Interrogation and officers
CHAPTER III “Sir, do you have a minute?” I stop immediately. Sweat drops form on my forehead and temples. I thought that if I could…
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CHAPTER III “Sir, do you have a minute?” I stop immediately. Sweat drops form on my forehead and temples. I thought that if I could…
CHAPTER II So, I head straight to the kitchen. Am I doing the right thing, I wonder, or will I regret doing this? I take…
CHAPTER I I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. There is no reasonable explanation that would justify this. I would never get away with it. Nobody…
CHAPTER I
I can’t.
I mean, I shouldn’t.
There is no reasonable explanation that would justify this. I would never get away with it. Nobody in the history of humanity has ever gotten away with it. But it’s so irresistible. So close. I should just do it. What if I become the first person to ever get away with this? What if there are already people who don’t get caught even though they do it every day? What if there are people who are so good at this that nobody notices it? Not even their friends and family. What if I can be one of them? Can’t I just…? It is so easy, really. It shouldn’t be that hard at all. I am capable of doing this. I know I am. I will never be closer to it than now. Now is the time. Now or never. I can feel my temples getting sweatier. The sweat drips from my forehead to my jaw and continues its way down my neck. My pulse is the only thing I can hear. It feels like I am standing underneath the shower, the water gushing over my head and creating a sound so loud and quiet at the same time.
Come on, now. Do it. Don’t hesitate, just go in, do the job, go out. After this, I can just come home again. And relax. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus all your energy and put it into this one job. I don’t have to think about it while I’m doing it, right? I mean, it shouldn’t be a problem for me to just zone out during the job. I zone out even just thinking about it. It’s the only thing I have been thinking about for the last few years. I trust my gut. I trust my instincts. Okay. Let’s go.
“Celeste!”
In the distance, I can hear somebody calling my name. I am at home alone, though. At least that is what I thought I was.
“Celeste!” The voice is coming closer and as the steps of the person become more intelligible, I sigh out of frustration. It is my mother. She must have been so quiet the entire time that I haven’t even noticed her still being here. “You are running late for your 10 a.m. class!”
I thought she had already left for work. I quickly run to my backpack which is on my bed and pretend to pack it for the day. Standing in the middle of your room and doing nothing would look a little bit disturbing, I figure.
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave in a few minutes.”, I answer as I can hear her entering my room.
My mom shouldn’t be here. I have planned this for two weeks and now I have to cancel it. The most annoying thing in the world is cancelling something that you have planned forever, isn’t it? I have waited for so long. Last night, I even dreamed of it.
However, the rational side of my brain tells me that I will probably have to postpone it. Because, even more important than doing this job, is my not getting caught.
“Celeste, why don’t you put a little bit less effort into your appearance?”, my mom asks me from behind. If I didn’t know my mother and her twisted sense of humor that is always served with a grain of sarcasm, I would have been confused by her statement. Because I am in fact not over-dressed in any sense. Not even in the slightest.
“I think I look good enough.”, I simply throw her way, moving my gaze down to my clothes.
“Good enough.”, she mimics me, “I don’t think good enough is a standard to live by.”
“And I don’t think blue goes with pink.”, I counter, referring to her outfit.
My mom teaches geography and history to middle school students. And she looks exactly like what you would imagine a typical teacher looking like. She has shoulder-length chocolate brown hair and usually wears glasses. I say usually, because sometimes when she wants to impress a guy, she takes them off and paints crazy colors onto her eyelids. Like blue.
Her job as a teacher earns her enough money. But sometimes she works nightshifts as a compartment manager at the grocery store, especially at times when we are short of cash.
She is a little shorter than me and very fit for her age. Sometimes she tries desperately to take me with her to go for a run, but as much as I can, I say no. For my own safety.
My mother’s mouth forms a horizontal oval to say something back but then she stops to think about what I just said. Her eyes hastily move up and down her own clothes. “Now just hold on, are you serious? I bought these pants at my favorite thrift shop. And this shirt is from your grandma.”
My eyebrows try to touch each other while I frown at my mother. “Oh.”, I let out, “Now I am scared that Nana will haunt me from the heavens.”
“Celeste!”, she warns me. “Don’t you dare!” In her voice I can make out the form of anger that people have whenever they disagree because they think it is the morally right thing to do, not because they actually disagree.
“I am late, see you later.”, I quickly say before the conversation can get more heated and leave the room.
I take my backpack that’s already packed for the day and leave the house.
