Odium

My mindset is not exactly what most psychiatrists would call healthy. I hate more than their psychiatric guideline handbooks think is normal. I suppose that is why I am in here and why this is happening to me. This cold, gray cell does not help my attitude grow positive. There is only one window; I could not fit out it anyway, even if the bars were not there. It is covered like a fog settled in over it. The dirt from ages of never being touched has added to its smog appearance.

"Let me out," escapes in a breath from my lips in a whisper. I would walk around and light a cigarette. I need one of those right now, my hands are shaking, but they'd wonder if maybe I might have a reason to be nervous. I want to scream at their peering eyes behind that mirror and shake some sense into them. That would be as smart as running to the green steel door and banging myself against it to be heard. It would most likely be as comfortable as this cold chair they've commanded me to sit in. They must pride themselves on making me squirm; maybe they think I'll give into their demands earlier. I would like to slam it against the mirror, but, the chair already wobbles and I am fairly positive that the clumsy metal that holds it together would not hold anything together much longer. The table might break the mirror, but I could not lift it if I tried. It feels like the same steel that the door is made out of. It is the same pale green. This cold, gray cell with its green ornaments makes me want to puke. Green coloring and white fluorescent lighting could have convinced me that my own skin looked green, but that is just part of their idea of breaking a soul. This cell was made to break a soul, innocent or guilty. They do not care. Everyone in here is guilty.

I stare at the mirror. My face looks alien, green tinted and bags forming under my eyes. I used to like my eyes. They seemed to be lively. Boys would compliment me. They would say that they liked the way they would seem to change from hazel to blue or green depending on the light around me. Under this light, they look like I have died. I could be a corpse; my hair even lies limp on my shoulders. The full body texture seems to have been drained and under the invasion of the fluorescent light, the beautiful brown it had once been seems to be nothing more than dried seaweed resting on a rock. Just the sight of me in their mirror makes me desperate to get out. Seeing me how they see me through their looking glass mirror makes me want to lock myself up in a cold, gray cell, only mine would not incorporate the useless mirror. I feel small staring at myself. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks anorexic.

"Stand up." A voice echoes around the room. God, is that you? I do not hesitate moving to my feet. The loud booming voice thunders in my head. "Hands on the wall behind you. Now." I move rather numbly. Not on purpose, but out of fear, I stumble across the floor to the wall.

The green steel door creaks open. Two sets of feet walk in. I think one's a female and the other is male. some steps are light, others are heavy as they walk to opposite sides of the room. A cold set of hands touch my face and pull my chin to the right, a pair of cold green eyes stare me down. I close my eyes, hoping to wake up in my own bed. The hands throw me to my chair. Nervously, I sit myself in it.

The hostile green eyes belong to the woman. She could be pretty; her fiery red hair is pulled back in a tight bun that strains her face. In her dark blue police uniform, she is an imposing figure. Fear intrudes upon my soul as I look at her. She's not really mean, her face says, she's just seen too many people in pain. Her job is to serve and protect and she will at all costs. Her beauty offsets the cruelty in her eyes. She walks like a panther stalking her prey as she circles me.

Her partner, a towering man, stands by the door. I would think that he was gorgeous if I did not see him as an enemy right now. He looks a bit like Sean Connery, with the body of Denzel Washington. But, those cold shackles on his belt and the ring of clanging keys send my mind back to reality. They are here to stand as my accusers; I am the guilty one in their eyes. It is their job to break me, sensing that the room could not do that.

"Why'd you do it?" The body of the male moves closer to me, watching the slightest movement I might make. The lady stops circling me and sits in a chair that they had brought in with them. I sense that they think we'll be here for a while. I don't know how to answer them, though. I don't know what they have me here for.

Images of last night flash in my mind. Why did I do what? When did I do it? Last night? But last night, all I can remember is waking up in a puddle of vomit on the floor in my bathroom with men in blue police uniforms towering over me with guns pointed at my head. Luckily, I did receive the customary shower before being locked in a holding cell. Everything was done in a daze. The black ink on my fingers where they took my fingerprints to the pale blue scrubs that I now sit in, I don't know how I moved through the motions they had to guide me through.

