so although I've long assumed that I'd stab her in the torso, I suddenly realize that it might be more effective to cut her throat. In the cold light of day, I try to imagine what it would be like to reach around and slice her open from ear to ear. There'd be a lot more blood than I would have wanted, but at least she wouldn't be able to scream. At least, I don't think she'd be able to scream, not with her neck having been cut open. That's something I should have checked before I got started, but I suppose I shall just have to be a little more forceful than I'd hoped.
I can still do this. For Bobby's sake, I have no choice. I can't stand to live in a world where murderers like Cassie Briggs are allowed to live.
Cassie Briggs
So this is my homecoming: sitting in the park, eating a pack of cookies, and wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do next. I remember playing in this park when I was a kid, and I used to occasionally see people sitting on the benches; now I'm sitting on a bench, and some kids are playing over by the trees, and suddenly the world feels much more real. I was determined to come back to Forth Powell and get my life started again, but now I feel as if maybe I've taken on too much of a challenge. Wouldn't it be easier to just fade away and go start a new life somewhere else, where no-one has ever heard of me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that there's a figure over by the gate. Someone's watching me, but I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of looking over. Let them lurk in the goddamn park for all I care.
As rain starts to fall, I watch the children run for cover. Damn it, I want to go back to a time when there were no marks against my name. Kids can't really ruin their lives, but then suddenly you reach a certain age and one wrong move can mess everything up; it's as if, at some stage, you're given full control of your life, but no-one tells you until it's too late. This whole mess with Bobby Madison might be with me forever. People are always going to think that I killed him, and there's no way I'm ever going to tell them what really happened.
I can still see my 'visitor' nearby. Although I haven't looked directly, I can tell that there's someone watching me, and even though I can't be certain, I'm fairly sure that I know who it
is. In fact, I've been expecting her to come and track me down at some point. If she still truly believes that I killed her son, Florence Madison must truly hate me. I've got no doubt that she'll confront me sooner rather than later, and even though she's basically harmless, it's still not something that I'm looking forward to. The last time I saw her, she was screaming at me outside the courtroom five years ago. Sure, time has passed, but I have no doubt that she'll want to make her feelings known once again.
Still, I guess I can help myself in a few small ways, such as not sitting out in the rain.
Standing up, I start walking past the trees, making my way along the path that leads back into town. After a few meters, I become aware that someone seems to be walking behind me, and although I keep telling myself not to be paranoid, I can't help wondering when Florence is going to say something. I'm not going to be the one to initiate contact, however; if she wants to spit venom in my face, she can damn well make the first move. I slow down, hoping that she might overtake me, but I'm pretty certain that she, too, has slowed. Speeding up, I realize that she seems determined to stick with me, and after a few more meters, with the rain coming down harder than ever, I feel myself getting angrier. Why does she feel the need to dog my every goddamn step? I want to turn and tell her to go to hell, but then people would just start talking about me. Hell, she's probably filming me. If I lose my cool, I'll end up being portrayed as some kind of mad bitch who can't control her temper. There's no way I'm willing to feed into the media machine.
Cutting through the undergrowth, I figure I might as well take a short cut. If Florence Madison wants to follow me away from the path, that's her problem, and if she wants to hurt me... I guess I wouldn't blame her at all.
Florence Madison
I watch as she disappears between the trees. Every second, she's getting further and further away, but I'm frozen in place. No matter how hard I try, I can't walk after her. I can't do it. I can't cut someone's throat. It was insane that I ever considered the possibility.
Taking the knife out of my pocket, I realize that my hands are shaking. Did I really think I could sneak up behind Cassie Briggs and slit her neck open? What kind of foolish old woman have I become? For one thing, she'd almost certainly be able to fight me off, and for another, I don't think I have the strength to do something so horrific. For five years, I've fantasized about killing her, about making her feel the same pain that my poor dear Bobby felt in his final moments. Now that the moment has arrived, however, all that false bravado has drained away.
I failed.
As the rain intensifies, I put the knife back in my pocket and start walking back the way I came. I can't help thinking that Bobby, if he can see me, must be disappointed. After all, he probably longs to see his murderer face justice. Not only has the legal system in this country failed him, but now his own mother has shown herself to be incapable of the kind of strength that would be required. I thought I could do this, and now I find that I'm just a stupid old woman who backed down at the first opportunity.
Despite the rain, I walk slowly. There's so much anger in my heart, so much fury at the way Bobby's murderer has been allowed to walk free, but I have no idea how to direct that anger. If I don't find a way to let it out, I fear that it's going to eat me away like a cancer. I believed, naively, that I might make myself feel better by killing Cassie Briggs, but there's a part of me that just refuses to cross that line. If I killed her, I'd be the same as her, and that's the last thing I want. I'm not a murderer, and I never will be.
What kind of mother am I, that I can't even kill the woman who murdered my son?
Cassie Briggs
"Okay!" I shout, finally losing my temper and turning to face whoever's following me. "What do you want?"
Silence.
I wait.
Nothing.