I take the usual road to school. With my bike, I roam the streets of Connecticut, the place I have grown up in. Since I live on 230 Cold Spring Road in Stamford, Connecticut, my college campus is only a few blocks away. I attend the University of Connecticut. I study Business and Economics. Like most students who attend that school.
The breeze this morning is beautiful, like on every autumn morning.
If I didn’t have to look on the streets for the sake of not creating a mass accident on the road, I would have closed my eyes. There is something about closed eyes and wind that resonates with me. My head feels lighter, my shoulders get released from the burden they have been carrying the night before from studying and the world seems a little bit more bearable.
Studying Business and Economics is the biggest common ground I share with the people at my college.
However, it is also the only common ground we will ever step on at the same time.
Other than most of my colleagues in college, I didn’t have to move out for college, which also means that I don’t live in the dorms. That doesn’t make my inability to socially connect to people any easier.
Asperger’s Syndrome.
That is what I tell people whenever they ask me why I act the way that I do. Why I can’t attend this party or that dinner. Why I can’t look them in the eyes without having my blood flow through my veins so fast that anybody can practically hear my pulse. Why I eat the same thing and why it never gets old to me. Why my understanding of comfort is so much different from their understanding of it.
All the other students talk so smoothly to each other like it’s no big deal, not only because they are neurotypical people, but also – and this is the main reason why – because they live together. I have to pretend to be a talkative, intelligent and charming guy. Whether I come off as charming or not is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe everybody just thinks that I am a try-hard idiot who thinks he could compete with the rest of the world by trying to mimic their behavior.
I like to imagine that people don’t ever doubt my social skills. That to them, I am just another student who has no problem holding a conversation about the weather. In reality, that is just as far from the truth as the governmental explanation for 9/11.
There is nothing more terrifying to me than having to talk to people. It makes my stomach feel empty and full at the same time. It makes me want to hide in my room and never step foot outside ever again.
The last 500 feet of the ride to college get really hard to ride because of the uphill road. As if the professors wanted to tell us that we have to suffer to get a taste of college. This is a foretaste for the next four years of your life.
Although I have showered in the morning, I am sweaty like somebody who has lifted weights double their own body weight. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back underneath my black sweater. It gives me the shivers, the same way that somebody who touches your face with really cold hands makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.
As soon as I get to my campus, I leave my bicycle amongst all the other bicycles which are leaned against each other by a wall at the backside of the main building. I don’t lock it up. Because I don’t have a lock for it. And besides, nobody would steal my bike. It is so rusty and old that it could break anytime while riding it. Honestly, if anybody stole my bike, I wouldn’t even be angry. Why? Two things. Firstly, that would mean that they were so desperate to ride a bike that they went out of their way to ride the ugliest, cheapest, un-safest – and did I already say ugliest? – bicycle in the world. No, in the whole entire universe that we live in. Heck, even in all the other parallel, alternate universes. Desperate would be the best and only word to describe somebody who would steal my bike.
And the second reason why the theft of my bike would make me happy is that it would finally give me a good enough reason to get a part-time job, save up and buy a new one. One that doesn’t let out a cracking sound with every movement that I do while riding it. One that would make me look a little bit cooler amongst all the other students.
While making my way through the crowd of professors, students and janitors to the hall where the lecture is going to take place in three minutes, I am still extremely out of breath. My face feels warm and my palms have gotten sweaty. I dry them off on my pants.
As I enter the lecture hall, it is packed with people. Everybody is talking to each other and since this is a hall, the volume of their voices gets amplified by at least a thousand. My chest widens and shrinks to its regular size with every breathing cycle I take.
It is okay, it is not as loud as the last time I was here, I tell myself. Memento mori, memento mori. Remember that you will die. This won’t matter once you are buried deep underneath the ground. Calm down. Focus on something else.
Then I remember why I am here.
For the lecture.
So, I will need to focus on finding a seat somewhere near the podium.
I can’t seem to find a seat because of the sheer over-crowdedness of the hall. Then, out of nowhere, the professor appears in front of the black bord, in the middle of the hall.
“Good morning, students!” My eyes catch the sight of him and as soon as they do, my stomach strikes. My heart must have skipped a beat out of fear of being grilled by him. If there was an emotion that described hate, but in a more barbaric, gruesome and nerve-wrecking way, it would be exactly what I feel towards him. I passionately hate this professor. Professor Michael Schwarz.