I remember drinking and hanging around at the bar with, oh, I can't even remember who was there. I got home late. I drove, I think. I can't remember really. I was drunk. I drank a lot at the bar and then I woke up at home. I don't what else happened. What did I do?

"Cat got your tongue?" He leans forward until I can smell his breath; it reeked of coffee and tuna fish. I want to make a smart remark about it, but I know my sarcasm won't go over well in this situation.

I could use a cigarette and my morning coffee to smooth the taste of my hangover out of my mouth. I can smell the lingering scent of coffee on their uniforms or is that the air in here? Black coffee and a Marlboro red would be great right now. I wonder what time it is. I wonder if I will get out of here. I do not know what I did.

"N-N-No, s-sir," I manage to stutter out. The sound of my own voice frightens me; it's raw and aged. I close my eyes and try to remember if I'd slept through some years. I sounded forty. I am only eighteen.

"Then answer him, Delancy, why'd you do it?" She pulls her chair closer to the table.

"D-Do what? I don't know what I did."

"I think you're lying," The man says. I want to yell at him, asking him how he could presume to know me. I am not lying.

"I don't know why I'm here."

"I think she's telling the truth, lieutenant," The woman says. She looks at me with pity in her eyes.

"You killed a girl," Lieutenant says. "Cold-blooded murder while she was asleep." My stomach drops the ground. I let my head fall onto the table. The sound echoes through the room. I did not kill anyone. I am really not capable of it.

"N-No, I didn't." I don't think.

"All the evidence says you did. We've got a witness that says he saw you with the victim before her death. We've got motive, her parents and your parents said that you were not on the best of terms of this girl. Your mother even described it as 'odium'. What does that mean?" Lieutenant says. His voice seems to seethe with bitterness. The flash of his brown eyes digs under my skin and causes bumps to jump to the surface of my arms.

"Odium is hatred coupled with disgust," I say. I know whom they think I murdered now. Caryn is a girl in my class who I cannot stand. She cannot stand me either. The hate we share is completely mutual.

Caryn had a knack for invading my space. She was a strategist, watching her prey from behind the shadows and pouncing just when the time seemed to suit her needs. I didn't have any real reason to hate her until she started pulling childish pranks on me during our junior year. She would steal my reports or gym clothes, anything to make me late to class or fail. She may have been the strategist stalking her prey, but I was her prey. I knew how to play her game. I am an expert at games.

She also loved the idea that I couldn't quite afford the same things as she. It would delight her that I would show up in clothes from department stores and not Abercrombie and Fitch. She would even laugh at me after gym class when she saw me spray a designer imposter fragrance on instead of Tommy Girl. And she loved the idea that she out-did me every time an opportunity came up to win a scholarship for college.

"Oh, that's too bad. But, it's just a few points. I'm sure it was tough for the principal to decide," she said. Walking up to me at the bulletin board outside the guidance counselor's office where History scholarship results where posted. For writing a research paper on the history of Feminism or the history of the Independent Political part, the winner would be awarded a two-year scholarship to the University of Maine at Orono or Presque Isle. She would smirk when she pointed out her name.

"Too bad." She would gloat and flip her long hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah, next time." I would try to maintain dignity and walk away.

"I really hope you weren't counting on that scholarship. But, I'm sure since you're such a hard worker, you could work through college." She would smile and flip her blonde hair back and waltz off down the hallway.

Truth was, I was counting on that scholarship. There was no way I would get out of this town without, I thought. I needed to go to college to escape the grasp of the dead end town I was born into. I need that scholarship to get me there. I had closed my eyes and wished her dead at that moment. I got her back, though. She pulled one of her suicide tricks and I videotaped her as she walked through it. I used it as leverage. She left me alone.

"I didn't kill her."

