As I gaze outside the window of my simple, three bedroom farmhouse, I couldn't help but be curious upon the sounds of a young woman crying. I live with my parents and older brother in this home. The home tucked away two miles from the nearest road, surrounded by mountainsides, rolling hills, and rivers. The sixty five acres that we call our own. The home that I was born in, lived in, and will most likely live in for the rest of my life. Often times, I find myself gazing out my window; as if I expect to find something more exciting, more enthralling than what I am experiencing in that same moment. Nothing ever happens here. Nobody ever dies. They merely ebb out of existence, as if they were never there to begin with. Nobody here talks about the dead. You could go months without realizing that old lady Beatrice down the street passed away the previous year. Or that Tim Johnson from 8th grade algebra was in an automobile crash and was killed just days previous. That's how things work around here. Everybody is wrapped up in their own world; there's never any time for gossip. Work is their number one priority. Nothing else.
I could tell the first time I saw her that she was alone. Her lean figure had been sitting down on the fence post; my fence post; for over ran hour. One hour of recollection and guilt from just hours previous. I couldn't help but watch her for those sixty minutes. She was absolutely captivating.
The entire time, her eyes were fixated on the ground below. Lifelessly, as if she were already dead. Her demeanor; slouched down, head between her legs, painted a picture that spoke a thousand words of a thousand hearts broken. It was raining that night. Her jet black hair was plastered against her smooth, almost flawless complexion. It was almost painful to watch this heart wrenching display from this young woman.
She was a beautiful young girl. She looked to be in her mid teens. Maybe sixteen? Her raven hair was pin straight to her waist. She had the most striking eyes I have ever seen in my life. They were narrow, and jet black. They looked so cold and uninviting, yet you couldn't help but stare. When you first laid eyes on her, you could assume that you were witnessing the beauty of a porcelain doll.
She was crying. Her tears mixed in with the rain as she wailed violently, digging her fingers into her scalp as she screamed "Why?!" over and over again, like a broken record. Those words would haunt me forever. Even now, three years later, an image of her comes to my mind.
Her hands were stained with blood. A deep crimson red which went up the length of her arms. The perfection of her once snow-white blouse was now tainted with the unholy reds, the sinful maroons, and the unpalatable crimsons that make up blood.
"I didn't want to kill him." She snapped. It's as if she had heard me coming. I was just feet away from her when I received this verbal whiplash. "It's his own ******** fault! He brought it onto himself!" She seemed so serious as she spoke. But yet, she still refused to make eye contact with me.
"What are you talking about?" I asked her, taking a step closer. It's a risky move, on my part. After all, I have no clue who this girl is, none the less what she's capable of. Still, I took another step towards her.
"Get the ******** away from me!" She screams, abruptly jumping down from the fence. Traces of evidence can be seen on her skirt and legs as well. Her shirt had been torn in the alleged fray. Long streaks of blood were already setting in the plaid patterned cloth of her skirt. I was amazed. This girl is a walking crime scene, and she's not afraid of making it known.
"Just calm down. What did you do?"
"I said shut up! Get the ******** away from me! He had it coming! The rat b*****d had it coming!"
"Did you kill somebody?"
The wall came down. Suddenly, her legs gave way as she sunk to the ground, bursting back into hysterics. Thunder could be heard in the background, momentarilly drowning out the sounds of her pained wailing. She didn't even seem to care that she was knee deep in mud.
"Come on. Come inside." I am finally close enough to her that I can reach out and touch her arm. She quickly jerked her arm back, almost in defense. "I said don't touch me. You don't ******** touch me."
"You're going to catch cold if you stay out here-" my sentence is cut short by a bolt of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. "Just come inside with me, before you get killed."
She lifted her head, and our eyes, for a moment, briefly met. It was as if she was beginning to trust me; she was allowing me to see her face. She was giving her face to a complete stranger. From the quick occasional bursts of light from the storm, I am able to compile a rough draft of her face.
Bruises. Her face is covered in bruises. The makings of a black eye are beginning to form on the left side of her face. Her face had unique features; something that I had never witnessed in my life. She had the makings of an Asian beauty, with a bit of Latina thrown in for good measure. Something you don't see around these parts.
Her eyes had softened a bit upon meeting mine. I managed to meekly smile at her, in an attempt to lighten the mood. To break the ice, per se. Nothing in return. She merely continued to stare at me with those same lifeless eyes. I couldn't help but sigh. Back to square one.
"Come on...out here's no where to be crying. Come inside, rest on the couch, and cry in there."