While my gaze is locked into his face, I am still standing in the hall. In the corners of my eyes, I can vaguely see that everybody else has already taken their seats.
“Mister…”, the professor begins while moving his eyes to me. The students around me start giggling. Then and only then I realize that he must be referring to me. The apples of my cheeks must have turned red by now because of the exaggerated heat I feel underneath them. My chest rises and falls faster now.
“Y-Young!”, I quickly answer.
“Mister Young, are you trying to plant your seeds into the ground?”, more giggles of students who seem to find Schwarz funny. “Please stop standing there like a forgotten scarecrow and take your seat. Thank you.” He doesn’t even look at me while talking directly to me.
I look around for a time that feels longer than a boring conversation with my uncle about finances.
“Cel!”
I turn my head to the person who just whispered my name. In the crowd full of people one pair of hazel eyes meets mine. “Cel! Over here!”, she whispers in a way that makes her voice louder than her regular speaking voice. Louna Brown is one of the few people who know me from high school, because, well, we went to the same high school. Other than most students at college, she understands that I function a little bit different from the Average Joe. That is why she treats me with some extra care.
Sometimes, I like being treated according to the person who I am. Other times I can’t help but find it annoying, especially when she tries to baby me.
“Excuse me.”, I pardon my way through the small space between the narrow long table and the bench that is so long that it can probably fit around thirty students. On my way to the much sought-after free seat, I almost trip over what feels like an infinity number of feet.
“Hi.”, she greets me with her cheesy grin.
I finally sit down. “Hey.”, I greet her back with my eyes directed at the table. I briefly glance at her for a second. She is wearing her hair in a messy bun that sits at the top of her head, her bangs covering most of her forehead. The sweater she is wearing has black and white stripes. It looks like it feels probably very itchy on the skin. I bet it is one of those old scraps that she likes to call vintage. Her eyes, hazel and warm like a hot cup of cocoa, catch mine. I look away and take out my notes as well as the piece of paper I wrote my homework on.
“You did the homework?”, Louna asks with real astonishment in her voice.
I shrug my shoulders. “Yeah.”
“Good boy.”, she teases me.
My facial expression doesn’t change as I ask: “I bet you didn’t?”
“Correct!”, she laughs. “I couldn’t care less about it.”
You will care about it once the finals come around, I think.
“Besides, I am not a grind, like you.”, she adds.
“I am not- “, my word is cut off by Professor Schwarz. I can’t stand that guy. The wavelength of his voice makes my ears dumb and a cold shiver go through my whole body.
“Since you are already talking, why don’t you tell us about the case study that was due today, Mister Young?”
It’s a mutual feeling, I guess.
“Sure. So, the case study…”, I clear my throat and pause for a long time. It feels like a million years. I look at the piece of paper that I wrote my notes on last night. The words look so foreign, as if they were written in a different, secret language.
I hate being asked questions on the spot. Why did he pick me out of all the students in this hall? My fingers curl up into a fist. My anger is getting out of control, that without realizing it, I bunch up the paper in my hand. It feels like at least a hundred pairs of eyes are looking at me now. I close my eyes in the hopes of everything just being a dream. Memento mori. Memento-
I suddenly feel a hand on my shoulder, warm and soft. “Cel. I am here.”
Her voice dances its way through my ears, flows into my heart and hugs it tightly. I open my eyes, looking at my fist and the bunched-up paper. How am I supposed to read my notes now? Great.
As if reading my mind, Louna says: “You know it. Celeste, you always know the homework by heart.”
Do I?
The glands in my palms release a huge amount of sweat. In the corners of my eyes, I can see my chest going up and down fast. I can hear myself breathing and smell the cigarette-stained breath that comes out of my mouth.
“Okay.”, Professor Schwarz interrupts the silence, “So you can talk a lot, but it’s all meaningless, huh?”
Memento mori. Memento mori. Memento mori.
“Never mind. Be better prepared next time, Mister- “
“Professor!”, I stand up from my seat and look at the blackboard to avoid eye-contact with Schwarz directly, “I can.”
He looks at me without saying anything. I can’t quite read the expression on his face. It is something between surprise and worry.
Then, totally unexpected, it comes out naturally.
As soon as I open my mouth, one word follows the other and sentences start to form. I can’t hear what I am saying exactly, just some words here and there. I can hear my voice trembling and myself stuttering over expressions like financial analysis and stock exchange boom. However, I also can’t stop talking. My hands gesticulate without my permission. My eyes are the only senses that I can control. I look around to see people’s reactions. But all I can see is a sea full of colored dots.
