Violet
I made myself sick last night, thinking about going down to talk to the detective. I even threw up this morning before I got dressed. I hadn’t even realized how psyched up I was until the sunlight hit the window and I realized that I was actually going to have to go down to the police station and talk about my parents’ murder. The only thing that got me to go there was the thought that maybe, this time, their murder can be solved.
When I sit down with Detective Stephner, my dread turns to irritation. He keeps showing me mug shots I’ve already seen, asking me questions I’ve already answered. What were the people wearing, what did they look like, did they do anything that might stand out. It’s all in his notes, yet he’s making me retell him, making me relive that stupid f**king night that I hate thinking about, that haunts my dreams, my life, that turned me into this person, sitting here, lost in herself. I’m not even sure why he’s reopening the case and it’s obvious he hasn’t even read their file, since he doesn’t even know some of the simple details.
“Think carefully, Violet,” he says. “Is there anything at all you can think of about that night?”
“Other than my parents were killed?” I reply, slumping back in a metal fold-up chair. He’s got me in a small, square room with brick walls and the air stinks like cleaner and stale cheese.
He takes a sip of his coffee and spills some on his smiley face tie and down the front of his white button shirt. Seriously. Some dude with a smiley face tie is going to solve the murder of my parents that happened thirteen years ago? I lost all hope when I saw that tie and cursed myself for even having hope to begin with. “Look…” He glances down at my files, unable to even remember my name. “Violet, I know this must be hard for you to talk about, but I need you to try to think of anything at all that might be helpful.”
I lean forward with my arms crossed on the table between us. “Hard for me to talk about? It’s been thirteen years. I pretty much remember nothing about my parents anymore, let alone anything that happened the night they died.” I’m such a f**king liar.
He gives me a look of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
I shove back from the table and push to my feet. “Sorry for what? That I’m an orphan? That I have no family? That I bounced through foster families? That I’m the one who found my parents dead? Or that you can’t figure out the person who caused all of that?” I step back from the table and the legs of the chair grind against the stained linoleum. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. What I need is to not be here, remembering things I laid to rest a long time ago.”
“Violet, please settle down and think about that night carefully,” he says, rising to his feet, ruffling his blond hair into place. “Anything at all that you remember could be helpful.”
I back toward the door. “ ‘Lean into me. Lean into me. Take. Help me. I need to understand. Help me. I can’t do this without you.’ ”
He glances helplessly down at his stack of papers, sifting through them. “I’m sorry, Violet, but I don’t understand… Is that a song?”
“Yeah, it’s a song, you ass**le.” I jerk open the door. “The woman was singing it that night, but you should already have that in your file if you’ve read through it all. Now, are we done here?”
He hesitates, then nods once and I start to head out. “Wait, Violet, one more thing,” he calls and I pause, but don’t turn around. “I just want to let you know that you might see a few things about the case being reopened on the news.”
I whirl around. “Why?”
He stacks his papers back into a manila folder. “We sometimes think it’s helpful to announce it to the public in hopes of someone stepping forward with information.”
“No one stepped forward with information thirteen years ago,” I say hotly. “Why would they do it now?”
“Time generally makes people less afraid,” he states, gathering his papers into his hand. “I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised if you see something.”
“Well, thanks for thinking of me,” I say sarcastically. And with that line, I exit, slamming the door behind me.
I slip my phone out of my back pocket as I nearly run through the police station. I dial Luke’s number as I burst out the front doors and sunlight spills over me. It’s the only number I’ve ever programmed into my phone, other than Preston’s and my regular buyers. It’s strange to be calling him, but a little relieving to actually have someone I can rely on. I felt sort of bad this morning that I was barely talking to him, but I couldn’t help it. I was too nauseous and distracted with coming down here and I’ve been feeling awkward about our kiss. I’ve never done awkward before—I’m usually the one who makes people feel awkward.
Luke’s phone never rings, going straight to his voicemail, and I shake my head at myself. “I should have known better,” I mutter, pressing my finger over the end button without leaving a message. I shut off my phone, cutting off any connection we developed, then glance up the busy street and sidewalk, wondering what I should do. There’s all this restless energy inside me as I’m flooded by my past.
I’m not solely focusing on my parents’ deaths, I’m also remembering when they were alive, playing with me at the park, opening presents on Christmas morning, going to the zoo. Laughing and smiling in the most genuine, pure way that’s ever existed. I remember being loved. God, I hate remembering that. It hurts so bad, knowing I had it once. It’d be better if I never knew what it felt like to know someone cared about me enough to never let anything hurt me, because I couldn’t feel the ache over something I never had.
I massage my chest with my hand, pressing so hard it aches. I want to tear it open and pull out my heart to stop the excruciating pain. I’m tumbling into the place I need to escape, I need to do something other than continue to remember what I don’t have any more, to feel that they’re gone, feel the pain of everyone that never wanted me, the heartache, the abandonment, the hatred for the people who did this, the needles, the razors, the tearing at the inside of my skin. God, I need to get it out.
“I need to…” I scratch at my skin, digging and digging until lines of blood trail down my arms. “Shit.” I try to wipe the blood away, not wanting anyone to see, as I hurry down the stairs to the sidewalk beside the street.