Tear Tracks Forever

I stared up at the too-bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The doctors wouldn’t let me get out of the hospital and go back to jail—I mean my holding cell—until all the Cyanide had been drained from my body. It would take about two days, if I used the bathroom frequently.
I hoped it would take an even longer amount of time, I didn’t want to stay in my holding cell for any longer.

I stood up, getting out of my hospital bed, and cringed when I realized all the IVs were still in my arm, restraining me from getting out of bed. Taking a risky chance, I cringed as I quickly pulled them out of my arm, one by one. There were a few Band-Aids lying on the cold metal tray, so I picked them up and plastered them on the crook of my elbow to stop the tiny amount of bleeding.

I hated this weird hospital gown. It was paper-thin, and the back didn’t close well so I was probably mooning everybody. The shoulders were falling off and it barely reached my mid-thighs. I mean, seriously? If you already were feeling like shit, why did the hospital people have to give you more things to worry about like how violated you felt and slutty you looked?!?!?

I sighed as I looked around the room, wishing that someone has brought some clothes for me. Mrs. Markin had probably tried, they just wouldn’t let her. Then, I spotted an old pair of scrubs hanging at the door. I wondered why they were there, but I didn’t care. In a flash, I snatched them off the hook, whipped off my “gown” and pulled them on. They were a little big, but I felt much better in them than that stupid gown. But, wait. What had happened to the clothe I was wearing before—my hoody and jeans? Oh, well. My iPhone, thankfully, sat on the edge of the table, untouched.

I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to untangle my still damp hair with a tiny plastic comb they had given me. I pulled it thorough a snarled curl and—SNAP! It broke. Of course.
I sighed and was about to go back to sleep—there was nothing else to do—when a man in a suit carrying a briefcase stepped into the doorway of my room. “Are you…Rhee Kumshi?” he asked, squinting at the note card he held in his hand. He wore a suit, and had close-cropped brown hair and looked around the age of his mid-thirties.

“Yes...?” I asked cautiously, standing up and stepping back. He gave me a tight, fake smile, and then said, “I’m your lawyer.”

“Oh, alright, cool. The first thing I want to say is, I DID NOT MURDER MY FATHER,” I told him, and then cringed at how that sounded. He probably thought I was some kind of psycho.

“Umm, okay, let’s go over the charges and suspects and whereabouts first,” he said, sitting a safe distance from me at the edge of my bed.

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Do we have to stay here or can we go somewhere else?” I asked.

“Well, the doctors want you in the hospital for a few more days, but they didn’t say anything about you staying in your room. So we can go anywhere in the hospital,” he said.

“Okay, then lets go,” I said, standing up. We walked awkwardly down to the waiting room, where there was a desk and a bunch of crayons and kiddie coloring papers. I awkwardly sat on one of the small plastic chairs, and he sat across from me.

“So…what’s your name?” I asked him.

“Michael Meyer. You can call me Michael, or Mr. Meyer,” he said to me.

“Okay, well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Meyer,” I told him.

“The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Kumshi,” he old me.

“Call me Rhee,” I told him.

“Okay, well, let’s get to work,” he said, pulling out a notepad, pen, and a tape recorder.

We went over the pressed charges, the fact that I didn’t have any other suspects, and where I was during that time.

At the end of an hour, I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. Mr. Meyer would go and fingerprint the bottle—we had decided to check if anyone else had touched it besides me when I drank it—and he would also check my father’s records and interview his friends to see if he had any enemies who would want to kill him.

“It was nice doing business with you, Rhee. Same time tomorrow?” he asked, standing up and gathering his notes together. He turned off his tape recorder and put everything back in his briefcase.

He shook my hand, as I answered, “Sure. Thank you so much for everything.”

As he turned to leave, an idea flashed into my mind.

“Mr. Meyer?” I asked.

He turned around. “Yes?”

“Umm, well, the thing is that I don’t have any clothes with me—they’re all at the Markin’s house, the family I told you about, so you’d be doing me a huge favor if you’d stop by there and ask Mrs. Markin for some of my clothes. That would really be great if—”he cut me off.
“Sure, you don’t have to say anything else. I’ll bring them tomorrow when I come back with some more information,” he said smiling warmly at me.

“Alright, thanks!” I said excitedly.

“Okay, you’re welcome. Bye,” he said, as he left the waiting room and I made my way back up to my room, happy that maybe things would be okay.

*~* The Next Day

I was eagerly anticipating for the information Mr. Meyer had found—along with a change of clothes. It was around 3:30; he would be arriving at 4.

I had asked them for permission for a shower—It was stupid I has to ask them if I could shower, and they said yes, but no shaving my kegs in fear that I’d try and commit suicide with the razor. I couldn’t blame them, I would be scared too.

I had decided to wait until Mr. Meyer came so I would have a change of clothes.

“Rhee?” I heard a voice call.

I whirled around. “Yes?”

Mr. Meyer stepped into the room, his face grave.

“Here are your clothes, Mrs. Markin put in a few other belongings,” he said, handing me a suitcase.

“Thank you so much!” I told him. He held out a hand to quiet me, and then began to talk as we walked down the hallway toward the waiting room.

“I found out some very disturbing information,” he began.

"What?” I gasped.

“Well, it seems as if…that policeman who charged you is a distant enemy of your father. Apparently, your father owed him a large sum of money and his friends say that Daniel Svenson, the policeman, was an enemy of your father. I-I also found his fingerprints on the bottle. Now, that could mean nothing since he’s been touching it a lot, but I did a scan to find out what time it was touched, and his fingerprints were on it even before your father was murdered. So he’s out big suspect now,” he concluded.

I covered my mouth with both hands, in shock.

“I know this is a big shock for you, and your trial is in three days. The police have agreed to let you out of your cell, I asked them about that. We’ll have to work hard to figure out how to incriminate him. Also, this is your last day in the hospital. You can go back to the Markin’s now, but a police officer will come to check on you twice a day. I’ll also be there frequently, we only have three days,” he finished up.

“Wow, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much. How can I repay you?” I asked him.

He smiled at me. “No worries. It’s my job. And all I need you to do is win that court case.”

“I will,” I said confidently.

“Good. Now, do you want me to sign the forms to discharge you from the hospital?” he asked.

“Sure! Thank you so much,” I gushed. I quickly gave him a hug, he had done so much, and rushed into the bathrooms.

I went for a shower and changed into a pair of jeans and a blue Hollister shirt that Mrs. Markin had picked out for me. Mr. Meyer signed the discharge forms, and so did I. An hour later, I was ready to leave.

I got into the backseat of Mr. Meyer’s Honda and waited patiently until he dropped me of at the Markin’s.

“Anything else you want me to do?” he asked.

“No, I’m good. I’ll see you around…five tomorrow?” I asked him.

“Sure. We’ll work on the case then,” he said.

"Thank you! Bye!” I called after him as he sped away.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the door, anticipating to see Alex.