I looked at my lifeless body, lying still on the floor.
Then I lifted a hand to the face that I looked at it from, gently caressing the rough, pasty skin.
I felt a bushy moustache, sleek and combed, so obnoxiously coated in wax that I could feel it with all five of my senses.
How are you supposed to feel in a situation like this? With your own corpse in front of you, still loosely dangling from the noose you yourself tied like a Christmas ornament. How do you react knowing you just squeezed the life out of your own useless body only to stand right in front it, alive as the day you were forced out the womb?
My mind was blank, not a thought passed through my mind as I lowered myself to the floor, sinking to my knees on the hard wooden floor, slick with my own sweat and saliva. I tasted salt. Little wet droplets dripped down my face, making a whole little lake of my own fluids in the grooves of the floorboards.
There was a handkerchief in the pocket of the grey linen coat this unfamiliar investigator wore.
I chuckled to myself incongruously as I dapped at my eyes with the tacky silk square, slightly amused at the way this young (?) man seemed to fancy himself a modern day Sherlock Holmes with the stupid looking hat that sat on my new head and the ash-ridden pipe that lay alongside the handkerchief.
It brought a solace stripe to the distraught canvas in my mind, but it was merely a strip of wet paint, scraped aside in mere moment as sweat and tears continued to mingle on wrinkled cheeks.
I shivered as I brought myself to my feet, quaking incessantly out of some incoherent emotion.
My hands rested on my knees as I recovered and a voice rung out behind me.
'Inspector Garling Sir!' His voice intruded upon my ears, enthusiastic and spry amidst the dimly atmosphere of my bedroom. 'Any progress made Sir?'
I turned to face him, taking note of two things as I did: a small identification card hung from a lanyard at his neck, allowing me to confirm him to be a 'Colin Banks', and that my diary now rested in the pocket of this Holmes wannabe.
'Banks.' I said my first words in this new body, a little surprised at the depth and rasp of my new voice. 'A little, his diary reads much like that of a man struggling with loneliness and being ostracised.' The feeling of this new tongue in my mouth left me a little slow in my speech but I got out my words nonetheless.
'Yes, that's just as you said yesterday…' Colin replied with a waning enthusiasm.
'Well it never hurt to look over evidence did it?'
'Whatever you say… Sir.' He added the last bit on hastily, sounding a little disillusioned at my apparent incompetency.
He left the room, his leather shoes clacking orderly against the wood of the floor. From just beyond the door, I could hear his disappointed mutters: 'So much for the great Malcolm Garling, some 'New Sherlock' he is.'
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I took in his disapproving comment, learning, not only that my name was Malcolm Garling, but also that my pretentious cosplay wasn't entirely for show, at least it wasn't before I took residence in here.
The homeward journey was like a passing dream. I vaguely remembered the maddened ravings of some woman and the yammering questions of some unfamiliar pair but I couldn't put a face to name if you asked me to. I couldn't even remember the route to this unfamiliar house; my feet just seemed to know where to go and I followed.
The door slowly creaked open to reveal the dimly lit hallway of a single man.
A cat strolled between rooms, hardly even granting me the luxury of a glance and I returned the favour.
I entered the room to my right, groped about on the wall for a moment till my hand found the light switch and promptly pressed it.
The kitchen actually looked rather nice when it was lit up. All clean like it was someone else's kitchen… well, it was.
A few boxes of cat food were stacked up on the counter top alongside all sorts of food more suited for me, I didn't really care, I just beelined straight for the sink. I flicked the handle, letting a small cascade of chilled water fall from the tap and promptly stuck my head under.
It was rather pleasant ironically enough. The cold emanated throughout my face, half shocking me back into consciousness. I removed my head, turned the tap back to the way it was and took a step. I felt something get knocked aside as my foot planted onto the floor, looking down I saw a little orange bowl with the word 'Watson' printed onto it.
Watson? Mr Garling is very dedicated to the cosplay. I thought to myself as the cat, who I now knew as 'Watson', strutted back into the kitchen. Watson walked over to me, before planting it's hairy behind on the slick wooden floor in front of me, meowing expectantly wíth it's eyes trained on the cat food behind me. The damned cat didn't seem to care about my rather pressing identity crisis, or anything really, with the exception of having its stomach filled.
