1 of Fame, Dagger, and Blood

She saw.

She saw all of it.

She saw the bright red crimson blood spurt out of his chest

She saw it splatter thick and red and fast onto the crooked teeth, like cobblestones.

She saw his face crumple like a paper bag

She saw his legs fall away, his glasses askew, the whites of his eyes lined with red.

She saw the light drain out of his amber eyes.

She heard the soft padding of footsteps as the assassin disappeared into the darkness.

She felt a tight ball of shock and fear coil in her chest.

She saw it all.

But no one believed her, no matter how hard she tried to tell them.

But it couldn’t have been her imagination. It just couldn’t have been. She wasn’t that creative. She could only watch. There was no way the bright ruby blood and the quick rasps of breath of the dying man was a hallucination. But she wouldn’t approach him. No. She couldn’t. One touch, and it would be all over. One touch, and it would make this nightmare come true. She sat, crouched there, her back aching, immobilized with shock. She glanced at the alleyway corner, and there, stood a security camera. Letting out a cool breath, she stood.

Tucking blond hair behind her ear, she reached out to the body. He was spread-eagled on the floor, blood still pooling out of that one open knife wound in his chest. It was a clean murder, a quick one. His eyes were glassy, staring up at the twilight sky he couldn’t see. She felt bile and nausea rise up to her throat and she bent her body in half, swallowing the vomit that had been lurking in her mouth the whole time. But no. She vomited all over the floor, a sickly smell rising up from it.

Still, she told herself. Still. You should call the police.

So she took out her phone, her fingers shaking, her palm icy cold. She dialed the police’s number and waited.

“Hello? This is 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” A crackly voice rose from her phone, and she swallowed, her heart still beating feverishly.

“Hi,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice. “I want to report for murder.” As she explained her story, her voice getting stronger and stronger, her heart hitched and breath caught when suddenly for no reason the person on the other end began laughing.

Still chortling, he said, “Alright, I have to admit, that was an impressive story. Don’t you know that murders are impossible these days?” And before she could answer, he had hung up.

Her hand fell limply at her side, her phone falling onto the cobblestones with a clatter. The blood was pooling faster then ever now, curling around her phone.

Alone. She was all alone. But she would try.

Walking numbly down the sidewalk, she turned abruptly and kept walking. Why would no one believe her? Why? And why would the police hang up so suddenly? There was something missing, but what was it? Why were murders impossible? Would she ever—

“Ow!”

Her head whipped around, and realized she had unknowingly bumped into someone.

“Sorry!” She hastily said, her voice coming out as a croak. In her brain, her mind was flashing through a series of images. The blood pooling–his scream–the stones–the dagger–the flash of silver–the glasses– the blood–

“PLEASE!” she exploded, her eyes half-crazed. “Please! Help me!”

“What?” the man replied, his eyes narrowing in annoyance and skepticism. “What’s your problem?”

“I…” she faltered. “There’s been a murder, and I need to report it. Please, help me!”

“Um, yeah, sure…” He trailed off and hurried away, his black cloak flapping in the wind like a bat’s wings.

“No… no no no no no…” she repeated. And then her legs gave away and she crumpled.

The pavement beneath her was cold and slippery, and she cried, her tears spilling onto the stone, tasting of salt and fear and regret. No one. No one. She was all alone. Her heart fell into the pit of her stomach. Stop, she told herself. Stop. All she could do was cry. That was the one thing she was good at. Crying. Through her tears she stood up and as though in a trance walked back to the dark alleyway where the murder had occurred. Picking up her phone, she numbly dialed the police department again.

“Hello, what is your name and your emergency?”

“My name is—” Before she could finish her sentence, the other end cut her off.

“Just kidding! We don’t need your name for pranks. Good try though. I heard you last time.” and leaving her very startled, they hung up.

Breathing heavy, quick rasps of air, she stood up and raised her head to the bright purple sky. She took a moment to make sure she didn’t fall over, and closed her eyes. With one shaking hand she pulled the slim hood over her head. When she opened her eyes again, they glimmered against the last rays of the dying sun.

“My name,” she said, her voice almost a whisper in the wind, “is Lavina Bathery.” she giggled, a sinister, cold sound vibrating in the air. Then, she turned and gracefully disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway, twirling a dagger between her hands.