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E
verything looked the same. Nothing gave any signs that the life of its owner had been toppled. The couch was in the same place, my shoes remained on the same place in the shoe rack, and the lights all flickered as they welcomed me. This was the first night where Andrew's absence fully hit me. Even though I had been crying over him for days, I was feeling greater pity for myself.
Now that I was home and the flowers he had given me had wilted, it truly hit me that he would never give me any more flowers. The whole apartment served as a tomb for him. His shirt was in my closet, which he left because I loved to sleep in it because his smell kept the nightmares at bay. His shoes had been on my rack since a year ago because, "Who knows, maybe we will decide to go on an adventure one day like Bilbo Baggins. At least my shoes should be prepared." An album from his childhood was sitting under my bed because he liked to show it to me whenever he came over and I was depressed. A stuffed panda that he gave me because, "Sometimes I might not be around when you get sleep paralysis. But don't you worry, I will leave behind the friend who will protect you in my place.
He might look all soft and cute, but he is very loyal and protective of the people he loves, just like his friend." All of it remained a reminder of what I had lost. His things remained, but he, who put life in them, was gone. Now they just serve as a graveyard of our memories. I realized, for the first time, aside from the guilt, I missed him for him. I missed that he loved to see me laugh; I missed that he would never forget my birthday; I missed that he would respect my aversion to lilies. I missed him. But most of all, I missed the me who appeared because of him.
The girl who could laugh freely, the girl who was accepting of her tears, the girl who liked adventures, the girl who loved the twinkle in his eyes, that girl died with him. All of these thoughts flooded my head as soon as I stepped foot in the apartment. However, what made it worse was a paper that had been slipped inside by someone. MURDERER! was written in big, bold letters. That was all it said. I guess I should get used to being looked at as one.
I sat chamomile tea on the stove as I looked out the window. I had had no contact with Andrew's family. Did they think I killed him? Do I contact them first? How can I call them up when I did not even attend their son's funeral? Even if they do not believe me to be the killer, I understand their aversion toward me. They do not know me, and I am the only suspect.
After something so traumatic, they can never be too cautious about who to trust. I put my chamomile tea in a cup and took it with me to the living room. I turned on the TV to watch something while I drank my tea. It opened with a murder mystery film. I could not quite understand the plot as I started from the middle, but it seemed like something that was not my cup of tea.
I continued surfing through channels till I stumbled upon a new challenge. It was covering my case in the 8 p.m. headline. I sat up straighter as I increased the volume. "The murder trial of the killing, which took place on the rooftop of an apartment complex, has officially commenced. The name of the victim, suspect, and apartment complex is being kept a secret by the authorities. The police believe in having caught the right person; however, the defendant's attorney terms the allegations against his client as false and demeaning. The suspect has been released from custody on bail.
However, Detective Ocon, the lead detective on the case, believes the release to only be temporary and is quoted to have said, "She will be back here in no time. We are confident in the evidence we have found and in the jury to deliver justice to the late man." Now moving onto sports.........." I tuned it out as the reporter finished briefing on my case. I wonder if I can do something about getting Detective Ocon removed from the case based on bias. I finished my chamomile tea and went toward my room to sleep.
My window was open. That is weird, because I did not leave my window open. My first thought took me to the dining room. I checked behind The Last Supper to see the document still placed safe and secure in there. I then went through my room to see if anything was missing. Nothing felt missing or out of place.
Yet, the feeling of being watched had returned and was now more amplified than ever. I quickly shut the window and fastened the lock. I should get someone to change the locks on both the door and the window. As I lay down on the bed, my missing picture frame took over my mind. I missed seeing it on the side table. With the thoughts of my father, Andrew, and the fear of sleep paralysis on my mind, I closed my eyes for a restless night.