I admired cats a little honestly, the way they never gave a damn what anyone thought of them, the way they selfishly strolled about like they owned the place and we, the idiot humans we are, complied with that.
Watson's stomach seemed to never end, by the time I'd went through four saches of food he was still mewling at me for more, I just chuckled softly and poured another packet of 'chicken in jelly' and he happily chowed down.
Watching as the fluffed-up little fatass gorged himself on food he didn't put a penny towards, I felt at peace, for just a moment, staring at this cat that would never stare back unless it was hungry, I felt like I was allowed to live. That feeling persisted for a while as I had a look about my new 'home'. It was clean, too clean. There was no electricity, a TV that didn't turn on, a landline that didn't have a call history. There were no dishes in the sink, waiting to be washed, no clothes in the basket upstairs, just neatly folded shirts and trousers, lined up in the drawers like no one had ever wore them. I found his bedroom, well you could hardly call it that besides the fact it had a bed in it. The room was eerily clean, not a blemish anywhere. The walls were bare and the grey rug didn't have a stain on it. Looking at it, you'd hardly have thought anyobe ever slept here.
There were only a few things in the room: a perfectly made bed, a blank desk, complete with empty drawers and a bedside table with a smattering of items on it. The room was dimly lit by the setting sun, but I recognised one of the things on that table, I had twirled it between my fingers for hours on end, carefully contemplating when I would thrust it into my chest, of course I never ended up using it. On that table, next to a few faded photos of Watson, was a serrated knife.
I lay under the covers of that unfamiliar bed, balancing the still-untainted knife on my middle finger. I remembered the days not-too-long ago when I had done this. On nights when I had gone hours at school with not a word spoken to me, only to come home to my mothers scolding… how was my mother? Now I thought about it, I hadn't seen her yet, or maybe I had and just hadn't cared to notice.
I placed the knife back on the table, turned my eyes to the handle of a small drawer in the table. I hooked my fingers in the ring and pulled it open, all that sat aside was a small, black diary, with the words '365 Days of Fun!' incongruously imprinted into the spotless leather. Flicking through it, the little black book was just about as spotless as the rest of the house, with the sole exception of a few lines hastily scrawled into the 14th of April.
Screw it, it read. And then a small way down: Just goddamn all this.
I looked at the knife, then to the shirt I never bothered to take off. I placed my hand on my chest, ran it down my midsection, feeling rough little lumps beneath the cloth and tore apart the shirt, letting the buttons clatter to the floor.
For the first time since entering this house, I suddenly wished the lights worked. As
Night passes and morning came. I could heard Watson's mewls as he scratched at the door, desperate to be fed. There was a little coat hanger on the door, just as spotless as everything else, where I had hung Malcolm's cosplay coat. I had called him pretentious for his costume, now I just wondered who he was really dressing up for.
I ate, Watson ate, I don't really remember what I ate, some cereal I guess, didn't taste anything special apparently. I didn't change clothes, didn't want to look at what lay beneath the cloth, not after knowing what covered the midsection, I had imagined it quite enough the night before.
I pushed open the door and took a step out, not bothering to lock it. I got some funny looks from passer's by as I walked back to 'my' house. I didn't even bother to check what was attracting their stares.
'Garling!' Came a rather deep, commanding voice. 'The hell's up with that getup!?' I found my queries over the odd stares suddenly answered as I came to face a stout man, tomato-red and with a stiffened moustache that'd put the one plastered on my face to shame.
'You're dressed like some bloody hobo! And where's the coat? We can't have our New Sherlock without his coat!' Despite his booming criticism, I didn't feel all that offended, although I suppose they weren't my clothes, and this wasn't my body.
I shrugged him off and continued onto the door of 'my' house, tuning out the specifics of his incessant insults. The unlocked door swung open into the hallway and I came face to face with a haggard looking women, eyes wrought with bags that made the darkest mascara look tame. Her graying hair was messy and all over the place like a birds haphazard nest and her clothes were hastily thrown on, stained with the sauce of instant noodles.
'Mr…' she whispered, her voice faint and quivering.
She turned her head to the floor and retreated into a room off to the side.
