Belinda Troy

2016

 THE AMBULANCE ARRIVED AT THE scene minutes after Alex took his final breath. I watched as they lifted him onto the gurney, placing an oxygen mask over his nose and preparing the defibrillator in hopes of getting a second chance. The vehicle sped beyond the limits, as it should. I stayed by his side, witnessing the response of his chest to the machine, my hands gripping the bars of the gurney, begging his eyes to open.

They didn't.

...

His body was connected to the heart rate monitors in the ICU room, but the lines stayed firm, and the sound rang in my ears. They performed the necessary procedures and removed the bullet from his chest. And I invited myself out as they prepared to do more.

I'm not used to seeing that much blood on him, and I never want to.

I plopped down next to the ICU room and held my knees close to my chest, keeping myself from falling apart even further. I pry down to my blood-stained hands, mud and dirt on my clothes, how I smelled sweat and blood, and the minor cuts on my arm from when I slipped on the road.

I felt numb even when there was a massive wound on my forehead. Probably the only major cut, as it's still bleeding down to my cheeks. I could feel the prick as my hair brushed upon it, but I couldn't care enough to help it. Although I was staring at the ground, I felt the eyes of many patients and nurses on me as they strode past. Some even took pity on my appearance.

A nurse appeared next to me, resting on her knees as she placed many medicine bottles and cotton balls at her side. I had no energy to meet her eyes. A navy-blue scrub is what she wore, and there's a golden anklet surrounding her left ankle with a miniature Saturn pendant on it.

"This is going to hurt. Please bear with me," her accent is thick, which tells me English isn't her first language. She uncaps one of the bottles and dampens a single cotton ball with it as she reaches for the wound on my forehead. She's right; it hurt so badly that my nails dug into my palms.

My eyes welled up, and the lump in my throat exploded, causing me to break down, and I couldn't stop. I screamed, definitely attracting more attention than I already had. The nurse didn't consult me to stop. Instead, she pulled me into her arms and laid my head on her chest.

My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, and my brain was already shut down.

"God, if you're listening, give him back to me!"

...

Another day has come. I hadn't showered or changed my clothes. Even if I had a chance to, I'd need energy to even fasten my arms into the sleeves of the t-shirt. Though at this moment, I'm running low on it. I believe a strong gust of wind could knock me down.

The doctors kept Alex in the ICU for further inspection, and I'm being detained as a suspect who caused his murder. The cops arrived at the hospital around two in the morning when everyone, including me, had settled down. The nurse—her name is Zoe—patched my wounds and lend me a shoulder before she clocked out. A senior cop and perhaps her junior approached me, throwing a bunch of questions I had no energy to answer.

In the end, the male cop, who seemed to be in his twenties, lifted me on his back and sat me down in the vehicle's back seat. The journey took about half an hour before we arrived at the station. They kept me in the waiting room with two other officers guarding the exit.

I lost all strength to keep my eyes open and drifted to sleep, hoping I would not see the light of day again.

But I did.

...

"It wasn't me," the first sentence slipped past my lips since last night. The interrogator shot many questions my way that I wished he'd used a real gun and bullet instead. I've seen guys like him in movies, and they'd always try to claw the answer they want to hear, not the truth. "Why the fuck would I kill my own friend?"

"Maybe to get something from him? I don't know. I have a source who claims that Alexander Beau comes from a wealthy family. And we all know that riches could cause even the strongest of friendships to break," he leans in, pulling his spectacles off and intertwining his fingers together. His glossy bald head caught my attention more than his cigarette breath and excruciatingly tight jeans. "What if I told you that we had an eyewitness who claimed to have seen you responsible for Alexander's mishap."

"Then your eyewitness is as blind as you," I said, slumping back to the chair. "Wouldn't a simple surveillance footage solve this question?"

"As I said, our team has taken a look at it, and we have a reason to believe you're responsible," he picks up his phone and meddles with it before flipping the screen around where the footage of the scene took place.

The video quality is shitty but clear enough for me to see myself and the gunwoman. However, I finally understood why the cops assumed I was responsible. The gunwoman was barely in the footage as she knew the blind spots of which the camera could not capture her. The video kept going, and I had to restrain myself from watching more. However, just as I was about to close my eyes, the screen showed me running toward Alex before the recording was destroyed. The camera was shattered as though a rock was flung towards it.

"As you can see, you're the only person standing with him," he pulls his phone back, shutting the screen and having it face down by his side. "How do you explain that?"

"Now that I've seen it, I can see why you think it's me," I start. "But I'm telling you, it's not me! It was this woman. She—"

"Preposterous," he cut me off. "I will never a believe a woman could do such things. Look, it's either you tell me the truth or—"

"Sergeant Phill," the communicator strapped on his jacket interrupts him.

"Speaking," he picks up.

"You have a visitor, and I believe you need to hear them out," the call cuts, leaving the cop, or Phill confused.

He eyes me and then back to his communicator as though I had a connection with it.

The door slams open, catching our attention. Mr. and Mrs. Beau walked in, guarding my side. I nearly forgot that I called them right before the ambulance showed up that night. I recall nothing, only that I panicked and left them hanging after I ripped the bandage off.

"We're taking him right this instant," Mrs. Beau sounded like she was about to turn everyone to stone if they did not adhere to her words.

