Hazy Tales: A Random Collection of Short Stories by Haley Dood

H. Dood

The

INTRO

Hazy Tales is a collection of random short stories divided into two sections: narrative and fiction. Each story is unique and unrelated to the last. The variation this short publication contains is

both evident through word and design. A majority of these stories contain darker subject matters and deal with complex issues from sanity to

mortality. Hazy tales is curated to be a mix of dark and light, as one cannot exist without the other.

TABLE OF C O NTENTS SECTION I : Narratives The Toy Aisle............................6 Spiderwebs and Sunshine......9 Bedtime Stories....................16

SECTION 2 : Fiction The Chase.............................23 Obsidian..............................28 Royal Tragedies....................34

SECTION I

Narratives

THE TOY A ISLE

he world faded out around me as I focused on the large blue bowl that glistened on center stage. I

wasn’t thinking about how heavy the microphone felt in my small hands. I wasn’t thinking about the hundreds of eyes that scrutinized me from their seats. Nor was I thinking about the itchy pink dress that hugged my small frame. No, I was thinking about all the tiny pieces of paper held in the large blue bowl before me. Each one held a different question, I remembered a few from practice—Who do you idolize? What do you want to be when you grow up? Where do you wish you could go in the world?— as a six year old, all these questions seemed way too complex. This was my first time competing in a beauty pageant and I was determined to be the best. The man sifting through the bowl had slicked back hair, a goatee and was dressed in a simple beige suit. His hand shot out of the bowl grasping a neatly folded piece of paper. I felt my heart hammering away, aching to break free from

my chest. Slowly, he opened it up and as soon as his eyes fell upon the question, a small smile sneaked over his lips. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Haley, dear, where is your favorite place to go shopping?” My body flooded with relief, I was thankful I got an easy question. I blurted out the first thing I could think of, “Walmart!” The room erupted in laughter. My gaze shot to the crowd in confusion, I didn’t understand what was so funny. The man on stage was laughing too as he proceeded with the interview, “Good choice! Now, Ms. Haley, where do you go first when you get to Walmart?” I gave the man a funny look, surely this was a trick question. My reply was more of a question than an answer, “The front of the store?” Once again the audience roared in delight at my response. “Of course! But where do you go after that?” I huffed in frustration, this all seemed so obvious and yet I clearly was saying something wrong every time. Reluctantly I answered, “The back of the store.” I noticed one woman in the front row doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down her bright red face. “No dear, I mean what section do you go to in the store?” The man smiled at me now, as if this question wasn’t the most confusing thing I’d ever been confronted with.

My words came out slowly this time, “The middle of

the store.”

A look of defeat settled over the man’s features. “Everybody give another round of applause for Haley!” As I made my way off the stage, hoots and hollers chased after me. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized I should’ve just said, “The toy aisle.”

S PI DER WEB S A N D SU NSH INE Skich Skich Skich Skich I lay in my sleeping bag on the floor paralyzed with fear. Through the darkness comes the foreign, scratching sound once more. Skitch Skitch Skitch The sound had stirred me from my rest just minutes ago. My young imagination was running wild, attempting to create a source to the sound, painting images of strange beasts and demons lurking in the ominous shadows of the house. The scratching resonated from the kitchen into the living room where my horror battled my curiosity until I found myself gently slipping out of the safety of my sleeping bag. I cautiously tiptoed over to the kitchen doorway. My heart battered against my ribs as I neared the sound, I was sure the demons and monsters could hear the panicked thudding in my chest. Mustering all my courage I darted into the kitchen and flipped on the dingy light bulb overhead. At first glance, the kitchen appeared barren. An eerie quiet fell