That… was my mother.
I don't know why, I only realised that after she'd left my sight, the distraught looking woman had been in such stark contrast to the sternly image my mind seemed to recall that, initially, I didn't even consider the possibility of them being the same woman.
Somewhere in what I'm pretty sure was my kitchen, I could hear a few voices talking faintly, not that I could discern what they were actually saying. I just continued along the hallway, up till the foot of the staircase which loomed before me like a mountain. The open door which sat just barely in view atop the stairs was a menacing thing to think about, I could hardly help but fear the thought of my own stagnant corpse on the floor. But it was gone, my floor was (almost) just as clean as when I'd been tying the noose, I half regretted leaving my diary in the pocket door of that stupid coat, I didn't want to have to scrounge through this room, hunting for a truth I knew all too well.
I sunk into my bed, letting the blanket curve around this ridged posterior. How uncomfortable.
I'd be frankly impressed with anyone if they could relax in the room of a teen suicide, even if that room was your own, and the corpse was your own too.
There was a buzz from the pocket of my trousers, a phone I never realised was there. I reached in and pulled it out, giving the screen a tap and staring at the new notification.
Mrs Doyle? That was… my history teacher I think, I'm sure she's glad I'm gone, I thought to myself, a cynical smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth as I let Face ID open the phone.
But, colour me surprised, what I saw wasn't words of victorious gloating, or mock concern, or even some attempt at grudging cooperation. I felt my heart sink and soar all at once as I read her words: 'Please tell me if you find out anything Mr Garling, it's devastating enough for this to happen once, I couldn't bear to see it happen again.'
Her words were laced thickly with 'teacher formalities' but they felt… genuine. She really did seem to care, but… why? I thought she hated me? Otherwise why would she scold me so much? Because you didn't put in the effort. Why did she seem to ignore me? Because you never tried to be seen. Why would she always, always, ALWAYS call me back to lecture me over her meaningless concerns? Because I was something to be concerned about.
…
Was it my fault?
But she… hated me. Right? No she wanted you to succeed, that's why she was harsh."
Even as my thoughts of truth and reality mingled within my mind, I found myself denying what I'd always knew somewhere inside: that she'd always cared.
I stood, my knees wobbly underneath me, as I shakily attempted to leave the room.
I tasted salt.
I stumbled downstairs in a confused stupor before planting myself into one of the chairs set up around the kitchen table.
'Umm, Mr Detective, you okay?' One of the voices I had heard earlier now came from in front of me, rich with concern.
I'd half-forgotten that this wasn't really my home anymore as I'd sat down. I guess the wobbling legs and red eyes has made me a cause for concern, reasonably so I suppose.
I tilted my gaze to look at who sat on the other side of the table.
'Yes, pardon me, such cases can just be a little… distressing.'
'Ah, o-ok.' They spoke meekly, like they were scared of speaking too loudly… ohh, I remembered them. Those softly spoken murmurs rung a bell somewhere inside of me, of a friend I'd lost.
'Umm, I'm Joel, Joel Maveris, I-I was a friend of Jacobs.'
I hesitated a moment before responding.
'Where you particularly close with Jacob, I don't suppose you noticed anything that could help?' What was I asking?
'Well… I thought so, but I think we drifted apart at some point, he just seemed to float away, I guess.'
What was I hoping to find out?
'It wasn't hard to see he was struggling honestly. His school performance dropped drastically and he stopped speaking to people.'
Yes, I knew all this… but there was something I still wanted to know.
'I wanted to help, both me and Alex did, but he just… didn't seem to want that.'
As if on cue, the black-topped head of a young man poked its way through the door to the hallway.
'Am I interrupting something?' Alex's confident voice permeated throughout the room. It really had been an awful while since I'd bothered to listen to his voice.
'No, no, not at all, I was just asking your friend here about Jacob.' I don't know why I kept up this facade, I'd already found out wanted to know.
'Jacob, huh…' he stopped a moment, contemplating what to say. 'I miss him- so damn much.' His voice quaked a little in a way I'd never heard before. I looked at him, the wistful beginnings of a smile were spread across his face.
'Ah sorry, that's not what you're asking, is it?'
