Chapter Text
The town I live in is relatively safe. I mean, as safe as any town can be. It is small and quaint which means there are never any severe crimes. The occasional stolen car or failed kidnapping happens, but other than that there has never been a murder.
Which I find odd.
As I sit in the public library, flipping through books upon books of our town’s history, I can find no mention of there ever being a corpse being found in the woods, or any of our residents being escaped convicts with different aliases. It seems like every other city and town and state we’re affiliated with has a long list of crimes- crimes that have received pretty good news coverage- however, none of their misdeeds flow into our perfect white-picket fences and good-samaritan-filled-town.
It’s not like Ahrtowyn is perfect, far from that. The public school system is completely wack, the elders are always looking down upon us like we’re the scum of the earth, summers are brutally cold and winters are hot, but there has never been a murder.
You would think that if there had been a life taken, it would be written into our town’s history or at least be covered on the front page of the newspaper, but that is not the case. I’m not saying I want more murders, I’m just very confused.
As I flipped through a particularly red and battered book, I stumbled upon a rather interesting newspaper clipping that fell out. It goes as follows:
Resident “Millie Martin” Supposedly Commits Double Homicide, then Found Dead in Prison Cell, Police say.
This morning, Flahdia police flocked to a sudden explosion near a family-run business. The explosion caused trees in the surrounding area to fall over and catch fire. Two victims were found – although the deaths had nothing to do with the explosions. Police say that their wounds seem to have come from lawnmower blades and that their brutal murder was approximated to have taken place three weeks prior to their discovery. The victims were an elderly couple, Robert and Beverly Martin. They were found with intertwined hands, dressed up in their wedding outfits. The Martins’ daughter, Millie Martin, moved to Ahrtowyn two weeks ago. Police found this sudden and unexpected move to be highly suspicious, quickly taking Millie Martin into custody on the counts of suspected double homicide. In the interview with Millie, she claimed, “ I was moving because I wanted to start over. Erase myself from my family’s narrative, if you will. I found their [Robert and Beverly”s] silence concerning, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them… they’ll sometimes leave town while I’m asleep with no prior warning. This time, though… oh, God. I should’ve listened to my gut..” She then says that on Sunday evening, the night her parents were suspected of being murdered, she was working late. However, when police interrogated her workplace, they couldn’t confirm nor deny she was there. Millie’s neighbors claim that on Sunday evening, she got in her car and drove off around 5 p.m. She got home around 12:15 a.m., while she normally gets home around 10:30. Other confidential pieces of evidence led the police, and eventual jury, to believe that Millie committed this heinous crime against her parents. She was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole. Two months after her initial sentencing, she was found dead in her prison cell. Her inmates had beat her over the head until she fell unconscious and then poured water in her mouth to make her drown. Most reports of this event have been glad, saying, “ The demon of Ahrtowyn has been sent back to Hell!” However, Millie is far from a demon. Old colleagues who knew Millie in school claimed that she was bright and had an amazing smile. Others say that she had a kind heart and loved her parents. No one knows what happened, and the police don’t think they ever will. Due to the strange timing of everything and Millie’s work being unable to give her an alibi, Millie Martin will be a criminal forever, regardless if she is innocent or not.
My eyes read and read over the last words over and over again. How could I have never heard of this before? It was recent, too – eight years ago. The reporter claims that Millie will be a criminal forever, but I assume that nobody has ever even heard that name before. Whatever mechanisms in my brain that were functioning right now all screamed at me to find more. To take it to research later. This clipping isn’t a part of the book… no one would notice if I took it, right? My eyes flicked left to right and I quickly folded the clipping up and put it in my pants pocket. No one would mind. It’s fine.
I spent two more hours at the library, reading through every case I could find until my brain was going numb from reading so much. At this point, my original ten books had been put back on the shelves and I had a fresh, new pair of four in front of me.
Millie Martin .
Her name kept echoing in my mind; reverberating so much to the point where I was sure I was going to get a headache. Not only was it sad, but it was also incredibly interesting. I feel bad for everyone involved. The parents, whoever their murderer might be, didn’t deserve it. Not to mention they were wearing their wedding outfits… And Millie. From what I read in that clipping, when being interviewed she seemed genuine. Like she was trying to come to terms with her parents’ demise. However, I can agree that moving a week after your parents die is awfully suspicious. There’s definitely more to this case; like how Millie mentioned erasing herself from her family’s narrative. I want to figure it out, I do. But there was no way I could change anything, even if I was an incredibly smart 15-year-old-detective. I realized that it was getting dark outside, so I should probably finish up. I put away the excess books, then paused as I read over the binding of a particular book. “The Complete Sherlock Holmes Books”. I snickered to myself, deciding to grab it. Why not?
I made it over to the checkout, and the librarian looked at me.
“Done reading, are we?” She said, looking over her glasses with blue and brown eyes.
My heart pounded in my chest for some reason. Her stare made me incredibly anxious like she was about to tell the police I had committed multiple war crimes. I cleared my throat.
“Yes, Ma’am.” I handed over the Sherlock Holmes book, looking down at my raggedy tennis shoes.
