writing contest entry

This is for writing contest. The prompt is:“You wake up to find a dead body on the floor—and a bloody knife in your hands. You can’t remember exactly what happened so you piece together the clues.”

Silent Regret

I felt a cold tingly itch on my left hand. I blinked a few short times before fully opening my eyes. Was it morning? I couldn’t remember. My head pounded heavily—most likely a hangover from the night before. I sat up and glanced at the window and saw early sunlight peaking through the broken blinds. Morning, then. I shook my head and winced at the onset of the headache. How much did I drink?

I began to rub my throbbing temples but quickly jerked my hands back when I felt something sticky. A dark brown and red crust covered my palms and fingers. I turned my hands over and saw the same stuff in my fingernails and up my arms.

“Gross,” I muttered. I must’ve gotten into quite a scrape before crawling in to bed late last night. But then why couldn’t I remember?

I brought my arms to my face to examine for injuries and brushed against something cold where my left arm had been resting. The kitchen knife that often gleamed while I prepared dinner was now covered in the same blood that, I realized with a start, was all over my hands.

Forgetting the headache, I scrambled off the bed and looked around wildly. Except for the blood covering myself, there wasn’t much of a mess.

But then I saw it. Shock hit me like a wave and a tremble washed over me like a cold, wet shower. The legs were sticking out from behind my open bedroom door. I stifled a scream and grabbed the phone sitting next to my wallet on the nightstand.

“”911 operator, how may I help you?”

“There’s been a murder in my house.” My voice sounded unnaturally high.

“Hello?”

“18 Elm street. Please hurry.”

“I am still on the line. Is anyone there?” The operator’s steady voice irritated me.

“A murder. There’s been a murder.” I glanced down at my arms and added, “But I promise to God it wasn’t me!”

“We will be tracing this phone call, if anyone is on the line, please remain calm,”

“I am on the line!” I screamed. I was losing it pretty quickly. “Help me!”

“If anyone is there, it is important we know the details so that we can help you.”

I clicked the phone off angrily and went towards the body. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t just sit here and wait for the operator to send a cop over to check on me. Maybe, just maybe, whoever it was, would be okay. And when the police got here, they would see I was only trying to help.

The girl was lying face down, in a pool of blood. I stopped short. She was wearing my shoes. The red flats—the ones I’d nearly worn a hole through. And her dress—that was mine too.

“What in—“ the strangled cry from my own lips sounded animal-like. Memory of last night slapped me in the face. Had I done it? Truly? I didn’t think myself capable! Without care, I fell to my knees and rolled the girl over.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.” How was this possible? Was it possible? I looked down at her all too familiar black-dyed hair and lip ring. She was covered in blood, just as I was. “I’m sorry,” I mouthed. It was a mistake! A sob overtook me. “I’m so sorry.”

I rocked myself back and forth, back and forth, stroking my hair, my eyes, and even the lip ring. Later, I watched silently as strangers took photographs and then took my body away, murmuring together about what could have brought me to end my own life. When they left, I leaned against the wall, listening to the cold, dead silence.