'No… no don't worry about it… I can hardly blame you for struggling to answer.'
Alex looked ready to say something more.
'Well, if you'll excuse me now.'
I strode out the room. My eyes set dead in front of me, desperate to ignore their mournful eyes, as well as the sickening lump that had taken residence in my stomach.
I still couldn't remember the route home, but my feet found their way there anyway.
Watson sat expectantly just behind the front door like a king awaiting his servant. Some meaningless obligation lead me to stuffing a bowl full of food for him before silently making my way back to that pitch dark bedroom.
The coat still hung on the back of the door, right where I'd left it. I felt around in the coat pocket a little before my fingers wrapped around the rugged felt of my diary.
I pulled it out and snapped on the light of the phone in my pocket. I opened the cover, letting the pages fall to whatever unfortunate memory they felt like showing me.
November 13th:
They beat me again, those stupid little shits. And Joni and Alex were nowhere to be seen, as always. I mean, the hell's the point in friends if they aren't there to help?
Although it wasn't as bad today actually, they let me off a little early after screaming some 'defend yourself!' kinda nonsense, I mean shut up! Who are you to tell me what to do?!
…
Maybe it was just a result of being stuck in someone else body, but I never realised until now how pathetic I really was. I mean WOW. Did I really have the audacity to blame it on those two when I was too much of a weak-willed little bitch to so much as attempt to defend myself.
I was pathetic. Pathetic. So pathetic.
…
They never gave up on me, did they? Even after I ignored them, blamed them for everything they cried for me. I was beginning to hate this salty taste that seeped into my mouth. I felt that little lump inside of me rise, rise and rise further till it was threatening to burst from the back of my throat like a charging bull. I couldn't stop it, couldn't really be bothered trying to either. But it wasn't particularly bad, that, of all things, is what I found myself thinking as what little food was in my stomach spilled out all at once.
It was a little refreshing to find something more pathetic than myself. The smattering of moist chunks spread through the thick liquid really did put into perspective just how little I'd eaten.
I felt as the unpleasant mixture of saliva and the vestiges of vomit swirled about as I flipped to another page; another and another and more yet: all the same.
Every last page godforsaken page was a some pathetic self-piteous rambling about 'my misfortune' or 'the stupid brats' and not once, not a single goddamn time in the 365 days that filled the diary, did I bother to do a damn thing for myself, somehow, in some way, it was always someone else's fault.
I'm sure that if there was anything left to puke up, I would've done it then and there, instead I was just left hacking and coughing, gagging on globules of spit and mucus as my mouth filed with the ever-intensifying taste of salt. It was really so damn pathetic.
I lay in bed that night, I did not sleep, I hardly even bothered to blink, hell, I hardly bothered to try.
Knock, knock.
Shaken from my half-unconscious trance, the sound of knocking on glass reverberated up the stairs. It was tempting, very tempting to just wait for them to leave, to wait for the knocks to peter out into silence.
Knock, knock.
And I found myself at the door, standing there, hand resting hesitantly in the cold doorknob, filled with a quiet irritation. As it happens, sleepless nights tend make a person very irritable.
I turned the handle and gently opened the door so a crack of outside light spilled on. I peered through the little gap I'd made, catching the sight or stark grey streaks. She hadn't changed clothes since last I'd seen her. Still wearing that same frayed dress stood my mother.
I just stood there a moment, trying to comprehend why on Earth she would be here.
'Ummm, e-excuse me?' She said, her voice wrought with a tired weakness. And in spite of what my memories told me about her, it was on pure instinct that I wrenched the door open for her.
Her eyes widened in shock, although her face didn't really change that much, she didn't seem to have the strength even for that. She tossed a wary glance my way, looking me up and down as I stood there in the same rumpled clothes I had worn yesterday.
I stood aside, gesturing for her to enter into the room on the left side of the hallway, although truthfully, I'd never been in there either.
Standing in the dark doorway, I fumbled around on the wall to my side until my fingers slid over the light switch. Pressing it, nothing happened.
'Eh-hem, pardon me mu-ma'am, but I've been having some issues with the lights recently…'
I forced out an excuse, but was only met with a somewhat exasperated glare from the haggard woman as she gestured tiredly towards the curtains.