over the small room. Then I noticed it: a foot. A single foot stuck out on the floor from behind the counter. I closed the distance between the foot and myself and peeked around the counter. “Mommy?” Skitch Skitch Skitch My mother sat on the tile floor, pen and paper in hand, scribbling away in a jerky manner. Her low hanging head of blond curls rose to meet my face. Her green eyes were red rimmed and wide. “What’s wrong mommy?” I asked hesitantly. Her lower lip trembled, her shaking hands fumbled with the notepad in her lap, before she opened her mouth to speak, “I had a dream...a dream...sent to me by God.” I nodded, encouraging her to continue. “He told me that Dominic is going to die.” Skitch Skitch She continued her scribbling, tears began rolling down her rosy cheeks. Dominic was my mother’s husband and she recently found out he had been seeing another woman behind her back. It was adultery, “an unforgivable sin,” my mother insisted. “How do you know that?” I asked her in a small voice. Her gaze moved past me, into the darkness of the house beyond us. A beat of silence. “Because God wants me to help Him.”

I was eight when I found my mother murmuring about murder in the kitchen. I was thirteen when she took my six year old younger sister to get exorcised. At fourteen I woke to her praying over me and dabbing a strange oil on my forehead to “get the demons out”. My visits to my mother were rare, but when they occurred, strange things sometimes happened. For those concerned, Dominic was never harmed in any way and my mother remained silent on the subject of his death after that night. I always looked at the concept of insanity like someone might look at cancer. I knew it existed in the world but I thought there was no way it could ever affect my life. I also believed that insanity was something that was apparent in a person. That someone who is crazy must be unintelligent and constantly acting in an obnoxious manner. Welsh journalist and bestselling author of The Men Who Stare at Goats, Jon Ronson, has other beliefs. In Ronson’s 2012 TED talk, “Strange Answers to the Psychopath Test,” he tells the audience about a man named Tony. Tony was a patient at Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He had faked insanity in order to avoid a 5 year prison sentence but he, “faked it too well” according to Ronson, and now he has been trapped there for 12 years. Experts believe that everything that appears normal about Tony is actually what makes him a psychopath. A psychopath is cunning and manipulative so faking your insanity is exactly something a psychopath

would do. Tony didn’t want to interact with the other patients because they were frightening to him, but the psychiatrist declared that this points to other psychopathic traits: lack of empathy and grandiose sense of self worth (Ronson Web). When I listened to Jon Ronson’s TED talk, I didn’t know whether to believe Tony or the psychiatrists. I still don’t. There is a checklist that helps identify somebody as a psychopath and Tony does fall into every category. Yet I wonder if I analyzed everyone in my own life using this checklist, how many would seem insane? Statistically, 25% of the population is afflicted with some sort of mental illness (Nixon). Perhaps that number is much higher, are we all a little crazy? In Robin Nixon’s article, “Why We Are All Insane,” he remarks that, “Natural selection wants us to be crazy.” He explains how the evolutionary process is advancing our mental abilities but at the same time our disabilities. Our over analyzing brains may be a fault in some ways, Nixon writes, “Our ability to think things over, and over, can be counterproductive and lead to obsessive tendencies.” There are very few people in this world who can deny that they have fallen victim to over-thinking something almost obsessively. It is just how the human mind works and we have grown accustomed to this as a species. So are there tiny bits of insanity in us all? Could it be that we have advanced to a point where the truly insane can hide themselves among the masses?

One of the most off-putting aspects of my mother’s erratic outbursts is that she appears completely ordinary the rest of the time. She puts on this beautiful smiling face and tells me how much she loves me, how much she misses me. I remember the pure joy and fun I would experience during my visits to her as a child. We once spent a whole day at the beach, sunrise to sunset, splashing in the crashing waves until our muscles gave out. It was a perfect day, everything was as it should be. Yet as I grew older and began to look past her alluring mask I saw the chaos begin to spill out from inside her. Each time her mask slipped out of place she would quickly glue it back on, leaving me more confused than ever. Years would pass with no word from her. Yet, when she did reappear she would act as if she was the victim in our relationship; as if I was the one who abandoned her. I don’t know how much of the woman I know as my mother is legitimate. Is she insane? She fits the psychopathic checklist too well: lack of empathy, pathological lying, superficial charm, manipulative, lack of guilt, lack of realistic goals, failure to accept responsibility, the list goes on. I am no psychiatrist but I know my mother is not considered mentally sound. However her ability to obscure her intentions, her thoughts, herself, is admirable. Insanity may be one of the best kept secrets of our race. Insanity exists on a spectrum, sure there’s those who scream and yank out their hair in peril, but there’s also those who

live behind their beautiful masks. They are intelligent, they spin webs in their favor, they make you believe that they care for you and you, well, you love them. People can go a lifetime blinded by their love high that they are oblivious to the sticky web wrapping itself around each of their limbs until they are numb. Insanity is not obvious, no, it is concealed before your very eyes, a spider disguised as the sun. Artificial warmth pumping into the bloodstream.

