A Mess in the Pages by Andie Howell

My first experience with murder happened when I was eight. It was a nice day, and I remember being a little annoyed that it hadn’t snowed yet. I was walking to school, alone, when this man pushed past me. He ran out of a driveway towards a beat-up Jeep, quickly screeching off of the street. I didn’t pay much attention to him, as that was when I heard the horrible noise from the driveway.

God, I’ll never forget that noise. It was kind of like a gurgling retch, or maybe she was coughing. I guess I’ll never know. Anyway, that was when I saw her. She was wearing this ugly brown dress, with far too many necklaces around her neck. She almost looked like she was sleeping. I would have thought she was, if I hadn’t also seen the blood gushing from her neck, and down the driveway. It was almost beautiful, how quickly everything was coated with red. I was just standing there, staring at the corpse. I didn’t move when her blood got to me feet, completely soaking my brand new school shoes. I didn’t move when a teenager found me, and called for an ambulance. I didn’t move until my mom arrived, crying and pulling me away. The corpse had a name, but I didn’t learn it until I was a few months into therapy.

Her name was Elizabeth Karofsky, and she was the first corpse I had ever seen.

It’s hard to believe I still remember everything, after forty years. I’ve moved on! I have a kid the same age I was at the time, and I still remember every drop of blood. We both know that Elizabeth’s death is not why I’m here. If you want to know the truth, you have to let me tell my story. And yes, that includes the cold case from the eighties. You can’t tell a good story without an origin, right?

I started writing when I turned twelve. It was a journal, and my mother got it for me on my birthday. It took me three weeks to fill it with memories. Most of the pages were filled with retellings of the murder. What the man looked like, the necklaces she had worn and the look of horror on the teenager’s face. I went back into therapy for that little stunt, and I’m still not too sure what I did wrong. Anyway, Mom got me a new journal. And this time, I filled it with stories. Stories about cursed castles, and forgotten legends. I even managed to sneak in a few details about the murder in them. Mom didn’t notice, and she immediately got me into a creative writing program for kids.

I published my first short story almost two years later. It was about a boy who spent his entire life following a red river, trying to find the treasure at the end. I can’t remember the title, so don’t bother looking it up. My parents were so proud, they framed the cover and put it on the hallway wall. I didn’t have the heart to tell them what I based it on, and they didn’t seem to notice.

You want me to tell you about the second time? Fine. I was about twenty-five, and my first novel had just sold one hundred copies. I went out with a couple of friends to celebrate at this local bar. The Diamond String, I think. Strange place with a roof that always seemed to be leaking. We went often enough to have a usual order, and that’s what we got. I personally had one of those Island beers. Altogether, there were five of my friends there, and this one guy I had never seen before. My friend Brian said he was a cousin, so I let him come along.

As per usual, we ended up drunk off our asses. Not exactly the most dignified part of my life, but it’s the truth. We stumbled out of the Diamond String, hollering at passing cars. I think we broke a window at some point, but that’s not important.

Jackson, my best friend at the time, convinced us to go to the bridge. You know, the one over the Coulson River? Yeah, that one. It took us about twenty minutes, but we got there in one piece. He stumbled over to the edge, peering over as if he had dropped his glasses. When he straightened up again, he had the widest grin I had ever seen on a human being. He told me to climb over, saying he’d give me two grand to walk along the entire side of the bridge.

Now, I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. I told him to screw off, and that horrible grin vanished. He gave Brian’s cousin the same deal, and the guy took it. He climbed over the edge, and began shimmying across. I think he made it about halfway when it happened.

I guess Jackson had a lot more to drink than the rest of us, or maybe he had something stronger. But as soon as Brian’s cousin stopped to take a breath, Jackson shoved him. The cousin fell into Coulson River, and just vanished. After that, I don’t really remember much. I know that they never found his body, and I know that none of us got any jail time over it. Jackson’s dad was a lawyer, and made sure we all got off scot-free.

I’m getting to the point, okay? Geez, it’s only been ten minutes, and you act like it’s the end of the world. It’s not like I have no idea what I’m here for. You want to know what happened the third time, before I’m carted off to my death sentence. And if you want to find out, you have to let me finish.

It was about two weeks ago. Christmas, in fact. Ellie (that’s my daughter) had left with her mom, and they were on their way to her apartment. I spent Christmas with my mom. She was going on about how wonderful Ellie is, and I tried to listen. Anyway, the topic had somehow switched to my ex-wife, Veronica.

Veronica was the worst human being since Hitler. Completely off her rocker, and she refused to read even one of my books. Not very supportive, if you ask me. Mom talked about Veronica’s new promotion at work, and how wonderful the witch treated Ellie. I had a glass of wine a few minutes earlier, and this really wasn’t helping my mood. I hated Christmas at home, and another one of my books had been banned in this stupid Christian school in California. Everything piled up, and I guess talking about the witch was the straw that broke my back. I used the carving knife from the turkey, and just whaled on Mom. She screamed at first, but it was so therapeutic when she finally stopped.

Writing murder mysteries for almost forty years really helped me clean up the evidence. I completely ruined Mom’s mop. It was a nice mop, and I had hoped to get it in her will. Of course, that’s when the witch came back. Apparently, Ellie had left the present for Veronica’s boyfriend behind. I always told her that she would lose her head if it wasn’t stuck on her shoulders. I guess Ellie inherited that from me.

Well, what was I supposed to do? The witch saw me dragging a dead body down the stairs. I would be caught either way. And the witch deserved to die. Veronica’s body tumbled right through the front door and next to Ellie’s bag on the lawn. I’ll never forget the look on my daughter’s face. Ah, well. I guess she’s more like me than I realized, eh? Seeing a murder at eight, blood soaking into her shoes…Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I wasn’t bound to kill sooner or later, with the life I’ve lived. I’m just glad you never found the knife. Looks like I did something right.

Oh, and if you were wondering? It’s much more fun than being the witness.