“… stocks, mutual funds and bank deposits would all classify as examples of financial as-assets. To conclude, it is decisive for an investor to keep that in mind and thus, consider a financial advisor.”
After presenting the case study, I am quite out of breath. In front of my eyes, blackness forms. I quickly sit back down. I am still out of breath.
My eyes move around the hall to see if anyone has even listened. However, their faces are very hard to read.
From the side, I feel a semi-hard dig in my ribs. “Ow!”, I let out a little louder than planned. Well, it wasn’t exactly planned that I would be punched in the ribs either.
I look at Louna who has the biggest grin on her face. “What was that for?” I rub the site I got the dig on.
“I told you, Einstein, didn’t I?”
“What?”, I confusingly ask her.
,She doesn’t answer, but simply nods her head towards Professor Schwarz. I follow her gaze and I am met with an expression on his face that I had never been blessed to see until this day. Confusion, shock, yes even a little perplexity and denial. His thick black eyebrows have moved up and seem to be able to stretch as far as the entire length of his forehead. Wrinkles appear at the top of his forehead and his mouth forms what looks like the beginning of a sentence. But nothing comes out. Maybe he thinks that I am still going?
“That, that is it.”, I clarify.
“Ha”, Professor Schwarz says,” funny, eh?”
“Excuse me?”
He clears his throat. “Did somebody whisper the answers into your ear?” Giggles.
“No, Sir.”
He laughs, seemingly amused. “I know. I didn’t expect that from you. Don’t be afraid to show us more of … whatever that was. No false modesty, eh?”
Professor Schwarz proceeds to give a nonchalant smile and turns to the blackboard to write down the key points of what I just said.
“Hey, Young!”, somebody tips at my shoulder from behind. “That was hella fire, bro!”
“Th-thanks.”
Some of the students sitting next to that guy start giggling. Like many times in my life, I don’t understand what they are laughing at. Don’t get me wrong, I do laugh with them. But just so my colleagues won’t think that I am a weirdo or outcast. This is what I mean, when I say that I don’t have any social skills. On the outside people might find me alright or even a tad bit likeable. But on the inside, I am at war with myself, trying to figure out the rights and distinguishing them from the wrongs.
After the class ends, Louna says goodbye rather quickly and runs to her next class which already started fifteen minutes ago. “Why is my schedule so dang complicated?”, she asks while disappearing into the crowd full of students who try to find their way out of the lecture hall.
Because you never pay attention to the rules in the enrollment phase, I answer in my head. But I don’t think that she really expected an answer.
I also pack my stuff and put the bunched-up homework-paper in my bag. Maybe I will need it later, I think.
You know it. Celeste, you always know the homework by heart.
Would she throw it away?
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter what she would do. I need to do it the way I would do it. What if someday I won’t have her as the guider of my decisions anymore? What if she dies before me?
I shake my head again, this time a lot harder than before, in the hopes of getting that stupid idea out of my head. I breathe out, yes, but it will happen to all of us, won’t it? Someday each and every one of us is going to die, like people who have accidents and diseases, like heart problems and cancer. We will all die. Everybody has a set date of their death and life is just the path which leads us directly into our grave.
It doesn’t matter how hard I shake my head at that stupid idea, it won’t make it any less true. So, I spare myself the headaches that come along with it.
I want to head straight home, when I’m stopped by one of my colleagues. “Hey. You got a minute?”
Melody. Dark brown hair. Light blue eyes. Skin as pale as the first snow that falls in winter.
I look back to make sure that she is talking to me. Nobody looks like they have been addressed by her, so I proceed to answer. “Sure.” My hands are starting to sweat. I wipe them off on my pants. I didn’t plan on meeting her so early today. And certainly not here.
“Some students are throwing a party this weekend.”, she lets me know.
“A party?”, I echo.
“You know, a semester-has-started-but-we-still-need-a-break kind of party.”, she grins quietly to herself, “Would you be interested in coming to the party?”
I am so mesmerized by her smooth way of talking that I almost forget to give her an answer. The way she doesn’t stumble over her words at all makes me envious of her.
Then I stutter some words out. “Sure, I mean… I’m not really sure. I’ll have to see. But if I don’t have any plans that day, I’ll be there?” It sounds more like a question than an answer.