Ignorance is bliss.

Works Cited Nixon, Robin. “Why We Are All Insane.” LiveScience. Purch, 25 August 2008. Web. 9 October 2017. Ronson, Jon. “Strange Answers to the Psychopath test.” TED. TED Conferences, February 12 2012. Web. 9 October 2017.

BEDTIM E STO R IE S

raditional bedtime stories usually consist of literary works such as Goodnight Moon, The Ugly

Duckling, or The Three Little Pigs. My father may have stuck to such stories as I still grasped infantry and even into my toddler years but I was no more than six when my storytime experiences evolved. Being the well educated man he is, my dad insisted that my sister and I dive into more epic, well written tales. So began my introduction to the Harry Potter series. We began, as most stories ought to, at the beginning; Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone. For most of the first book, even into the second and probably third, a lot of the diction flew right over my head. So, as any curious child might, I would ask about every single word I didn’t understand, “Daddy, what does obliterate mean?”, “Daddy, what is chortling?”, “Daddy, what’s apothecary?”. With every chapter, I asked fewer and fewer questions. Sometimes my father would hand the book over to me and have me be the narrator for a change. I would stumble over

the words again and again, but over time the words spilled out more clearly in a steady, even flow. By the time I was eight I began reading the books on my own. Reading was the greatest adventure, no, reading is the greatest adventure I’ve ever embarked on. An escape like no other, transporting me into the lives of wizards, of elves, of heroes. I quickly became addicted to slipping away into these fantasy worlds. I can vividly remember tossing away a majority of my middle school years to such series as Fablehaven, The Last Apprentice, The Maze Runner, The Hunger Games, The Spiderwick Chronicles, the list goes on and on. It isn’t that I dreaded my own life, but who wouldn’t prefer Narnia over the bland existence of reality? Many english teachers have battled with me over the years, insisting I branch out into other genres. They would have me read memoirs, nonfiction, more memoirs, more nonfiction. They would eagerly await to hear my review upon completion and my response was always along the lines of, “It was alright I guess, can I go back to reading The Hobbit now?”. Reading can be done for informative purposes and I respect that, I even could see how some find more realistic tales more appealing. However, no matter how I push myself I cannot deny what I adore and if that’s jumping into the shoes of an intergalactic warrior, so be it. I can thank my father for inducing this urgency to feed my imagination and I do, every day.

SECTION II

Fiction

T H E C H A SE

’ m running; My feet have a mind of their own as they carry my body further through the dark forest.

The air is brisk as it dances across my skin, sending a trail of goosebumps in its wake. I dart between the trees, not daring to look behind me. In my hands I clutch my prize, a bag containing a loaf of bread and some dried meats. I want so bad to just hunker down and satiate my gnawing hunger. It’s been three days since everything I ever knew was burned away to nothing by the Barbarians; My village, my home, my family. I had been the only one to escape into the forest and have been trailing the men responsible for a few days now. I didn’t have a coherent plan, only a desire for justice. However, today as I peered at their camp from between the thick foliage, I spotted someone’s abandoned lunch near their campfire and my stomach took the reins. I slipped out from the shadows and just as my fingers had curled around the sack of food, the sound of an unsheathing blade echoed behind me and I bolted without turning back.