Smart move, Dan. Let a killer into your house. Nice ******** job.
She didn't seem to here me. Either that, or she was intentionally blocking me out as she continued to focus on the pained cries escaping from her lips. I'll have to use force. I grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. She was to the point where she couldn't even walk. I kneeled down to my knees, cringing as my jeans sink deep into the mud.
'Great.' I thought. 'My first new pair of jeans in a month, and they're already ruined.'
A small price to pay, I guess. She didn't even get onto my back. She collapsed into a heap. It caught me off guard, not to mention, it hurt like hell. I managed to bite my tongue long enough to suck it up, regain my composure, and to carry her back to the house.
Mom and Dad are down the street at a party. Getting drunk, no doubt. I look at the clock; 11pm. Oh yeah, I won't be seeing them for a while. The hard liquor won't be shoved down their throats until the end of the hour. They'll come home sloshed, draped over each other, before stumbling up the stairs, laughing hysterically to their bedroom. A predictable ritual that has been going on for the past seventeen years of my life. You wouldn't expect this from a modest, lower class farming family. The stereotype sets us as overall-wearing drunks (which is half true) that have nothing better to do than sit on our front porch, bottle of gin in hand, with our 12 gauge shotgun, shooting random birds that pass by. They set a wonderful example for Michael and I. The ideal parents. But enough about that.
I managed to dump the girl over onto the cough, before collapsing into a heap beside it. She lay there for a moment, unresponsive and emotionless, before pushing herself back up into an upright position. There's a layer of mud beginning to cake where she was just laying. I'll have to explain that to Mom when she gets home. Hopefully she'd have sobered up enough on the two mile walk home to not care.
I turned to the girl, and cleared my throat. I didn't even know where to begin. I don't even know how it got to this point. Here I am, alone in my house at 11 o' clock at night with a girl whom I don't even know. Alone. In my house. With a girl. It sounds like paradise to a seventeen year old boy like myself. Too bad she's rambling on about how she killed someone. Then this would have been perfect.
"Your name." I finally choke out. "What's your name?"
She stared at me. It was as if she didn't understand English. "My name." She repeats. "You want to know my name."
"Yes…your name would be a good start."
"Mia."
"Mia?"
"Are you retarded?"
"Last name?"
"I'd rather not disclose that."
"Alright then." At least we're getting somewhere.
My eyes are once again drawn to the now dried blood on her arms and legs. It's a horrific sight. Now that we're in the light, I can make out everything perfectly. Her face looks more terrible than I once thought. What looked to be a once perfect caramel complexion is now riddled with bruises, cuts, and scrapes. Her clothes are covered in mud, and completely drenched in blood. Her skirt and shirt are torn in several places, and have already begun to fray. Her scent is also unappealing. It smelled as if she had been drinking. That would explain the emotional rampage, at least.
"I had to kill him." She finally said in an almost inaudible whisper that I almost couldn't understand. I can see her eyes welling up again, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. "I had no choice. He had to die. It was either him or me."
"Who had to die? Who's 'he'?" 'He, he, he' is all she seems to want to disclose with me. All she has said is 'he'. She hasn't even disclosed a name, a nickname, anything about this 'he' who is lying dead who knows where.
"Mike." She said softly. "My boyfriend."
"You killed your boyfriend?" I can't help but do another once over of her. I can't help but assume that this 'Mike' character did this to her. The bruises and cuts, that is. After all, this is the only figure that I know about at this point. "Did he try to hurt you?"
She meekly nods.
"Where is he?"
"In the river." She replied. "We were walking down the road, and we got into an argument. It happened so quickly, I don't even remember what it was about. All of a sudden, he was in my face, screaming at me. He usually carries a pocket knife with him…so I took a chance and reached into his pocket. The next thing I knew, the knife was sticking out of his chest."
I must have looked like I had seen a ghost. I could feel my jaw drop, my eyes widen, and my entire body stiffen up. I can only imagine the sight, and even that is too sickening to think about. It takes a lot of composure to kill someone, and it was amazing that this 'Mia' could talk about it so nonchalantly. I look to see for any remorse; none whatsoever. How can someone talk about murdering their boyfriend so casually, as if it were gossip? I've known her for fifteen minutes, and already she doesn't cease to amaze me.
"I can't believe it." She said, cracking a small pained frown. She brushed a strand of hair from her face, emitting a small sigh. "I don't even know you, and I've already told you everything." She turned to face me, her blank expression still plastered on her face. "You suck."
I don't know why that made me feel so different, from that moment on.
It must be love.