She doesn’t seem to be bothered by my question-like answer. “Sounds great!”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow then.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Then I finally leave the big, loud, terrifying lecture hall. Amongst all the tangle in human form outside the lecture building, I find my bike and get on it to escape this chaos.
The breeze hits my face and carries a fresh scent of autumn. Brittle and cold.
Melody is one of those people whose parents pay for their entire life. She doesn’t have to worry about anything, meanwhile I go gray thinking about the tuition. You know, I don’t have anything against Melody in particular. And she is a nice girl. She never seems to have any problems in life and she gets along with everybody. However, I can’t help myself but feel jealousy. Whenever I see people mastering things with ease that I struggle with on the daily, it just gets the better of me. Sometimes I ask myself whether I would be a struggler if I had perfect and rich parents.
Nonetheless, it is more than just impossible for everybody on this planet to have wealthy and loving parents. It would be a lot easier to get rid of those who actually do have those kinds of parents instead of giving everybody perfect parents. Just theoretically speaking.
Ever since I noticed the difference between her and me, I have always wondered what the world would look like without people like her. Without her.
On top of that, I get really nervous when talking to those kinds of people. They symbolize perfection. It is like they hold a mirror in front of me to show me what kind of a loser I am.
I get home earlier than calculated and throw myself onto my bed. The soft and silky bedsheets welcome my face with a warm scent of flowers and … what is the other one? Something like mango and tropical fruits? A fruity and berry, yet still sweet and sugary smell, like honey. The kind of smell that could take you away into a memory of your childhood that your brain has stored in the back of your head. Finger paint and white t-shirts, ice cream dripping from its cone because of the hot humidity which lies in the air. Burning ache on your knee after grazing it during way too many rounds of playing tag all day long. Whatever it is, I like that scent. But today, it brings back a very special memory. It immediately takes me back to those kinds of days ten years ago in mid-summer when Mom used to do the laundry while I sat on her bed and watched TV. Her calm voice echoing in the house, the smile on her face which was almost always followed by a cheerful laugh.
I roll on my back and look up. My eyelids are too weak to stay open. They feel as though somebody put heavy weights on each one.
And without realizing it, three and a half hours have passed when I wake up again.
I stretch like a cat. So much so that I can hear my back cracking.
“Mom?”, the tired sound of my voice doesn’t feel familiar at all.
I go around the house and search for my mother. After not finding her, I conclude that my mom isn’t home yet.
Since yesterday I couldn’t do what I had planned to do in such a long time, I have to avail myself of the opportunity to do it now. It is a hard job and I am not sure if I can pull through it. What if I bail out in the last minute?
I still have a lot of homework to do, I think in my head. And there is that test coming up very soon that I will have to be studying for. Plus, I also can’t forget about the thing Professor Schwarz told me today. Don’t be afraid to do more of what you did today, or something along those lines. I have to be more active and furtherly participate in the lessons.
But I can’t miss another chance. If I bail out this time, I will probably never have the courage to do it another time. I have to focus on the end goal, the ultimate objective of my action today. Its impact in a few years, heck even in a decade. The effects it could have on the future. It all depends on what I decide to do today.
Memento mori. Remember that you will die.
My indecisiveness gets the better of me. I nervously jump from one foot to the other.
What would Louna do?
Louna is the personification of the word mess. She never plans anything ever, because she always has a deep conviction that the best things that happen in life do so by coincidence. By the flip of a coin, by chance. Like the time we met for the first time. The short story is that she found me in a dumpster at the back side of the entrance of our school building. The long story is … long.
Maybe I should let this be decided by chance. By the flip of a coin.
From the back pocket of my jeans, I take out a quarter penny out of my wallet.
Heads, I do it. Tails, I bail out.
My hands are starting to sweat. I feel a deep ache in my chest, as if somebody just punched me with so much force that they hoped my heart would stop beating from the impact. The pain goes down and seemingly finds a comfortable place right in my stomach which it doesn’t leave for another while.
I flip the coin, catch it in the air and slap it onto the back of my hand.
Whatever you are showing right now, I hope it is the right thing, I tell the coin in my head as if it could read my mind, let alone understand my language.
My right hand is still covering the coin which is lying on the backside of my left hand. I slowly release my hand and let the coin reveal its side.
Heads. The coin is showing heads.
– END OF CHAPTER I –
TAGS
#crime #thriller #mystery #literary #fiction #firstchapter #suspense #vintage #2005
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