May the bullet not find me (part 2)

Aimee lived in a tiny house fitted snugly between two towering bureaucracies. Brightly yellowed, her home served as an example of how houses could remind one of the sun without being ugly or sunburnt.1

Aimee glanced behind her, although her hurried gaze did not perceive Alea as the door opened and then swallowed her into safety. 2

Alea’s mind stabbed back into the present as she slipped on the stairs. Cautiously she reached out and rang the doorbell, grasping Aimee’s coat like a security blanket. 3

A cautiously familiar voice enquired as to Alea’s identity. 4

The jacket was a peace offering. The password that resulted in the door opening.5

Why are you here, Alea? To return the coat? 6

Helpless repetition. Alea decided she did not like this feeling.7

Studied carefully by cerulean mistrust, Alea was told she could enter. 8

She followed Aimee inside, handing over the coat. Memories of greeting hugs and familiarity with a now-clouded paper doll. Where was the connection?9

Alea cautiously moved into the living room. Glitter-framed images adorned the walls – Aimee and a redheaded girl who looked to be about Alea’s age. They were photographically locked in scenes of laughter and occasionally thrown liquid substances: paintball, milkshakes, car washing. Smiles; brightness and memories. Odd that Alea recalled exactly these scenes with Aimee, down to the photographer’s shoes. But there had never been a redhead, that she could recall. Alea began to feel uneasy. 10

Her eye was drawn to a photo above the mantelpiece. It depicted Aimee and the mysterious redheaded girl, laughing almost maniacally as the redhead emptied a milkshake over Aimee’s head. In the lower right corner, scrawled across Aimee’s skirt, Alea read: 11

Aimee,12

I thought you would want this photo,13

to remind you of good times and14

the smell of month-old milkshake!15

Danielle.16

The walls seemed to pulsate around the photo as Alea read the caption. The words were burned into her memory – she recalled sending this exact photo to Aimee just after she’d moved to London. But that handwriting was not her own. It was impossible. There could not possibly be such a coincidence.17

Alea studied the photo, dizzily hoping that this “Danielle” would somehow morph and recreate Alea’s face, so that this would all make sense at last.18

Aimee entered the room. Her confirmation of the redhead’s identity caused Alea’s dizziness to increase. A trancelike nausea caused the pictures to melt before her vision. However Alea found that while a sense of panic caused words to fly through her conscious mind, her mouth refused to convey this trepidation. 19

It should be me in those photos. I remember the paintball and the car washing and throwing the milkshake over Aimee’s head.20

Aimee had turned pale, and she looked frightened, silent. She watched Alea as a caged animal would watch a new inmate; cautiously and for signs of weakness. Alea found she returned her gaze exactly, involuntarily. 21

You should leave, Alea. Fear stitched semi-requests together. Trapped, a metre from the wall. Aimee shook her head, shuddered, the motion of shaking away a repulsive substance. Stay away, Alea. Stay away! 22

Alea did not heed her trembling command, taking hold of Aimee’s shoulders and shaking her. The frustration, the confusion ate at the edges of her vision. How such incomprehension could exist was beyond her. Aimee should know her. 23

She should know me. How could she not know me? That should be me in those photos. This can’t be the Aimee I remember. 24

She wondered why the tears her mind wished to cry were not springing to her eyes. 25

Aimee tried to prise Alea’s hands away. Let go, Alea. Please... please let go. Alea shook her, deaf to her pleas. Why does she not understand? Does she not see me?26

The wall was smudged with Aimee’s bloody whimpering. Her pleas struggled from her lips; the tears that shimmered in her eyes refused to spill. 27

Alea’s conscious thoughts conflagrated; anger at her own incomprehension, rage stemming from Aimee’s inability to agree. Fury surged through her fingertips, and the air trembled blackly around them.28

* * * *29

Her hands were red; had she been painting again? 30

Memories of children-painting-friendships spun over the walls and Alea found herself inside an abstract mockery of reality, with direction indistinguishable.31