"We've got the proof," Lieutenant says. He drops a folder in front of me, a few pictures fall out towards my lap. A woman lies tied to her bedposts; two wrists, bloodied and blue hang on the other side of white rope, leaning in towards her pale body. Blonde hair, caked with dried blood is glued across her face. Her eyes, a glazed brown, stare out into the room, past the photographer. My stomach churns with disgust.

"That's your yearbook and your mother's rosary," the woman says. Beside her head is a yearbook and a rosary dangles from her right hand. I pick the picture the up, concentrating on the yearbook. Caryn's picture is circled in the shape of a tombstone in black ink. I close my eyes and look away; my stomach twists itself in torment. Cautiously looking back at the picture, my eyes focus on the rosary. It looks like my mom's rosary; its glass heart shape beads and pewter clasp and cross resemble those that I had spent hours massaging through my fingers while kneeling by the bedside. Late nights where spent saying the Sorrowful Mysteries on Tuesdays and Fridays, holding the fragile rosary between my thumb and index finger as I wove it around my hand.

My mother bought that rosary at the town auction. It was an antique that had belonged to some older lady that had long since died. My father let me have it after mom died.

It cannot be. I rarely ever carry Mom's rosary on me; I would not have ever brought it into a bar with me. Mom would never forgive me for a sin as awful as that one. The last time I had it was…Oh, God, when was the last time? Think. Friday, for the Mysteries, what is today? Saturday. Oh no. I could have had it then. I could have had it on me and I could have killed Caryn.

"Do I get a lawyer?"

"Your parents are arranging for one, you know your rights. You don't have to answer our questions until your lawyer arrives. It might be easier, though." The woman says. Her voice seems to have compassion in it. But I still do not trust her.

"I think I want my lawyer here."

"It'll be a lot easier on you if you answer our questions. Where were you last night?" Lieutenant asks.

"I want my lawyer."

"If you have nothing to hide, you don't need a lawyer here." The woman says. She leans in towards me, as if she has a secret that will make me talk. "Behind that mirror is a camera," she points behind her, "Anything we say will be taped."
"It's time you answer our questions. Your lawyer is coming, but, first, we just need to know a few things. Where were you last night?" Lieutenant asks. He towers over me, casting his shadow down upon the photograph I hold. I throw it onto the table, as if it is infected.

"I was at a bar. I got drunk. I drove home. I woke up and now, here I am. I did not kill anyone." Divulging all that I know will hopefully lessen the blow of their harsh questioning. But, somehow, I doubt I will get any easy way out.

"Any witnesses?" The woman asks. She is scribbling something down on her notepad. I guess she is saying that the suspect is fidgety and rash. Maybe I am not cooperating by their standards.

"The bartender and some guys. I do not really know who was there. There were a handful of people." After this, I would be in trouble for underage drinking but that would be better than murder, until I get home.

"Where? Where was this place that you were drinking?" She seems as if she is agitated with me. I am telling her all I know as fast as I can.

"It's off 124, by the overpass. Downtown Cavern. I was there and then drove home." It was a dark bar, mahogany wood made up the entire room and deep maroon colors sat atop the barstools. I was drinking, three shots and countless beers. It was hazy, like too many people had been smoking.

"…and so, my wife, she's sittin' there and…" voices seemed to blend together in mass dialogue. "…round o' lager down 'ere!!" someone yelled and others laughed. I fell off my barstool and they all laughed, but soon, they were drowning again in their own drinks. I slinked out the door, humiliated.

It took me ten minutes to find my car and fifteen more to find my way into the front-seat. It must have taken the rest of the night to get home; it felt as if it was in slow motion. At least the part I remember felt like it was in slow motion. God, help me, I can't remember it all.

"We'll see about that," Lieutenant says and grabs the chair that he brought in but never used. He walks out and slams the door. The woman looks at me.

"You look scared," She says. If I didn't think that my sarcasm would get me in trouble with the people behind the mirror, I would make a smart remark. Duh, Sherlock. I've been handcuffed and thrown around and I don't know why.

"I am."