Now, as I continue to race away from their camp, I hear distant shouting and heavy footsteps slicing through the night behind me. My muscles are beginning to scream in protest and each ragged breath of cold air I suck in is like knives down my throat. I know I can’t go on much longer. I scan the dark layout of the forest and my eyes land on a small cave shrouded by ivy. Score. “Get back here, girl!” A deep voice shouts, the words are strained though; It seems I’m not the only one growing tired. I quickly duck into the cave and feel my way across the walls, deeper into the cavern. Whispering a silent prayer that nothing is lurking in the darkness with me, I sink onto the dampened ground. The distant shouting grows louder and I begin to panic. Will they see the cave too? What will they do when they find me? I’m certain I wouldn’t survive the encounter. As my thoughts frantically race, the footsteps continue to draw near. The deep male voice shouts again, “Come out here, girly! We promise not to hurt you, we only want our dinner back!” Oh but I know better. I know what type of men these are and what they will do to a young woman all by herself at night. The thudding footsteps have to be just outside the cave now. I hold my breath and concentrate on not moving a muscle. I have no weapons and no combat skills, this hiding spot is my last chance.

I make out a new raspier voice,“Joel, give it up. We have more rations back at camp.” “So we are just gonna let some Bitch outsmart us?” The man referred to as Joel retorts. “No,” The raspy voice replies, “We aren’t going to waste our time playing hide and seek with the little brat.” There’s a beat of silence followed by an angry grunt but then... a resigned sigh. To my utter disbelief the footsteps begin to retreat. I hold fast in my hiding place and take quiet, shallow breaths. After I feel a safe enough amount of time has passed, I crawl back out into the night. I plop down on a mossy log not far from the cave entrance and slowly peel open the bag of food. The thick aroma of salty meat hits my nose and my stomach howls in response. The effects of not eating in days is evident as my hands shake while I pull out a hunk of meat and layer it with some bread. I bite down and nearly moan with delight. Too soon it’s all gone. With a full belly and renewed sense of energy, I rise to my feet. I tilt my face to the sky and let the pale moonlight filter over it. A laugh escapes my mouth, a quipped, evil laugh. They think they can destroy everything I have ever loved and in return only be robbed of their dinner? More sharp laughter bubbles up from inside of me as a hot flame ignites in my core. I let the searing hatred consume me as I double over with amusement. I’m going to kill them all, I think to myself, I’m going to watch them burn.

With a sense of resolve and a delirious smile on my lips, I wipe the grease from my face with the back of my hand and continue to make my way through the darkness.

O B SID IA N

remember falling. Plummeting through the darkness towards the crashing waves below. I had been drunk,

mesmerized by the beauty of the starry skyline. Twinkling lights had captured my attention, glueing my gaze upward until the ground fell out from beneath my feet. The sky began to shrink and my screams trailed behind me. The Atlantic stretched out it’s strong arms and embraced me. My body danced with the current as I was pulled deeper and deeper. Then there was nothing. White noise filled my ears, filled my mouth, filled my lungs. Oblivion pooled into my soul, suffocating me into submission. It seems an eternity had passed until nothing had turned to something. A deep voice broke through the silence, “I don’t understand,” the voice sounded pained. I knew that voice, my heart began to swell and relief flooded my body. “Sir, your wife has no brain activity.” It took me a second to process this. His wife? I’m his wife. I called out for him, “Jared! Honey, I’m here!”

My voice echoed through the dark space. No reply. I began to call out again and this time Jared’s voice interrupted me, “No, no, no, no...” “I understand it’s a lot to take in, but it is in your best interest to take her off life support I’m afraid.” Now Jared’s voice was barely a whisper, “Stop talking.” “Excuse me?” “I SAID STOP TALKING!” A moment of silence fell before I heard the quick clicking of footsteps leaving us behind. Then I felt a large familiar hand wrap itself around mine. I smelled Jared before I heard him. The scent of spearmint toothpaste engulfing me. “Aria? It’s me love, it’s Jared.” “I’m here! Can you hear me? Please hear me.” “I know you’re in there Aria, just give me a sign. Please. Anything.” I tried to squeeze his hand, to wiggle my toes, to open my eyes, to give him a smile, to raise my eyebrows, to lift my arm, but my body remained motionless. I was a broken toy with fresh batteries but all Jared could see was the chipping paint and missing screws. He sighed and I felt his lips press against my forehead, spreading heat throughout my useless form. Too soon, the sensation was gone. “I know things have been hard. I know you miss your dad and I’m sorry I wasn’t as supportive as I should’ve been.” A pause, “The doctors said you had been drinking the night

