Blamed; a short story by Rebecca Greenberg

Blamed

When did tomorrow become today? When did this whole mess blow up and become so twisted the original form is unidentifiable? These questions often swarmed my throbbing brain. My soul was ripped out by him. He caused this. I'm envious that he doesn't have to sit in front of all these disgusted faces, and be judged like a tiny, helpless ant under a magnifying glass being burned by the hatred of the sun. “Ms. Fields do you have an answer? Ms Fields!” Gulping down the hard spit clogging up my air ways, which I wish would just close, I answered the Prosecutor. His semi- ironed shirt hung out of the back of his pants, and the tapping of his foot notified me of the lack of interest in what I really had to say. “Can you repeat the question” I asked.

“Did you, or did you not smash a brick into Dave Parker's face?” As the prosecutor jabbed those words at me a cry erupted in the room. Without moving my eyes off of the grey, poorly constructed window, I knew it was Debra Parker. Honestly, it's incredible to me how well someone can fake cry, and make it seem so realistic.

“ I did”. The jury gasped. I imagined them pondering how I could do such a terrible thing. You would be surprised at what drives a person to do the unthinkable, to become mad. The untold, the unheard, the unknown drives a person mad.

“What was the motive behind this action?” The prosecutor continued. Looking up from my gaze with a blank stare I uttered, “Revenge. Revenge was the one who picked up the brick and put it in my hand”

“Revenge for what?”.

“For the things he did to me; the things he said to me”.

“Are you hinting that my son touched or harm you? That's absolute nonsense. My poor Dave kept to himself and wouldn't hurt a fly!” Debra Parker yelled.

“It didn't stop the voices in his head…” Mrs. Parker was standing up now, spit foaming from her mouth, “Order! Order in the court!” The until now silent judge cried. I couldn't take it anymore. The looks, and side whispers, the hatred it was too much, so I took in a deep breathe filled with dust and mold and proclaimed that, “I Lauren Fields murdered Dave Parker”. The room was dead silent, silent like the grave I was digging for myself. But the grave seemed warmer than this brown embellished room. The judge sent the jurors out in the long hall to deliberate my future. Within 5 minutes the jury filed back in with a sad but justified look in their eyes. “We as the jurors believe that on the charge of First degree murder the defendant is guilty as charged, and we believe that special circumstances exist warranting the death penalty.” I eased back in my chair, wanting to feel something, sadness, anger, happiness? But all I felt was numbness. If my soul was still alive in this decaying body of mine, I would have pleaded, begged, for a life sentence, rather than accepting the death penalty. But I didn't. I was content with it. As if this was the only way to escape the horrors he burned into me, the imprints he scared into my mind, and the hell he stained my soul with. This was the end, I was finally free from the torture the pain, and the blame.

Mrs. Parker left the courtroom in a hurry with a relaxed posture, as if justice had been served. Pulling up to her long, country-like ranch home, she got out of the car and walked into the empty house. Dragging her hand against the ripped wall, which exposed the pink, flesh like fiber glass, she proceeded down a dark hallway to the very last door on the left. As she opened the door, it revealed a room, consumed with confusion. One of side of the room, everything was in  place, every divot and groove of the furniture was dusted, and every string on the edge of the rug was perfectly straightened. The other side was taken over by dirt and filth and month old pizza’s. Cockroaches had made themselves comfortable in the empty food containers. The room had two personalities. Mrs. Parker picked up a few notebooks, then left the room shutting the door behind her. She went to the shed in the backyard as well, gathering notebooks and placing them in the box labeled recycling. As she was making her way down the pebble stone driveway a green spiral notebook fell off of the stack. She bent down to pick it up and noticed something unusual; there was cursive, girl handwriting scribbled throughout the pages. Dumbfounded, she tilted her head trying to read the writing. He told me not to do that… I should have listened. Mrs. Parker dropped the box full of books, flipped to the first page, and tried swallowing the lump of spit in her throat, but the guilt rising in her stomach kept pushing it back up. She began to read.

Click. The string on the light beyond this door that is keeping me in, was pulled. He was coming.  I slid as far away from the door as the chains would allow me. “I brought you breakfast, eggs and bacon your favorite. No she does like this. Stop you're wrong. SHUT UP!” These were the conversations I often heard. For the longest time I thought someone else was out there, but I soon realized he was just talking to himself. The old wooden door creaked open and the light flooded into the room, along with a refreshing breeze in the otherwise scorching room. Sweat would drip off of my forehead and form a puddle on my arm. I was so thirsty that I would drink my own sweat, which left a foul taste in my mouth, and a hole in my stomach. I slept on a blanket that smelt like rotting corpses, and peed in a bucket. He would come to the door every morning and bring eggs and bacon, empty my pee bucket and have a long argument with himself. I know what you're thinking, eggs and bacon… sounds like I had it easy, but the thing was, they weren't cooked. The egg was liquidy and cold like my insides, and the bacon was raw and fatty. This was the routine I got to know and love, until everything changed.

The day started out routinely, inedible breakfast followed by arguments with himself, except I heard a different more feminine voice.  “Dave, sweety where are you? Are you in the shed again?” My heart started to race, adrenaline pumping throughout my body. This was my chance to get out of here, but before I could pound on the door, Dave was slick and grabbed the stereo's remote and started blasting “I Can feel it Coming in the Air Tonight”. The song blocked out my screeches, my cries for help. I exerted all my strength and power but the chain was relentless. I felt all hope and strength leave my body like water rushing out of a broken dam. Click. The song sang its lasts words, I've been waiting for this moment for all my life...and the shed became silent again. Out of the darkness two hands appeared dragging me out by the hair. I screamed he cut. I screamed again he cut more. The saw was rusty and covered with blood. My blood. “You bad bad girl. We gave you everything. No harm, no touching you. But you had to do this. We can't have that. Now can we.” I was afraid to open my mouth so I nodded, another tear running down my face. He put down the saw and I relaxed until he picked up pruners. He grabbed my neck with his hard veiny hands, and reached into my mouth. Next thing I know there was a puddle of blood beneath me and  Dave grabbed his ears and began to yell, “Stop! Stop crying. Tell her to stop”. He ran over to me, pinned me down and started to choke me. My lungs felt like they were filled with water and the veins in my head were pulsating. I felt around the floor next to me, and my hand rubbed against a brick. I grabbed the brick and bashed it into the side of his skull, over and over and over again. He rolled off of me and I was now the one pinning him down. My hands had a mind of their own and kept picking up the brick and smashing it into his bruised, bloody, deformed face. He mumbled something, so I turned around and grabbed the pruners and served some justice.

Mrs. Parker dropped the book from her hands and stood there with her mouth wide open and a whole in her heart. “My poor baby, beaten to death by that vile, repulsive whore of girl. I  love you and I will only bring honor and love to your name.” Mrs. Parker Proclaimed. She picked up the book, ran inside, and started a fire. “It's all been a pack of lies. I know what you did” she shouted. Grabbing the green notebook, she tossed it in the fire, and left with a smile. That night, when Mrs. Parker was tucked in bed sound asleep a fiery ember flew out of the fireplace. The rug embraced the ember and lit up in flames. Soon, the house became engulfed with fire, and there in her bed laid a crisp, well done Mrs. Parker. Call it fate, or karma, but in the end justice will always be served. Always.