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Beauty in Blood

The walls can't reveal their secrets, and neither shall I.

By SaraPublished 4 months ago 9 min read
Beauty in Blood
Photo by Alexandre Boucey on Unsplash

If walls could talk, they would reveal who killed her.

She was a beautiful young girl, fresh in the university after two years of community college, just beginning to learn the ways of the world, with a perfect job lined up for her. I was merely a friend to her.

She would always prattle on about how she loved doing volunteering at the local shelter, which animals were fun and easy to work with, which were moody and vicious. Well, she wouldn't call them vicious. She would refer to them as 'scared' or 'misunderstood'. But the scratches that regularly appeared on her hand gave a different story. To me, at least. They would always begin to heal, then more would appear, damaging her flawless skin.

Truly, she was selfless. She shared her notes with me after I'd missed a day due to an emergency. I managed to strike up a conversation about a book we'd both read, and the rest was history. I know I was a loner, not really one to open up and talk to someone so easily as she could. She'd talk to anyone, and they would always stop to listen.

She grabbed the attention of her peers easily. She was always praised by her professors for the presentations she would give. Her grades were consistently high, and she would very rarely miss class.

One day of her not attending was unusual, but nothing particularly worrisome. She'd developed a small cold and opted not to come, because her heart of gold insisted she didn't want anyone else to get sick, even if it meant missing a particularly important lecture.

Two days of class went by. Again, not too weird. Colds didn't go away overnight, after all. It would take a few days to get better. She'd taken over-the-counter medicine and had some hot tea. It was just a matter of waiting it out. But, of course, she couldn't go a day without getting some studying done. Exams were in a few weeks, and she didn't want to fall behind in such an important time. I told her to take a break, anyway. She'd run herself through the ringer from what I've seen, and she deserved a few days to rest. But no, she couldn't let her grades drop.

Three days went by. Then four. Five. Six. Seven. A week had gone by, and she was still not in class. Worries started to grow, and unspoken tension spread throughout the class. Her warming presence was no longer there, and students began finding the lectures boring, like every other class that didn't have her there to brighten things up.

Her body was found by her neighbor, after an odd smell began permeating the air in her apartment. Her remains were beginning to bleed into the plush carpet of her bedroom, eventually leaking into the neighbor's ceiling. The police say she was stabbed 7 times in the chest. The marks on her hands indicated a struggle, and apparently, strangulation was not enough to satisfy the killer.

But, as advanced as technology had been, he had been better. The intricate, almost intimate, removal of his DNA had unnerved police officers and forensic teams alike. He knew was he was doing. And he did it with the precision of a professional.

But the trail had gone cold quicker than expected. No one that was in her life could have possibly been as thorough, nor have any sort of motivation. She led a clean life, and made no enemies. The closest they came was an ex boyfriend, who was a medical student in the same school. But based on her texts, there was no indication that they had an unsteady relationship by any means. They simply... fell out of love. Their goals did not align, and both decided it was best to move on. How very noble of them both, to acknowledge that their expectations didn't match, and they ended it, and handled it, like adults.

I was her shoulder to cry on. Though she didn't cry often, she admitted to me that there was a hole in her heart where he had been.

It was possible he could've hired someone to kill her. After all, there had been their rocky moments, contrary to what police had initially believed. They argued once about their living situation, how he tended to be a bit of a slob, and she always ended up cleaning after him. She did not want to be his mother. But was that a reason to kill?

Well, there was no way to find out anymore. He committed suicide shortly before she was found. A single gunshot wound to the temple was all it took.

Both victims were mourned. I, of course, mourned too. My heart was shattered, more so than anyone. It took days for me to go back to class. I couldn't bear her not being beside me, laughing about some silly movie she'd seen the day before, or talking about her friends and their plans.

I wouldn't lie, I did feel left out. I had no real friends besides her. Kinship was necessary, but alas, I was destined to be alone.

The world seemed so much colder without her. The professors were not interested in the lectures anymore, not like she was. Classes were dull. She filled everything with color, no matter where she went. Every room was vibrant, no matter how plain the white bricked rooms were, no matter how lacking in decoration.

Her enthusiasm for the various subjects made it significantly easier for everyone to take in. As I said, everyone hung on to every word spoken. Every question ever asked by her was giving a fulfilling and understandable answer. She was gone. She was unable to explain concepts and problems to the students that found them particularly difficult. I always struggled with the math portions. I fear I will only to continue to struggle from now until I graduate, with a degree in forensic science.

I was no longer receiving any sort of confidence for the projects and presentations, so I gave the bare minimum. As did most everyone, I think. I retreated back into the safety of my shell, and only spoke up if absolutely necessary. She was always so helpful in teaching me how to talk to strangers. But she is gone, and so is my will to talk.

An open casket funeral was held for her. Practically the entire university attended, including some professors. Her club mates were there. As were her friends she talked so often about. Her family, of course. Most classmates, myself included. Her neighbor, who, apparently, occasionally swapped recipes with her and made dinner to give to each other. Other volunteers and employees of the animal shelter. Those that wanted to give flowers, instead donated bags of food to the shelter in her honor.

Her beauty shined, even in the dim lights of the funeral house. She was never the religious type, so no priest was attending. Instead, it was one of her professors, the one she worked closest with, when she frequently visited him after hours for tutoring on lectures she didn't quite grasp. He even saw her as the daughter he never had.

Truthfully, I wanted to go up there and speak about her. To praise her. To acknowledge how much I admired her and her dedication to her studies, and her future. How much effort she put in to be the best student, and to be recognized by veterinarians everywhere for her achievements.

There were no words I could say that would do her justice. But I couldn't say anything. I would likely say too much.

Honestly, even in death, she was perfect. The way the blood covered her neck and chest was a sight to behold. The light dying from her hypnotizing blue eyes was the pinnacle of her exquisite form. How fear danced in her eyes like a ballerina on the stage, under the moonlight casting down on her from her bedroom window. How I wish I could have strangled her without gloves, to properly see my hands wrapped around her throat as she choked for oxygen.

She was still struggling to breathe when I stabbed her. I had to. I had to watch how the blood streamed by her gaping chest, muscles, veins and flesh desperately clenching in the exposed air.

I just couldn't help myself, you see. I could never stop staring at her. I couldn't just ignore how soft her skin was when I held her hand as she passed. I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with love every time I saw her, passed by her in the hall, getting a faint whiff of the soap she used that smelled like tropical fruit.

The ex boyfriend was simply a build up. A prelude, if you will, to my final goal. He had no visible signs of mental illness, but one can always hide them if they knew how to. He went down without a fight, which honestly did surprise me, because he had a lot going for him. He was on the verge of moving onto a doctorate degree, and would've been guaranteed a job as a surgeon. It's a shame that the signs of depression are easy to disguise. Perhaps someone could have intervened sooner.

I will move on myself when the time arises. As of now, I am suspecting that they are getting too close for comfort. There was always a possibility that I could have slipped up somewhere. Though I'm not sure what part of my history would give it away. I always knew how to be the perfect child, to not do anything that could give me away. But I could recognize that my antisocial behavior is... troubling, to say the least. Detectives would surely see that.

Thankfully, walls can't talk. But if they did, they would reveal that I was the one that killed her.

Short Story

About the Creator


I am an avid reader and nonprofessional writer. My dream is to one day get published. I write fiction in various genres, and am currently writing my first novel. Any interaction helps, & contributions are greatly appreciated.

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