you fell. Apparently, the only reason you’re alive is because some surfer saw you fall. By the time he dragged your unconscious ass out of the water, you had hit your head on a rock below the surface. Jesus look at me, you’re not even here, are you?” His words slapped me across the face. He thinks I’m gone. He is losing hope in me, and now I’m losing hope in myself. My mind wandered back to what he had said about after I fell. I knew I fell but I didn’t remember hitting my head. I guess that’s proof in itself that I did. Jared’s hand let go of mine and and trailed up my arm, stopping to cup my cheek. I felt something warm drip onto my nose, a tear I guessed, he was quick to wipe it away. “Wake up, Aria. It’s time to go home. Just wake up, just...” He took a raggedy breath and the hand beside my face started to tremble. My heart ached for him, ached for me. I tried to cry but the tears wouldn’t come out. Frustration consumed me and I screamed at him, willing him to listen, “LISTEN TO ME DAMMIT! I’M HERE! OPEN YOUR BIG STUPID EARS AND LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE!” He didn’t hear me. I was alone. And he was too. His silent sobs stabbed through me again and again and again. Until they finally faded away to short, shallow breaths. Then I heard a faint rustling, followed by his soft words, “I brought your favorite.”

As soon as he began to read to me, I knew it was The Notebook. He had always mocked my obsession for Nicholas Sparks, it surprised me that he brought it. I loved him for it. Minutes quickly turned into hours, as I let the story drag me away to a world of beautiful beaches and romantic sunsets. I drifted off...farther….and farther, letting the waves lull me into a deep sleep. A shrill female voice brought me back to reality, “Sir? The doctor wants to talk to you.” Nothing. She tried again, “Sir, did you hear me?” “Go away.” “Sir, I’m not trying to rush you. I’m sorry.” “Is there any way you’re wrong, that she’s still in there?” Her voice was slow when she replied, “It is very unlikely.” “But possible?” “I don’t believe so sir.” The air suddenly grew cold, I wish I could see Jared’s face. To see how he was taking this. I was sure his lopsided smile was replaced with tight, pursed lips. His brown eyes surely shadowed by a set of furrowed brows. “Do it.” “No!”, I began to panic, I can’t die, I can’t leave him, I won’t leave him. The woman sounded relieved now, “Very well, let me grab the paper work.” Her steps clicked away once more. Jared’s hand found mine again.

“I’m so sorry love, I’m so sorry. You are gonna go someplace better. I promise.” “NO! Jared! Please don’t do this, I’m with you. I’m with you, now and forever. I’m not going anywhere.” “You’re going to be the most beautiful angel.” I couldn’t kick or shout. I couldn’t press my lips against his one last time. All I could do was endure the pain, trapped inside my onyx prison. The clicking of footsteps, I had quickly learned to dread, came closer and closer. “Here is where you need to sign, and here, and here, and here. Fill this page out as well.” The sickening sound of a scribbling pen went on for 1,821 seconds. That’s how long it took the man that I love to sign my life away. The woman spoke for the last time, “Would you like to stay in the room?” Jared gave no reply but I felt his fingers lace between my limp ones. “Stop! Jared! Please hear me...somebody hear me... anybody?” “I love you. I love you so much. I love you. I love you. I love you.” “NO! PLEASE!” “Goodbye Aria, I love you.” Then there was nothing. I love you too.

