CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains semi-graphic descriptions of death. It mentions blood and car crashes (I think that's all but if there's something else I should mention please tell me). If this may trigger you or make you feel uncomfortable, please read at your own risk.

(799 words)




To whom it may concern
I’m here to tell you the truth; the whole truth. About what happened last Saturday.

It was all a mistake. No one was supposed to be home. I was there when it happened - when she died, that is. But I won't say who it was just yet. Don't go skipping ahead, though; everything I'm about to tell you is of vital importance.

I was in the recording studio at the time, it was easier to focus, what with the soundproof walls. I had some important work to do, writing letters and whatnot, so I could do without the distractions. Margaret, the lovely governess of the little devil children, was in the room over, nursing them. The house was quite large, really. I was only there for the weekend, because I needed somewhere to stay and I knew the family, the Liverdons. Funny, I had a family of imaginary friends as a child of the same name. They were a lovely bunch. I’ve known them since my parents had that car accident; they were always willing to take me in.

The parents weren’t home at the time. It was just me, Margaret, and the children. I was quite close to Margaret; I’d known her my whole life. It felt like that, anyway. She was actually newly employed for the Liverdons, so I only met her this weekend, but we instantly clicked. We talked all morning when I arrived on Saturday. She was nice. She was adroit at caring for the children, too, somehow she got them to shut up. We would have been great friends, I’ll bet. I loved her laugh, it was comforting, like my mother’s. She had a smile like my father’s.

I was in the middle of drafting a letter to my father when I heard someone open the front door. I called out to Margaret to see if she had heard it, too, but she didn’t reply, so she mustn't have heard me. I shrugged it off and turned back to my letter. I must have imagined it.

At first I thought someone was using a leaf blower, but realised it must be footsteps after locating the direction of the noise. They couldn’t be Margaret’s, she wore light sneakers, and these footsteps were heavy boots, galumphing up the hallway. Margaret was in the other room, anyway. She couldn’t be walking up the hall and nursing the children. At this point I was only curious, I crouched down and peeked out the crack underneath the door. Hondas Doc Martens. Whoever owned those must have a comfortable amount of money. They walked slowly, but not carefully - not precisely. The air melted from shards of ice to wet tar; suffocating, sinister, almost wanting me to believe it was honey. They paused outside my door. My heart was pounding. I was convinced they were up to no good. I rushed back from the door and into the cupboard, as quietly as possible. Seconds later, the door creaked open.

Aglifft, my breath was shallow and my thundering heart was loud. I hoped whoever was there couldn’t hear me. They were at the turning point, their footsteps like monsters growling, but the noise was soft, threatening, almost comforting. The floorboards sizzled under the crackling growl. I snuck a glance through the crack in the door of the cupboard. The room was dark, only lit by a bedside lamp, but I could see them. Glinting. They were shiny, grey, menacing. Their footsteps echoed in my ears. Or was that my heart? The melange of fumes thickened in the quivering air, burning my skin.

My eyes stopped working. I heard a growl, a screech of tyres, a crash, glass shattering, silence.

Everything stopped.

All I could hear was a ringing in my ears.

Headlights. Horns. Sirens.




Everything melted away, and there was only me.



Me. Trapped in an endless void.


Me. Free in an endless void.



Me.



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I came back to reality eventually, my senses slowly returning to me. I was dizzy, but I still rushed from the cupboard. I needed to check on Margaret. I barged through the car door. There she was, in the drivers’ seat, head against the wheel, blood on her forehead. There she was, in the passengers’ seat, head hanging down, blood on her neck. It happened again.

The Liverdons had always been lovely, ever since I first moved in with them as a child - after my parents had their accident. Their house was always eerily silent, and the wind would blow through it, chilling me to the bones. They were my family. My made-up family. My happy family. They were mine.

I hope this explains the murder of Margaret Garcia. She really was like my parents.