“Oh, Sherlock Holmes. This one is one of the bigger books we have-” She looked up, “We’ll lend it out for a month. Every day it’s overdue adds three dollars. Understand?” She stated. The Librarian – her name card saying “Ms. Lugg” – was intimidating.
“Yes, Ma’am. It won’t be late.” I responded, watching as her wrinkly fingers wrapped around the stamp, opened the book, and imprinted the card with green ink. Once she closed it, I nervously reached out to grab it, reciting what kind lines I’d like to say to her before I left, before she paused.
“By the way, what were you reading about in the first place?” Her icy gaze was enough to make me get hypothermia.
“Just some stuff about the town's history,” I responded nonchalantly. She smiled.
“Ah, wonderful. Have you heard about the Secret Office ?” She asked, putting Sherlock Holmes back on the desk.
“No, I haven’t.” I paused. “What is it?”
“Well, you see, the original mayor of Ahrtowyn was a scum. And I don’t mean that lightly, he was very immoral. He cheated on his wife, would throw little fits if he didn’t get his way in elections, had a history of abusing horses, and had a serious drug problem.
“So serious, in fact, that he made an entirely new branch in the town hall just to buy, make, and sell drugs. This was of course secret, which is why they called this branch the Secret Office. Two months before his final election, his wife and kids went missing. There was a giant search for them, but they eventually found them three towns over. Turns out, one night the mayor took a bit too many drugs and got his kids, his wife, and his horse and walked for 2,000 miles. He left them behind, taking the horse, and then he was arrogant enough to help search for them. The town burned him at the stake when they found out about all his sins.”
Oh. That certainly was a lot of information I just received. I feel like maybe it’s a bit of an inappropriate topic to tell a 15-year-old kid who just wants to get a book and leave, but it’s interesting.
“Wow. Burned at the stake?” I asked, eyes darting out the window. It was dusk.
“Yes, that’s what our town used to do to those who didn’t obey the Lord’s word.” Ms. Lugg stated.
“Jeez, that’s really interesting. Thank you for telling me.” I blinked quickly, trying to construct my words as fast as possible. “I’m afraid I have to go now- see you later!” I said, grabbing my book and turning on my heel towards the door.
“Ma’am?”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Hm?” I responded.
“I think you’ve dropped something.” Ms. Lugg said, pointing her finger at the red carpet beneath my feet.
A folded piece of paper on the ground. The newspaper clipping.
“Oh, uh... Thanks.” I tucked the book between my body and my arm, bending down and picking up the clipping. I studied Ms. Lugg’s face for a moment.
She had a face that had obviously aged, but there was something more lurking underneath her bright, attentive eyes. It was something I couldn’t pick up on; nonetheless scaring me. Her icy eyes were blue and brown, her hair was a blonde-white color cut to her chin. It was very curly. Her nose was round and she had big bags under her eyes. I looked away. Her features seemed… unusual for some reason. I couldn’t exactly tell you, but she made my skin itch.
“Bye!” I said, and before she could say anything else I walked out the door.
The cool air of the night hit my face and my lungs, rejuvenating me. I was so worn out, from school and nightmares, that I felt as though I could collapse right there and then. My house was only a few blocks away from the library, although this was the first time I’d ever gone. Judging by the sky, it was around eight at night. I had to get home quickly, Cindy would certainly have my head if I got home late.
I began my departure from the library at a quick pace, beads of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. It’s not like I’m out of shape, I’m the best on my track team, it’s just that I was so incredibly nervous. It felt like I had just drank three energy drinks in a row. My heart was pounding against my ribcage, wanting out immediately. For some reason, my mind went right back to Millie Martin.
Something was itching against my brain, begging me to know more. To ask and ask and ask about Millie until my vocal cords were ripped. Some sick part of me wanted to be her, to know how she felt when the news broke that her parents died. When the news broke that she was the number-one suspect for her parents’ untimely death. I wanted to know the pain she felt in the courtroom when everyone turned against her. I wanted to know how she felt when her inmates beat her mercilessly.
I wanted to be Millie Martin.
This was going to be more – worse – than a simple obsession.
I awoke with a tap on my shoulder. I looked over to see Cindy, my best friend since we were eight, waiting impatiently next to my bed.
“Jeez, finally. I’ve been shaking you for like five minutes!” She complained.
I chuckled, looking around my room. I don’t remember anything past walking home from the library last night. What happened? I tried my best not to be obvious of my distress, but I knew it would be useless because Cindy always reads me like a book.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, dragging me off of my bed.
“Nothing. I’m just really tired.” Cindy rolled her eyes.
“I am too. I wake up earlier than you guys every day. Breakfast is ready, by the way. Meet you there.” Cindy said. She opened the door and walked out.
I smiled. Cindy Lou Rue Blue was her full name, but normally it was too tiring to say so we just call her Cindy. She had puffy dirty-blonde hair that was cut down to her shoulders. Normally, she kept a deadpan expression, always seeming angry, although I’ve never seen her angry. Her eyes were brown and round, and she had pale skin with rosy cheeks. Her favorite color was purple because it “Reminds me of purple pansies and that’s a funny name.” Cindy seemed intimidating, but deep down she was the funniest person I knew.