ROYAL TR A G ED IE S

he breeze danced across Jessica’s rosie cheeks, her blond, curly hair bouncing around her shoul-

ders. She laughed with delight as she ran through the maze; spinning and twirling by the stone walls. Last year, for her ninth birthday, her father had the maze built for her. She had spent many summer evenings out in the maze, memorizing the twists and turns of the vast structure. Jessica picked up her pace, lifting her face towards the heat of the sun. Then the familiar tune of her sister’s voice echoed from behind her, “Jessie, Jessie, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, And pretty maids all in a row.” Jessica whirled around and ran into her sister’s embrace. “I missed you Dianne!” She squealed as she wrapped her tiny arms around her sister. She then looked up into her older sister’s hazel eyes. “Did you like him sissy? Are you going to be wed?”

Dianne was now of age to find a prince to bretrothe and inherit the throne of Massagonda. Dianne didn’t say anything but a sheepish grin stretched over her pink lips. “Yay!” Jessica cried. “You’re going to be queen!” Dianne shuttered at the thought but quickly regained her composure. “Let’s go tell Mother and Father the news.” Dianne said. She then took Jessica’s smaller hand in her own and began to lead her back towards the palace. *** Melanie loved her job serving the royal family. Especially on slow evenings like tonight when she could tend to the flowers around the edge of the maze. As she bent down to clip off a dead rose, faint sobbing trickled from inside the maze. Tentatively, she crept inside. Young Princess Jessica was bent over something on the ground. She leaned in closer to get a better look and a blood curdling scream ripped from deep inside her throat. Princess Dianne laid there, her throat sliced open, blood pooling around her delicate body. Jessica’s head whipped around at the piercing sound. Her small, tear soaked face trembling in horror. “The-the-”, Jessica struggled to get her words out, “The man. He hurt Dianne. H-he hurt her…” Melanie’s heart ached for the young princess who sat there, uncontrollably sobbing, blood seeping into the fine silk of her lavender gown. “GUARDS! COME QUICK!” Melanie yelled.

Almost immediately, two large, armored men rushed around the corner. Their faces contorted in anger as they assessed the situation. “Get Princess Jessica back inside the castle. Now.” One of the guards demanded. Melanie rushed over to Jessica’s small frame and gently helped her to her feet. Jessica was reluctant to leave behind her sister’s corpse. Though after some rough tugs, she complied and followed the servant into the castle. *** Detective Morrison’s wheezy breaths echoed through the dim stairwell as he struggled his way up the steps. At the age of 76, he still remained one of the most respected detectives in all of the Massagonda kingdom. The eldest princess of Massagonda had been brutally murdered and the king had hired him to track down this murderer. After a painfully long duration of time, Detective Morrison had reached the top of the steps. Before him, a spectacular throne room dazzled in the evening glow. Large marble pillars stood tall on either side of the room and the golden flag of Massagonda stretched across the far wall. Directly under the flag, sat two plush thrones. It was there that his King and Queen sat with grim expressions shadowing their faces. Cautiously, Morrison approached their throne’s then proceeded to kneel before them.

“Detective Morrison, from the village of Reeds. You are aware of why you have been summoned?” The King bellowed. “I am, my King.” Morrison replied. “Very well, my guards will escort you to the crime scene.” Two large armoured men then emerged from behind him. Morrison stumbled to his feet, his spine cracking in several places. As the guards led him through the castle, they explained how the youngest princess was found cradling her sister’s body by a servant. The little princess seemed to think a man had been behind the murder. The guards came to a halt just outside the palace doors. The guard to his left then pointed across the terrace to the large, stone maze stretching through the palace gardens. “Just inside the maze is where you will find the murder site,” the guard said gruffly. Morrison responded with a slight nod and then headed towards the maze. The coppery smell of blood pricked his nostrils. Princess Dianne’s motionless body was sprawled across the dewy grass. She had clearly died by several lacerations to the throat. Based on the few elliptical puncture marks on the back of the neck, a small double edged-blade was the most probable murder weapon. A single-edged blade would have produced fish-shape wounds. After a thorough search of the scene, he recovered a long, curly black hair on the front of Dianne’s dress. Both Dianne and her sister Jessica had honey blond hair,