"Don't you worry. Your parents have a lawyer on the way and they'll see what they can do then." She hands me a cigarette. Gratefully, I light it. I let a deep breath take in the nicotine and release it slowly. Calming my nerves, I slowly begin to stop shaking.

"I didn't do what you think I did," I say. She's walking away now. Shaking her head in a condescending 'sure, kid' manner, she walks out the door. The guidance counselor at school shook her head the same way when I went in to talk about Caryn. I should not expect anyone to believe me when it comes to her. Why would they? She played the part of the poor little rich girl so well. She had them trained like dogs to eat out of her hand.

Caryn was a fake. Her parents and her money constructed her entire world for her. She had everything handed to her on a silver platter, and then, took the platter and painted it black so she could fit in and get the attention she wanted. She would dress so nice. Plaid thigh-high skirts and white or pastel blouses were an average outfit for her. She had good taste. But, to get attention, mostly her parent's attention, she'd go "slumming" as she would tell her cheerleading friends in the locker room.

"Slumming" to her was ditching cheerleading practice to go to the boy's bathroom on the first floor of the school. She would steal a stash of drugs they kept in the ceiling tiles above the handicap sink. Then, she would sneak to the janitor's closet, dirty herself up a bit, and rip her clothes. Most of the time, the smell of pot would alert someone that she was there, but, sometimes, she'd spill Clorox by the door so it would create a puddle in the hallway. Someone would burst in, usually a teacher or the janitor and find her there, strung out and crying. She'd blame it on some guy she couldn't name or describe and how he lied to her to get her in the closet. He never raped her but she was always fuzzy on the details about what happened. She would blame it on the drugs.

The next day, she would come to school dressed in black, threatening suicide. She would tell the teacher, just loud enough for the class to hear, but quiet enough to pretend that she was being discrete. She would whisper about the pain she was feeling and how her father did not believe her. He told her to go to school and stop trying to create a bad name for the family. She would tell anyone who would listen that she was taking sedatives and seeing a counselor to help her work the trauma of that attack. She would do this once every few months, just when everyone forgot about last time. After the third time, though, no one but her friends would listen.

She would climb up to the roof through the gym after school and stand looking down at the parking lot. Sometimes it would take a few minutes for anyone to realize she was up there, so she would scream and people would come running. Our small town's entire rescue squad would be called in, only to leave after a counselor had talked her down and into her daddy's BMW.

A few days after her tricks, she would be herself again, rubbing my nose in the fact that she was still number one in the class and getting every scholarship offered. I complained to the principal once. He said I was being paranoid and jealous and to "leave the girl alone, she's been through so much and come out on top every time." I think that's almost exactly what he said. I did not say anything. I would be arguing against a brick wall. I could not stand being near her.

"She probably killed herself." I mumble towards the floor, no one would hear me. She probably did kill herself and her father just cannot grasp that his precious, perfect daughter could do such a horrible thing. I wonder if he remembers that last three big events in our town. All three had to do with suicide threats from his daughter.

"No, she did not kill herself." A shaky voice invades the air. Only God-voice can do that. Who are you? "She couldn't have. She never went through with things like that." I think that it is her mother.

"C'mon, Gayle, put the microphone down." Another voice comes out of the speakers and tries to soothe her.

"No." She is crying. "She said that my baby killed herself."

"She didn't. We know that. That's why that monster is in there and we're out here, trying to get justice served for our daughter. Now, c'mon, let's go get some coffee." The microphone must have been turned off. I don't hear any more of her sobs.

I look at the cold mirror. I can imagine the thoughts of the people behind there. They think I'm a murderer. They think I could kill because I could hate someone with a word as strong as hate. It was mutual, I want to scream. If I showed up dead, would they treat her the same way? No. She's got her money and her father to protect her. It's that money and her daddy that are standing behind the mirror. I put my cigarette out on the table. It falls to the floor, lying among the other wasted butts of suspects or victims. A disgusting tribute to those accused as their accusers hide behind a one way window, smirking in their self appointed judgment seats. I hold my lips shut in an attempt to keep my mouth from shouting obscenities at the faceless crowd watching me. I close my eyes, waiting, while they watch, for something to happen. I could be innocent in their eyes once again, once they realize the truth or I could be guilty, once they uncover enough evidence to sentence me to a lifetime of guilt for a life I do not think I could take.