I rubbed my eyes, then struggled to stand up from my cold, tiled floor. I turned my head a bit, looking in my mirror. I did this every day just to remind myself who I am. I don’t know why, but sometimes I fear I’ll forget myself and slowly fade away, losing everyone around me…
My hair is an odd color. It’s not black, more of a really, really dark green or teal. Every time I wake up it sticks up everywhere. My eyes are bright green, and sometimes my friends joke that they glow in the dark. Sometimes, though, I wonder if they actually do. I have tan skin – thanks to being in athletics in school – and a “Rudolph nose”. My braces are green, but my favorite color is orange.
The bags under my eyes were apparent. I don’t know how many hours of sleep I got last night – I am more tired than usual. I sighed, breaking eye contact with my reflection. I made my way out of my pink room, sliding across our floors with my socks.
I saw Cindy in the kitchen, going through the cabinets. She grabbed peanut butter and closed the door, looking at me.
“Hi. What does being awake feel like?” She sarcastically asked.
I laughed. “I’m not awake; I’m not even here. You’re imagining this… wake up.” I said in a silly voice, waving my fingers and arms around.
She snorted, walking to the counter. “I’d rather not. Thanks for the offer, though.”
I walked over to the counter as well, hopping up on it and sitting down. “What are you making?” I asked.
“A peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich.” She said, looking down at her marvelous creation. It was two sad slices of mushy white bread with clumpy jelly on one slice. Yikes. We might need to go get some more food soon.
“I love PB&J! Can I help?” I said enthusiastically.
She looked at me quizzically. “With what?”
I jumped off the counter and reached into the silverware drawer, withdrawing a butter knife.
“Here-” I said, interrupted by a slap of skin.
Cindy grabbed my arm as soon as I pulled out the butter knife, her iron grip crushing my poor little bones.
“Ow! What the heck, Cindy? Let go-” I struggled.
“No. Put down the knife.” My friend deadpanned. She looked entirely serious like I was some dangerous murderer who was letting their plan come to fruition.
“It’s a butter knife, Cindy.” I deadpanned back.
She sighed, taking her middle finger and her thumb and pinching the bridge of her nose. She did this a lot; however this time it seemed utterly unnecessary.
“Don’t you remember the last time you used a butter knife?”
“No!” I exclaimed, but it was too late. I do remember, actually. It was very scary at the time, but looking back it’s just plain stupid.
It had been about two weeks ago, and I had tried to cut my spaghetti with a butter knife. My roommates – Cindy and Jilly Bean – told me it was a bad idea, but I just laughed and continued. The spaghetti was still too hard and I ended up almost cutting the tip of my finger off, as well as the knife flipping out of my hand and cutting my cheek. I still have the scratches there, too. I normally put bandages over them, but that’s after I take a shower.
I sputtered. “Well- uh, yes… I guess I do… BUT-”
“No. The answer is no, Maraca. Listen,” She sighed, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Not like last time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please! It’s literally a butter knife. What happened last time was only because I didn’t cook the spaghetti long enough. It’s not gonna happen again-” I defended.
“Maraca. What if…” She started. “What if you hurt me?” She looked up at me, eyes worried.
Hurting… Cindy? I couldn’t, no. I don’t think I have the strength to. Still… something lurked behind these hopeful thoughts, saying that I have all the advantages. In height, in my physical strength… if I wanted to… I could definitely=== cause some damage. I could deck her in the nose, breaking it. Or I could break her arm. Or I could pull her hair so hard I ripped her scalp.
If I wanted to, I could take a butter knife and-
“-ca? Maraca? Hey, are you okay?” Cindy’s voice called around me.
I noticed that I was on the ground. How did that happen? Again, my heart began speeding up, pounding, throbbing behind my eyes. I could scream. I wanted to, I really-= did. There was that itch again, this time on the inside of my elbow, and I could feel my eyes focus on anything possible. Like the little scuffs on the floor from when I first moved in. Like the paint picked off the walls by Jilly. Like the sun’s rays coming in through the window, showing all the dust floating in the air. It’s silly, very silly, and funny that there are some things we can never see without help.
Cindy asked me a question, right. “Oh- Uhm, I’m fine.” I lied. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure if it was a lie. Where was I?
“Oh.. uh.” Cindy hesitated. Her dark eyes flicked in between my eyes quickly. She looked worried. “Alright then. Do you still want to help me with the sandwich?” She asked.
“Nah, it’s okay.” I struggled to stand up, my limbs jelly. “I’m gonna take a shower.” I turned away, hearing Cindy mumble something behind me. Probably a quiet and resigned “okay”. If I was in her position, I would probably be very angry at myself. But I don’t need to be in Cindy’s position to do that. I already am.
Something is wrong. My brain’s manufacturer must’ve made a mistake. The warranty is running out - there has to be an explanation of why I feel so… wrong. It’s like everything is some dramatic haze and I can’t quite make out the exact features of the world around me. I wish I had a vacuum for my brain.
Millie Martin.
I have to figure something out, or else I am going to scream.