Did I imagine it all? Have I become so paranoid, so terrified of everyone around me, that I'm starting to hallucinate? I swear to God, Florence Madison was following me through the park, slowing down when I slowed down and speeding up when I increased my pace. Now though, as I look back the way I came, there's no-one. Taking a deep breath, I try to work out of I might be losing my mind. After everything I've been through, it wouldn't be a huge shock. Before I left the prison, I was warned by my counselor that I might have trouble adjusting to life back in the real world; at the time, I politely dismissed her concerns, since I believed that I was strong enough to deal with anything. Right now, however, I'm starting to wonder whether I might have a problem after all. At this rate, maybe I'm going to end up being locked in a very different kind of cell.
"I saw you!" I shout. "Okay? I fucking saw you! You're not that good at sneaking about! I know you want to talk to me, so stop hiding and come and tell me what you want!"
Silence.
"Do you want me to apologize?" I continue, starting to feel a little desperate. "I didn't kill Bobby okay? I know you don't believe me, but you can't expect that I'm going to apologize for something I didn't do! I know this must be painful for you, but you've got to let it go! I could never have killed him! He was my friend!"
I wait.
No reply.
"I don't blame you," I mutter. "How the hell can you let it go?"
I stand completely still for a moment. The only sound is the rain, falling all around. I should turn and keep walking, but the last thing I want is to have Florence following me home like a ghost. If she wants to say something, she should just get on with it. What does she think I'll do, snap her head off? Suddenly I'm struck by the realization that maybe people around here are actually afraid of me; after all, if they think I killed one of my friends in cold blood, they probably think I'd happily and willingly do the same to anyone who got in my way. They must think I'm some kind of monster.
Sighing, I try to work out what I should do next. "I'm sorry for your loss," I say eventually. "In all the chaos five years ago, I never got a chance to say that to you. I'm sorry your only son died. I can't imagine how horrific that must have been for you, and I understand that you want to get the person you think is responsible." I pause for a moment. "Bobby and I were friends," I continue. "Do you really think I'd kill one of my friends? The reason I'm not in jail is that there was no evidence to build a case against me, and the reason there was no evidence is that I didn't do it! They had to admit that in the end! They tried every trick in the book, and eventually I walked out of there. Doesn't that tell you something?"
Silence.
"They kept me for five years!" I say, struggling to contain my frustration. I know I'm talking to myself now, and I know I'm probably crazy, but no-one else will listen. "Five years of constant interviews and questions. They tried everything they could think of to prove that I did it, but they couldn't come up with a damn thing. Do you think they're dumb? Do you think I'm somehow this genius who played the system? The reason they didn't pin this on me is that I didn't do it in the first place!"
Silence.
"Please!" I shout, with tears in my eyes. "I know you've been following me! Just talk to me! Say something! Say -" I pause, feeling as if I'm about to have some kind of breakdown. Tears are rolling down my face and my bottom lip is trembling. "I didn't kill him!" I shout again, even though my voice sounds fractured and broken. "I can't tell you what really happened, but I didn't kill Bobby! You have to believe me!"
Putting my hands over my face, I try to calm down. Finally, wiping away the tears, I realize that maybe I was wrong all along. Maybe, somehow, I hallucinated Florence's presence. Maybe she was never here, and no-one ever followed me, and maybe I'm just cracking up. Great. I'll probably see Florence floating above my bed tonight when I'm trying to get to sleep, and then I'll probably start hallucinating Bobby himself. I was hoping that I'd be able to keep my sanity, but I guess that's what crazy people always hope right before they snap.
"If you're there," I say eventually, taking my hands away from my face, "I just want you to know that I didn't do any of the stuff that peo
ple say I did, okay? I'm not that kind of person. I'm not a killer."
Silence.
"Fine," I mutter, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. "Whatever."
No reply.
In some strange, sick way, I'm still expecting a reply. It's as if I think Florence Madison is some kind of ninja, lurking in the bushes and waiting to jump out and grab me. The truth, though, is that she's just an old woman whose son ended up dead many years ago. I can't imagine how she must feel, but I'm sure she's been through more pain than most people could ever imagine, and part of that is my fault. After all, if I just told the truth, she might get a little closure. As things stand, though, she's never going to get that closure, which means that until the day she dies, she'll have to just wonder what happened to her only son. I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone, and I wish I could go to her and tell her the truth. I wish I could put her out of her misery.
But I can't.
Taking a deep breath, I listen for any clue that someone else is nearby. After all, I can deal with Florence Madison. But what if someone else is watching me? What if...
Silence.
"Come on, then," I whisper. "If you're here, you might as well come out. It's okay, Darper. I just want to know."
I wait.
After a moment, the faintest breeze blows across my right cheek. It's not much, but for a second I'm convinced it might be her. And then, just as suddenly as it came, the sensation passes and I realize I'm imagining the whole thing. Darper Danver's gone. Long gone. She has to be.
Once I'm certain that she's not around, I turn and carry on walking. I don't particularly want to go home, but it's raining and I don't have enough money to go anywhere. Already pretty wet, I wander through the wooded part of the park until finally I emerge close to my parents' house. As I walk the final couple of hundred meters, I find myself wondering whether I should just go and knock on Florence Madison's door. Sure, there's no way she'd be pleased to see me, and I wouldn't blame her if she flew into a rage. Hell, I could even break all the rules and tell her exactly what happened to Bobby, and why. She wouldn't feel any better, though; in fact, she'd feel a thousand times worse, and she might drop dead if she knew the truth. Meanwhile, I'd basically be signing my death warrant. The truth would kill me, and only a lie can set me free. That's how twisted my life has become.