"Stand up." The God-impersonating voice says. Its echo vibrates throughout the small, cold cell. I obey, assuming the same position as I had earlier; my pasty, white hands pressed against the gray cement wall.

The door creaks open. Only one set of footsteps enters, a heavy walk, indicating a man. A chair scrapes against the cement floor; a sigh escapes his lips as he sits. I hear a match strike and flames ignite a cigarette.

"You may sit." I cautiously walk to my seat and take an offered cigarette. "You are in trouble, young lady."

"Who are you?"

"I," he takes a hard drag off of his cigarette. "I am your only friend in here."

"Why do I need a friend? I haven't done anything."

"On the contrary," he fingers the manila folder on the table that Lieutenant left. He holds up the picture of Caryn on her bed, bloody and tied up. "You have killed." He leans back, dropping the picture; his ease is unsettling to me. "Tell me about your relationship," he stresses relationship with tight lip, knowing it wasn't a relationship that Caryn and I shared, "with Caryn, uh, Caryn…" He fumbles through the stack of papers and his face turns green at the sight of some more graphic pictures hidden within the loose evidence.

"Ainsley. Caryn Ainsley," I offer. "Her name comes after mine. We've spent fifteen years competing for the first seat in class."

"So, it's a competitive relationship?" He seems to be writing on the stack, but I do not hear his pen scratching.

"No."

"Tell me about it, Delancy." He leans in towards me; I think he's expecting some great story. His gray eyes drilling holes into my skin, he shifts his massive body weight towards me. His stature suggests bodily clumsiness; I think if he weren't whatever he claimed to be, he'd be a rodeo clown.

"Have they told you we hated each other?"

"I haven't been told that, no." He lets his cigarette fall to the ground only to light another one.

"We did. It was mutual. I couldn't stand all that she stood for and she couldn't stand all that I stood for. We were at odds, traveling towards the same goal for different reasons. Years of this bred hatred. Intense dislike. Competitive dislike without being really competitive. We didn't fight for the same things; we just worked towards the same goal. We were too much alike but still, too different at the same time."

"So, you don't like her." As if he needed an abbreviation for what I just told him.

"She doesn't like me, either." The indifference in my voice scares him, his eyes dart uneasily. I take the cigarette he offers me and light it. I take a long, hard drag. When has it been a crime to hate someone?

"It's mutual, uh, it's mutual hate," He says. I look at the mirror. I want to ask them if they really believe in this guy. His ineptness is painfully evident. I do not want him to be my only friend in here. I silently plead with my father; maybe he is behind that mirror watching.

"Mutual, yes." I bring my eyes back to lock his. "Listen, I'm not capable of murder. I don't know who thinks I am."

"The state, the police, her parents." I scowl at him.

"I was out drinking last night. I drove home. I woke up in a puddle of my own vomit. I didn't kill her. They don't have any evidence."

"They do." He lays a stack of papers on the table. I wonder if his bumbling hands will be able to differentiate his papers from the police papers. "They have motive and a witness that says he saw the two of you together. They've got these pictures, your yearbook and your mom's rosary."

"How do I know that's my yearbook? It's just a picture. Besides, they need fingerprints, DNA, anything to prove that I was there."

"They only need reason to believe and a witness and motive give a lot for people to believe," He says. I want to believe that he is lying, but my stomach turns. I hang my head and stare at the burning cigarette in my hand.

I don't know where I was last night. After drinking so much, I can't remember driving myself home. I never vomit after drinking, either. Could I have murdered her in a drunken stupor? Could I be a murderer? They have a witness. I know the motive. I don't know anymore. I'm not so sure of my own innocence.