That's more like it, I found myself thinking as I strode to the curtains, a slight sapling of shame blooming in the heart that still considered her a mother. Dreary morning light spilled in through the windows, dimly illuminating the room.
It was uniquely lively for a room in this house, although I suppose it was called a living room. There was actual furniture; a three-person couch of faintly red leather was pressed against the wall to my left while an armchair patterned with tacky magnifying glasses and pipes sat in front of me. A few photos hung from the walls but not many. They showed the face I now saw in the mirror alongside another, a young woman, pale in the face but with a beaming grin. A lover? No. His sister I believe…
'I-I heard about your sister from some of the other officers…' her voice was lacquered with an unfamiliar sympathy.
'It's been 6 months already hasn't it? Last April must have been a terrible time for you.'
It stung a little, the fact that the first kindness I've received from her in years was in someone elses body.
I steeled myself, shaking away the clenching thorns. 'Well… Nevermind that miss, what are you here to speak about?' I asked her, there was a slight tremble in my voice, but I'm sure she didn't notice.
'Ah… yes, yes. It's a-about my son.'
I mean I knew that's why she was here, to spew some derogatory nonsense about her son, all over her son.
'It's my fault!' She said, with all the strength her frail self could muster.
Did I- hear that right?
I stared at her, blankly, questioning my ears. But there was no doubt in my mind as I saw her glistening eyes and quivering mouth.
'Wh- why do you say that Miss?' I asked her, the trembling more noticeable this time.
'Because I-I d-didn't know a thing…' with her eyes cast to her feet, the soft dribble of her motherly tears echoed off the floor.
I remained silent a moment, a strange sensation seemed to encase my eyes, they felt hot, they felt odd young the backside.
'I didn't know, about the bullying, or-or his seclusion, I didn't even know his g-grades dropped… WHAT KIND OF MOTHER AM I?!'
I stepped back as her passionate shout spilled out, she faced me now, her eyes and cheeks slick with a tearful cascade, her face screwed up in anger, grief and the raw beginnings of an all-too-familiar self hatred.
I taste salt, an intense salty taste filled my mouth as the sensation subsided, and tears slid along my face. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this way, but before I could even comprehend that feeling, my arms were wrapped tightly around her.
I forgot that I wasn't her son anymore, I forgot why I'd held her with such contempt in my heart, all that filled my heart in that moment- was a love I could've sworn I'd forgotten.
My senses returned, tears still dropping to the floor, but that was all I could hear, wrapped in the arms of a stranger, all my mother did was cry silently. Perhaps this was all she'd wanted, someone she could cry to, someone that she didn't need to act strong in front of.
I could feel as the crumpled shirt flattened against my skin, warm and damp. Her wrinkling skin and unkempt hair were pressed against me chest and I just stood there and let her cry.
A few short minutes passed. When she finally stepped away, her eyes were ringed with red and the blue of the shirt was darkened and wet.
She looked at the floor, the vestiges of tear echoing faintly as they hit the floor.
'I-I'm so-sorry… sir.' I had never heard my mothers voice so weak, it shook in her fragility.
'It's… it's ok ma'am.' I struggled somewhat to force those words out, and I couldn't bear to say anything more.
I placed my hand on her back, guiding her to the front door. And she turned to me; faced me. I almost thought to myself that it was the first time I had seen that face in years, but I knew that wasn't true. Those grateful eyes and that soft smile, filled with all the love in the word, I'd seen that so many times in fact, I'd just never been looking, I'd always been wearing the wrong glasses.
I sat in the dark, Watson's soft mewls reverberated through the halls from behind the door. To my right, sat that same knife I'd saw on my first night here. I felt it's rubber if grip and jagged edge beneath my fingers. A smidge of pain spiked in my finger, I couldn't really see but I imagined the scarlet stain on the knifes blade.
I stared to the ceiling, thinking back on everything, everything I'd came to find and everything I'd wasted in my self-pity. I settled onto my back, letting my head sink as far as its untouched self would let me.
I couldn't see the knife, and yet I knew it was there, it's handle to perfectly suited to my hands.
Amid the dark, my eyes never left the blade, and I fell asleep with me eyes still fixed on it… did I?