"And who the hell are you?" The cop stood to his feet, hands still on the table.

"We're Alexander's parents," she responds and slams her phone on the desk between the cop and me. The screen protector of it shattered at its side. On the screen, it's a photo of Alex and me during our middle school graduation ceremony. "And he is my son's lover."

"Our son has been together with Jonathan since they were in middle school," Mr. Beau said, and I know he's still shaken by the news. "In all these years, I know that Jonathan would never commit such a thing, especially after he's already been through a lot in his own household."

I slowly peer up at Mrs. Beau to catch her eyes still welled, pinkish red, with her nose slightly runny. She saw me looking at her, and she gave one of the saddest smiles as her hand found its way to mine, squeezing it tightly.

"They speak the truth, Sergeant Phill," a deep husky voice made itself known. I turned to see a tall figure with a wrestler's body. Square jawline, short dark hair, and eyes to match. He wore an army uniform just as tight as Phill's pants. "The footage showed no other people involved, but luckily, a resident living in the building where this incident took place recorded the entire thing."

He held his arm out where a tablet sat in his grasp. His fingers are definitely twice the size of mine. The tablet plays a video from the resident's perspective, and the cops have a perfect view of the gunwoman. The footage cuts as soon as the bullet was triggered. Thankfully, it hadn't finished all the way.

"Release him," Mrs. Beau glared towards the cops. "Now."

The sergeant eyed the muscle figure in the room, who nodded in agreement. He sighs as he pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the shackles around my wrist. I ran into Mr. Beau's shoulder, crying silently as he embraces me. We're both crying at this point.

"The gunwoman is Belinda Troy, a wanted criminal in eleven countries," the muscle figure caught our attention. "Due to the fact she's always fleeing the country and constantly changing her identity with fake ones, the authorities do not know who she truly is. Fortunately, Alex's heroic deed had ended her shenanigans once and for all."

"And why is that?" I ask.

His eyebrows raise in humor as he scoots from the door. It was then I noticed he was as big and tall as the door.

"Bring her in," he commands.

Two other cops and a prisoner in between them were approaching from the shadows. My breath shakes as my hands' ball in a fist, squeezing so tightly that I may injure the blood vessels in my palms. Heavy chains were locked around her neck, waist, and legs, bonding her like a dog as the guards held the loose chains firmly in one hand and a taser in the other.

Her arms and legs were decorated with tattoos of snakes and other reptiles. She had a sinister smile plastered on her face. Through her vivid-green fringes, our eyes connect, the same pair of lenses from that night.

"May I introduce, Belinda," the muscled cop crosses his arm, looking bigger than he already is.

"My condolences to your boy toy," Belinda flashes her fangs.

I lost control at that moment as I pushed Mr. Beau out of my arms and reached for the shackles on the desk, tossing it with all my strength towards her face, breaking her nose and jaw. My awareness returned when I felt my body being tugged from behind. The cops split Belinda and me, unaware I was strangling her neck. Her face returns to normal from turning blue.

"If I knew you were gonna do that, I wouldn't have introduced her to you," Phill said in a humorous tone. "Then again, I think you deserved to do that. Though the authorities will take it from here."

...

My mind was overwhelmed with what had just happened. I couldn't remember plunging towards her in the beginning and causing so much damage. I studied her damaged profile sitting on the ground, bleeding. Fresh crimson red bled out of her nose and her jaw is dislocated. Her blood painted my fingernails, and I noticed the nail marks around her face. My nails.

"According to the law, we ought to press charges for the assault," the muscle figure approaches me. He was taller than I thought; my forehead had only reached his stubbled chin. He smelled of cigarettes and cheap male cologne, just like the sergeant. My eyes gaze at his tag resting upon his chest pocket. Jerome Hassen.

"Name your price," Mrs. Beau intrudes. I turn to see her standing proud, eyes still teary. "I'm willing to pay for my son's justice. If you asked me, I'd have her eliminated. For the safety of her future victims."

"Future victims?" He repeats before chuckling. "Ma'am, I don't know where you're from but in this country, our security system is tight, no prisoner has ever escaped without getting caught. I doubt she'll ever see the flowers again."

"That bitch can rot in hell for all I care," she leans her hip against the desk. "By the way, I took a course in law, don't bullshit me when I ask you for the price."

Jerome grimaces and gestures his invisible cap as though he's showing respect.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I'll have my men send you the details by sunset."

He gave the sergeant a look, and he packed his things and left the room.

"Oh," Jerome had nearly left with the sergeant, but he turned on his heel, and our eyes met. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, son. May the Lord grant him the peace he deserves in heaven."

With that, he gave his final respect to Alex's parents and left.

...

We abandoned the sweaty stench of a station and walked towards the car Mr. Beau had rented. The car unlocked to the pressing of the remote, and we entered, shutting the door, buckling our seatbelts—or at least they were—and turning the engine on. We stayed there for a moment as Mrs. Beau's visions were still interrupted. From the rear-view mirror, she caught my eyes and gave me a smile. This is one of the many reasons I respected her. She just lost her only child. She's breaking internally and yet finds the courage to force out a smile.

I couldn't return her smile as my puffy eyes spoke for me.

"Let's go home, Jonathan."