Death Reports

Matthew's Curse, part 3

It was 11 AM when I left the room. I didn’t have time to waste. I grabbed a coffee and took off. I heard someone shouting my name. I didn’t mind. I stopped 18 months ago.

The white box with Matthew’s name, date of birth and some other bureaucratic information written on the front side kept the secret of his murder. The secret I needed to figure out. His blue pyjamas with colorful car prints and Kermit slippers were the only things found at the crime scene. On the playground.

Today, 7 years after his death, I could still see the blood stains. For God’s sake, he was a kid. A kid who was supposed to play with his friends. Exchange baseball and Pokemon cards. He was supposed to experience the very first love. His first party. He was supposed to seize his life.

Matthew was found early in the morning by a salesman. The coroner established a time of death between 9 and 11 PM. The kid’s skull was fractured. One sudden hit with a blunt object, made his little heart stop beating. He died instantly. No pain. No time to call his mom. No time at all.

I didn’t know if Matthew’s case was any relevant to my wife’s but this investigative flame inside me pushed me forward. Persuaded me to clear up a mist of this case.

I miss her. I miss her so much. With every day I make through, I come up with dozens of things we planned to do. Together. Dozens of them. I regret it now. I regret every sleepless night at the precinct. I regret every time when I couldn’t answer her call. The dead were more important. Damn. I regret every time when I had to re-schedule our vacation. I regret every time when I didn’t tell her how much I loved her. Adored her. Even though she knew that.

Death is a weird thing. On one hand, I’m full of hate, pain, resentment. I feel like drowning in my own misery. I hate the world. I hate people. I hate myself in the first place. On the other hand, I’m overwhelmed with joy and happiness because I knew Sarah. Because she showed me what it was like to be loved. What it was like to be happy. And these two emotions that most people take for granted, are hidden in the bottom of my decaying heart. The two emotions that I will never let out. Anger and hatred are more powerful. They prevail.

If only I could describe my inner struggle at the moment. If only. Damn, talking to a person that lost someone. Their son. I swallowed. And talk to that person. I shivered. Full of eagerness to end this. God, sometimes I wish I was dumb. Really.

I was mesmerized by the room with the archived files. Its blinding lights, their overwhelming power was carved in my mind. Badly. And this headache. It follows me like a shadow. I already said that pills didn’t help. That rubbish. If I reached for something in my pocket, I’d only find pills. Nothing else. Just pills.

I was striding. Cowering from fear. I didn’t feel like talking to that woman 7 years after her son’s death. I hoped she wouldn’t open the door to someone like me. My clothes, all wrinkled. Old. My shoes, still full of dried mud. A hoodie of my jacket, still wet. I looked like a hobo, not a detective.

A ring bell, a noisy ring bell echoed in my mind for 5 minutes. Mixed with headache. Please, let someone come up with a new torturing system. I need it. Badly.

I knocked. Just in case. A squeaking sound of the footsteps inside made me shiver. I hated unknown people. Scratch “unknown” and read the previous statement again. I hated people. Now read it in Present Tense. I hate people. Period.

Gloomy looking woman, a wretched woman opened the door. I think my badge convinced her to let me in. Hooray. Right. Matthew’s pictures were all around the house. Smiling from the walls. Fancy furniture, tinged with a mahogany gloss, freshly painted walls and fluffy carpets indicated some changes that happened after Matthew’s death. Plants. And plants. And some more plants reflected their green shine on the walls. No dust. Not a grain. Then I saw a calendar taped to the white fridge with green Sellotape. Today was a maid’s day. I sensed it. The person standing in front of me wouldn’t even touch a mop. Pathetic. Conceited creature. She was wearing shorts and a green sleeveless shirt; showing her belly button. Her wavy, blonde hair was sprayed with an indefinable amount of hair spray. One of the things that couldn’t get into my thick skull was her wearing high heels. At home.

She was talking. I wasn’t listening. I wanted to. But my headache, that stupid throbbing pain was blocking every sound. I saw her move her puffed up lips. Red lips, screaming: “Do me!”

My first impression was wrong. Completely. She wasn’t gloomy. It was just a shape of her face. God. She was awfully happy. Excited. I can’t find the real words. She, Sharon, re-married, found a god damn wealthy husband, 60 years old. I guess Matthew’s photos were just a mask; a well rehearsed role of a grieving mother who lost her child. Trust me, I wanted to strangle that woman. She was empty. Dull. Numb. She was just pretending. Having Matthew was boring to her. He was a drag.

She didn’t say it out loud. I figured it out. It was blatant. I felt like vomiting.

If you’re asking me, she was capable of killing her son. Yes, she was. But I had nothing. Just his pyjamas and the Kermit slippers. And completely rearranged house. Matthew’s room’s found another purpose. It’s her husband’s entertaining room – darts, snooker, mini golf. And other wealthy people’s crap. Derek Bowen. A magnate. Her husband.

God, this scenario, my visit was amusing her. She brought me lemonade. I said I didn’t want it. Her thick head was playing another melody. She’d only hear what she wanted to. She came to me asking if I could help her pick a bra. I was gawping at her. Speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She didn’t want to talk about Matthew. She just said that he had been an altar boy in the St. Peter’s church. Then she threw me out. I refused to play her silly game. God. I was barely alive. Barely keen on living. Disgusting.

Somehow I left her house smiling. That motion wasn’t quite familiar to me. But I smiled at her psychotic manners. And those muddy chunks I left on the white, fluffy carpet.