Her hands were of oxidised flesh. All attempts to scrub away the cerise residue succeeded only in spreading it further, grinding it deeper. The mirror distorted deliriously aphotic eyes reined in by funereal hair.32

Recollection snapped back. Aimee lay on the floor. Stared up at her. Photos scattered the ground; hands clenched at air. Exanimate. Alea dropped to her knees beside her friend. Fingers to lips, checking for movement of air. None. To throat, searching for movement of blood. None. Alea became aware of the clock’s slow and surreal ticking as a heaviness settled over her conscious; the adrenaline surge leaking out of her mouth, her lips, transforming to sickness.33

Alea wrenched herself upright, onto numbed feet. With vigilant speed she reached past Aimee’s bloodless face. Clutching a photo of Aimee and ‘Danielle’ – for reference purposes – she seized Aimee’s keys and fled to Aimee’s car. Operated it by instinct; she had no memory of learning to drive. Throwing the vehicle into gear, Alea sped from the driveway, hoping that she would be able to find the place she was looking for. 34

The Doctor’s workplace. Not bothering to lock the car behind her, Alea ran inside. Ignoring the secretary, relying on memories made faint by fear, she found the office she sought. He was inside, the door open. She stepped inside, shutting it behind her; saw his studious face become one of mild alarm, concern. 35

He shut the file he was working on, eyeing the red stains on her clothes. Enquired as to her problem. His tone was more that of an overconfident mechanic than the insipidly compassionate Doctor she remembered in the hospital.36

Alea approached him, dropped Aimee’s and Danielle’s faces on the desk. 37

A pause. He seemed unsure how to respond – or perhaps how to mask the truth. 38

Tell me who they are! 39

Calm now, in control. The Doctor stood, came around to the other side of his desk. Friendly, comforting, bland. 40

She’s dead. Admission of unfelt, psychological guilt. Dead. Exanimate; melting with claret breathlessness into the carpet. Trembling adrenaline in lips, eyes, spilling from her fingertips. Seeping over photographs.41

Ever calm and unconcerned, the Doctor stated that her file should be located in order for a discussion to occur. He departed, intending to return momentarily.42

Alea watched the Doctor leave, and then looked back at his desk. There was a mass of folders, files, scrawled notes. After staring at this accumulation of information for a few minutes, Alea found she felt a tingling of curiosity. Standing, she leaned over the desk and shifted the pile.43

Alea. A simple word on a manila folder; she frowned.44

She heard footsteps approaching and so did not touch the folder, but felt suspicion permeating her muscles. The door opened, and the Doctor stepped in. Alea turned to face him. Before either could speak, two Policemen followed him into the room. Alea looked sharply at the Doctor’s betrayal. His apology. And he truly did appear remorseful, but the regret in his eyes was self-serving rather than a product of conscience.45

Alea found her arms twisted behind her back, cold steel around her wrists. She was dragged from the room, with the right to remain silent. 46

* * * *47

“It was not simple to locate you, the first time,” the Psychologist leaned on the desk, playing the Psychologist game. “At first we believed we were searching for a man. It’s not often we meet a female killer; of greater rarity is one who targets other females.”48

Alea did not respond. She stared at the wall and wore the pout of a three year old caught drawing a princess on the wall with a red crayon; punished but not made to understand what she had done wrong. 49

The Psychologist leaned in closer, excluding the Detectives hung against the wall. “Are you listening to me, Lorelei?” he demanded.50

Finally, hooded eyes met ignited ones, although Alea’s murky stare did not brighten with the grave, corrective irritation in her tone. “Alea.”51

The Psychologist paused, and then gave an unanticipated smile. “Actually, Lorelei,” placing emphasis on the name, “Alea is not your name. It is merely a pseudonym; a sort of code name so that your true identity could remain concealed.” He was complacent, thoughtful. “A title for the experiment, if you will.”52

