The One Who Buried Him

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Josephine Smith remembered the murder as clear as any Hollywood motion picture. She remembered that there was an endless, chaotic scream that engulfed her ears and the screeching of nails against the floorboards. The emotions inside of her were so conflicted back then, it was as if she was the one killing the person. 

   A grating of a knife. 

   She saw it as it descended and ripped through human flesh. Blood spurted like cheap red paint on the hardwood, and she had covered her mouth in the closet. She watched the gruesome kill. She witnessed it. She had also seen the murderer. 

   Josephine felt herself shake at the memory. 

   She had walked to the grave. 

   “I watched you die,” she had said at the site, underneath the floorboards after the murderer had done its job. “I will make sure you get your justice,” Josephine whispered quietly. She felt delirious. 

   The grave seemed to whisper with a silent taunt. Josephine shook herself back to reality, feeling cold sweat drain the heat from her body. 

   She slung her bag over the shoulder before slipping the knife into the pocket of her hoodie. She was going to catch the murderer— she was the only one who could do it. Brushing her hair from her shoulder, Josephine could feel a piercing stare from the back of the room. A mirror. Distraction was her downfall. As if in a trance, she walked over slowly to the glass, frosted by thick layers of dust. 

   Using her sleeve, she wiped away the white layer, revealing a rusted brass looking glass. She stared straight through the mirror. She remembered the face. The face of the murderer. She could recognize the killer all too well through the glass. 

  A shrill scream. 

  She was standing over the body. 

   The knife merged into her hand like a fragmented motion picture. 

   She remembered what the killer looked like— brown hair and lost grey eyes searching for a clue in the world. 

   She shook her head and dropped the knife on the ground, kicking the dirty object away. Josephine Smith was not a murderer. She nearly laughed as she made her way out of the door. She was just going to visit the victim— only she knew where the dead body lay. 

   After all, she was the one who buried him.