as did the king. The queen however was known for her thick, black head of curls. Morrison couldn’t think of why the queen would kill her own daughter but nevertheless, it was time to start asking questions. *** “You think I murdered my own daughter, detective?” The Queen’s expression remained stoic but her words sliced across the void space between her and Morrison. “I am making no accusations, it is simply my duty to question all possible suspects,” Morrison calmly responded. “You dare consider your own Queen a suspect?” “I consider everyone in this palace a suspect.” “I did not assassinate my eldest daughter,” she spat at him, “We’re done here.” With that the Queen briskly exited the small room he was provided for questioning. Morrison pinched the bridge of his nose, soothing his developing migraine. This investigation was going nowhere. A small tapping on the door drew his attention. Young Princess Jessica poked her head in the door. “I was told you have questions for me,” she said in a tiny voice. “Yes, yes, have a seat.” He gestured at the mahogany stool across from him. Tentatively she smoothed her dress down and perched on the edge of the stool. “Now, I know this is hard for you princess,” Morrison’s

voice was soft, “I just need you to tell me about the man who killed your sister.” Jessica’s small hands began to tremble and tears pooled in her azure eyes. “We were just heading back to the palace to tell Mother and Father that she was to be married…”, her voice caught but she cleared her throat and continued, “A hooded figure then came out from behind us, he had a dagger… h-he sliced her th-throat open and then… he was gone. Just like that.” Tears now rolled down her cheeks in a steady stream. “Thank you princess, you may leave now. My deepest condolences for your loss.” *** Melanie nervously fiddled with a loose thread in her skirt as she sat before the aging detective. Morrison cleared his throat, forcing her to meet his prying gaze. “I told you, sir, I only saw Princess Jessica with Princess Dianne after Dianne was already dead. I don’t know anything else, sir, I swear it.” Melanie’s voice was shrill with fear. Morrison stroked his gray beard in thought. “Are you aware of anyone who may have had a quarrel with Princess Dianne?” Once again, Melanie became fixated on the loose thread. “Melanie,” Morrison pried, “Whatever you tell me will be held in confidence. You have nothing to fear.” “The Queen...”, Melanie mumbled, “rumour has it she

didn’t want Princess Dianne to take her throne.” “Is that all?” Morrison pressed. Melanie nodded, her expression somber. “Thank you Melanie, that will be all.” The scrawny servant exited Morrison’s quarters hastily. Morrison was almost positive the Queen was to blame but he still lacked the proper evidence to prove this. Not sure exactly where he was going, Morrison lifted his elderly limbs from the chair he sat upon. Then, at a nice leisurely pace, he began to take a stroll through the palace in hopes of stumbling across new evidence. He roamed the spacious corridors for an extensive duration of time before something caught his attention; singing. The voice of a girl, a child, resonated clearly through the foyer, “Jessie, Jessie, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.” The words faded into a quiet humming of the tune. Morrison followed the humming to a small passageway tucked behind the far wall of the corridor. The humming suddenly stopped, followed by a loud thud. Cautiously, he approached the entryway. Inside was a dimly lit room, walls of stone enclosed the small space but the strangest part was what coated these stone walls- blood. Crosses and bible verses composed entirely of blood dripped down the saturated stone. Morrison’s heart rate picked up and

his breath came in short, staggered gasps. In the center of everything, laid the lifeless form of young Princess Jessica, in a pool of her own blood. Deep cuts covered her bare arms and in her limp, outstretched hand was a small dagger. He bent down to get a closer look at the cuts. He noticed towards the top of her wrist, the cuts were shallow and diagonal. Hesitation marks, he thought. The cuts farther up her forearm were deeper and straighter. This is clear evidence that she did the cutting on her own. He also noticed her hands were all bloody from writing the blood on the walls. The dagger handle was covered in blood from her own hands. Morrison took into account the type of dagger it was— double edged— matching the description of the weapon used to murder Princess Dianne. Morrison quickly put the pieces together. If Princess Dianne was dead that would put Princess Jessica as next in line for the throne, that’s more than enough motive for murder. What didn’t make sense was why the young princess would kill herself. He scanned the blood soaked walls and the same words continually appeared in the crimson writing: “Forgive me Father.” And so her guilt was her demise.