Alea stared at him, but carefully ensured that only a ghost of her confusion was displayed on her features. She was inquisitive due to boredom, nothing more. 53

The Psychologist’s smile cemented itself, certain it had gained the upper hand. “You’re not aware yet, are you?” He did not pause for a response. “You were the subject of an experiment in new rehabilitative techniques for serial killers, Lorelei. You are not Alea, and Mrs Rhea Durene is not your mother. The life you have been living for the past month is that of Mrs Durene’s real daughter, Danielle.”54

Shock now registered openly on Alea’s – Lorelei’s – face. A serial killer; an experiment? Danielle? Her gaze shot from Psychologist to Detectives and back again. 55

The Psychologist moved around the table, the sleuth-hero of a soft-boiled crime drama. “You see, Lorelei,” he was determined to drive this name into her mind, “with growing incidences of serial killers it was felt that we needed to find a new solution. A cure for the psychopath, you could say.” He stood behind her, an intimidation tactic. Alea ignored his stance, focusing instead on his words. 56

“We devised a method for extracting memories and implanting them in the psyche of another individual.” Pride in the science of it all. “The theory was based on the old nature versus nurture argument. At first we used the method on sufferers of mental illnesses, such as depression and schizophrenia. There were some successes,” as though conceding a point, “but there is a difference between personality and illness. Curiosity grew as to whether this memory-replacement therapy could affect a psychopathic personality; however, we required a test subject.” He paused, raised a remote. The television screen flickered to life, revealing the muted light of an interrogation room.57

“State your name for the record.”58

“Name?” A casually malevolent smile. “Names aren’t important right now.”59

The young Policeman hesitated. The absence of routine made Policemen uncomfortable.60

She leaned forward on the table, purposely seductive with her hands chained together and feet bound to the floor. Makeup smeared below her eyes gave the illusion of an illicit habit.61

The Policeman swallowed his evident dismay as the door opened and an older Policeman stepped inside.62

“Tell us why you killed them.” A hard-edged demand, but she only smiled.63

“Killed who?” Smooth and fictitious innocence.64

Dropped photographs of open throats and frozen eyes spattered over the desk. 65

Innocence became a smug fascination. Fingertips traced tear streaks. “See,” indicating, “see how they weep?” Arranging perspectives, flashes reflected in burnished cerise. “The tears fall after they die,” her smile was sugared wickedness. “Before that, they’re too afraid even to cry. But after,” she sighed, contentedly, “They mourn their own death, as though it were some sort of loss.”  66

The tape froze. “You were particularly vicious, and came just in time.” The Psychologist appeared vicious himself, all teeth and confidence. Alea wondered if the jaded distaste in his eyes was merely an act. 67

He continued. “Since we reached Danielle Durene while her mind was still fresh, we were able to extract her memories for use in your mind.” He seemed oblivious to the simple horror of what he was describing: the desecration of a dead woman’s mind, toying with the living psyche of another. “From there it was a simple matter of providing financial compensation to Mrs Durene, as well as the assurance that she was helping to make you ‘better’ – that her daughter’s death was an opportunity to assist society.” His cavalier smile lent an edge to his words. “You were given the memories of Danielle to see if it would change your behaviour, but apparently the sceptics were right.” He sighed. “It would seem there are some genetics involved. Unfortunately this complicates things.” 68

“What are you talking about?” she snapped. “How is that even possible?”69

The Psychologist’s smile dissolved, fairy floss under water, and he did not provide an answer. “This time we will not make the same mistake. You shall be going to jail: I expect you will die there.” He departed from the room, and Alea was pulled from her seat by the Detectives, shock and unnatural thoughts spinning at the back of her mind.70

* * * * 71

It was interesting, Alea noted, how clean the interview room was. Crime drama television had prepared her for dampness in a holding cell, for a sinisterly dingy setting where she would be surrounded by the day’s rapists and burglars. The reality was a flickering room where the white walls were only slightly contaminated by the scum of the city. 72

