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I can feel her pulse. A pulse. No more.

All evening, I knew something would happen. Gradually rolling towards Waterboro, the
smouldering fog was like a damp blanket enveloping the air, keeping us villagers imprisoned
in our decrepit dwellings. All evening, I knew something would happen. The tension was
swimming around my stomach, occasionally sinking to the pit and swiftly leaping up again.
Babysitting Jessica was fun; I was always fond of her. Feeling ambivalent, I caressed Jess
gently, stroking her fine chestnut brown hair that shimmered in the peering moonlight
through the pelmets. The edge of my vision was slit by a sudden jostling of keys.
Not only was Mrs. Müller late, but she was also heavily drunk. This was becoming a usual
habit now: she would glower at Jess thrusting her into my hands, exit and appear light-
headed at past midnight. She was slattern. I didn͛t understand her prickly personality, how
did Mrs. Müller treat Jessica (her own daughter) when there was no one else to accompany
her? Her burning red-ringed hair and lurid fluorescent coloured clothes revealed her life,
futile. Her recalcitrant attitude made me want to clinch at her neck and shake her into the
real world, yet she lolled onto the couch, complacent of her delinquency.
͞You͛re drunk,͟ I said, disillusioned.
͞So what? It was only a swig of vodka,͟ she retorted, ͞keep your hair on.͟ I nodded
amiably; to contradict Mrs. Müller would be an atrocity. Her cutting glance reassured me
that I could leave.
As I went out into the patio, the pavement was dotted by dainty drops of rain.
Contemporaneously, I could hear the choir group chorus in unison. Shrill female falsettos. It
was something I always had hated - just as though the group were blackmailed to attempt
singing - the serenity of choir seemed artificial. I cringed at the sound. My mother was
always pleading me to join choir, she wanted me to sing for god because it was her main
desire. ͚Pfft͛ is what I thought; I would rather read Wuthering Heights. Never had she
deemed that all I wanted was to get into New York Film Academy and be myself, not some
pious freak waddling around the streets.
A siren startled me. I quickened my pace, frequently skipping as if I were running away
from someone. My house was just around the bend; it was coming closer, both the siren and
my house. A nasty image popped up in my mind, a visualization of a familiar face, quivering
and distressing while droning anonymous words. Whose face it was, I did not know. Another
picture twisted before my eyes, yet this was genuine, an ambulance reversed hastily and hit
the main road before I could seek for any explanation. It still felt like something was coming.
I thought it would be more rain, maybe thunder or lightning. I wasn͛t ready for anything
else.
A policewoman was standing outside our house, arms akimbo with a pen and notepad. As I
pulled along her side, I heard her murmur beneath her breath, running her macho hands
through her hair. I was given an empty look when her velvety brown eyes flicked right over
me.
͞Excuse me,͟ I sputtered, ͞what͛s going on here?͟
Nothing. I followed her gaze while she enigmatically looked inside my house, right through
the window. I looked at her hotly and tutted, this was no time for playing games. I wanted to
ask her more, maybe this time she would hear me. Instead, I flinched. As I strolled into my
house, I couldn͛t recognize it; an inert and sepulchral atmosphere flew around the house.
What used to be glistening gold decorations that shone on the shelves, ebony black tables
and an antique glass cupboard was now a heap of debris on the floor. Debris next to a dead
body, that familiar face I was visualizing. My dead body.

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