"Are you okay?" He asks. I look up to the mirror. My face is green and I can almost see the faces behind the mirror, pressed up close, waiting for an admission of guilt. I may be guilty.

"I-I'm f-f-fine," I stutter out from behind clenched teeth. My jaw begins to loosen and my stomach ceases its flips and assaults. I want to talk to someone about this. I want to talk to someone who won't sell me out for the least bit of evidence that I utter. I look to him for help. I think he senses my needs, or at least, he sees my fear.

The door bursts open, a policeman charges in, an array of strangers follow him. God, help me. Everything seems to be in slow motion. They talk but I don't hear them. Some point and whisper but every movement is slow. My eyes even open slowly with each blink. The surreal movement of my body causes the room to spin. Did they steal the oxygen?

"We have the evidence we needed." A man in a gray trench coat with a black hat waves a stack of papers and a manila folder in the air at me. "We know the truth." He throws the stack down in front of me.

Oh, God. I killed her. Here's the evidence. My heart beats faster, my head sways and the room is spinning. They have the evidence. They know I killed Caryn. I am guilty. I try to remember, to jog my hazy memory. Somewhere in my drunken stupor, I committed the murder. I look down to my hands; my shaking hands are weapons. I killed her. Now, they know the truth. I can almost hear the cheers from behind the mirror, the pats on the back of the policemen for a job well done. They have caught the murderer. Those accusing eyes that stared at me from behind their one-way window safe house now know the guilty they accused is guilty. I killed her.

"There's no more question about motive or witnesses; we have everything we need know. We've got the evidence and the motive." The God-impersonating voice says, it doesn't vibrate across the walls with people around to absorb the shock. I wish my own shock would be absorbed. I am their guilty one.

"Miss, miss," the policeman says. He is shaking me; I am slowly regaining a firmer grip on reality, "Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" The cigarette I dropped burns my leg. I brush it off before realizing I shouldn't make any sudden movements. The policeman backs away, quickly, fingering his holstered gun. I look up at him apologetically and then to his hand on his gun. The rest of the people stop buzzing and stare at me. "No sudden moves, okay?"

"S-Sorry," I stammer out.

"We have the evidence, Delancy. We have the truth." The woman police officer with the harsh green eyes walks towards me. "We know everything now."

"It's okay," the policeman says with a soothing tone. "You are free to go." I look at him with disbelief. "We have the evidence. She killed herself. You didn't kill anyone."

I want to jump up and scream for joy. The excitement and relief that courses through my body is overwhelming. I am free to go. But, reality caves in all around me and Caryn is dead. The room begins to spin again; my mind wants to believe that the foundation of the building is a carousel spinning around. I reach out for the table, trying to hold on to something stationary. The excitement of my freedom and the ache in my stomach for her death overcome me. I don't know which to have emotions for. All she wanted was attention. That was what she got. I think it was just an added bonus that I got caught up in her scam. She would have never really killed herself. Everyone knew that or she would have sooner. She just lost her control.

I walk out, looking at each of the faces as the policeman escorts me out of the cold, gray room. I walk through a list of formalities, most of which I am blurred and in a surprised stupor for. My things are shoved at me in a brown paper bag by a woman with a brown, hairy mole on her right cheek the size of a dime, which she tries to hide under a bush of red hair. She is the first image I have of reality setting into my mind.

"They didn't search your stuff until I got the release papers. Searched it when they brought 'em down. Guess they should've looked first, eh?" She spits out the words in between chomps on blue gum that has dyed the inside of her mouth. I try to just smile. I nod and walk on, leaving the images of jail behind me.

As I walk out of the building, I let my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight; they blink, accustomed to the evil fluorescent lighting of the police station. I open the bag, wondering what she meant. Reaching my hand in, I feel a familiar object, cold and slippery. I pull my hand out with my mother's rosary in it. It wasn't my mother's rosary in the picture. Walking off the front steps, I looked directly into the windows of my school. I can almost feel Caryn's evil. She almost got me this time. I walk away, with my back to the town center. I'm not going to stay, but I don't know where I'm going.