Alea sat at the table with files and photos scattered before her. Crime scenes, houses, notations, weapons, and Alea herself, makeup smeared below her eyes and a sickening smirk on her mugshot.73

Two Lawyers chattered behind her mind about Alea’s legal standing and her chances of acquittal, which were slim to say the very least. Alea ignored them, instead studying the case files left by the Psychologist. Assistance in confrontational techniques, for use by the Detectives. 74

Sitting alone was a case file labelled in bold:75

SUBJECT #3776

DURENE, DANIELLE77

21/05/0778

Curious, Alea picked up the folder. Opened it and allowed the photographs to fall onto the desk. Instantly she recognized the candied bedroom walls. The redhead thrown casually into the pool of burnished cerise melding with the carpet. 79

This image tugged at that mysterious strand in her stomach as the curtains had, reeling subliminally before her eyes. 80

Feeling an odd nauseation, Alea shifted her gaze to the notes inside the folder.81

Project Memoirs82

Source:        Durene, Danielle. Female. Murder victim. Age: 23 yrs. Health: Good. Marital 83

status: Single.84

Recipient:    Avera, Lorelei. Female. Condition: Psychopathy. Age: 24 yrs. Health: 85

Good. Marital Status: Unknown.86

Alias:           Durene, Alea.87

She felt cold.88

Despite the nausea, it all began to make sense. 89

The feelings, the inexplicable reactions.90

This was worth thinking about.91

How could life possibly have any value, if such manipulation was allowed?92

* * * *93

It was not nearly as daunting as she had been told. So, the Jury stared at her, incredulous, as she swore the oath, and so, the Mother stared at her with wide eyes emanating an unnecessary sense of betrayal. It was almost refreshing, after having spent so long in a cell; after having sat in the defendant’s seat listening to testimony after faceless testimony.94

Not even these Lawyers were frightening, although she knew they were skilled, professional and ruthless; as she had been, she liked to think. A few days’ contemplation had done her some good. Removed her fear. 95

Questions were fired with laser accuracy but her smirk very rarely faltered, her façade maintained against invisible enemies. And then, there came the inevitable.96

“Why did you do this?” Suit leaned on witness stand, the picture of intimidation. “What was your motivation for killing those people?”97

Alea sighed, resigned. She could see on the Jury’s collective face that she was already considered guilty, that the evidence worked against her. But what of it? At last she understood the message that the Deity’s eyes conveyed. What did it matter whether they found her guilty or not? What difference would it make if she played the part, shared the insights, shown to her in the taped interrogations, the scrawled contemplations in tattered notebooks? Her life was ended regardless. Why not leave them guessing; why not twist the rules?98

Black eyes met blue. Killer tangled with Attorney. “Nothing is an accident,” the deliberately cultured voice split the silence. “We fall under mathematical equations of faith, drawn towards the only thing we have in common – the fact we’ll die alone and fall to solitary oblivion.” 99

She smiled sweetly at the jury, and mused that it was difficult to tell if some people even breathed, they were so vacant. 100

“And fate ties into faith; only because those foolish enough to have faith must possess the non-intelligence to believe we all have some sort of spiritual destiny. Reality is, we are but corpses ‘destined’ for bacteria or the autopsy slab: fodder for science.” 101

A visible twitch in her smile, as she envisioned exactly how she would be used for research purposes. Coroner’s bone-saw and blood-spatter, a familiar sight transposed over her own image. “What does it matter, what the cause of death was, the motivation? The fact is, you’re dead and that’s the end of it. There is no saving grace for the mass of chemical consciousness called a soul.” 102

Her voice lowered, enticing, provoking. “And the loss of mine will obviously not be a loss at all.” 103

Alea leaned back, satisfied with the silence she had created, the lull in proceedings. She watched them attempting to decide if she was evil or simply deluded. 104

Of course, not even Alea knew which of these she was, but unfortunately that distinction no longer held any significance for her. She had reached the end of the game. 105