by Nick Sibicky
The entire carpet will need replacing from the blood it absorbed. While the hotel staff is in full PR-damage-control with its patrons, the detectives scurry in and out of room 717. The homicide was a messy one, committed with great vigor and leaving ample DNA over everything. This was a crime of passion; not like one of the cold, dishonorable, cartel-war killings I escaped from back home. I would be so lucky in this life if another human felt as passionately for me as the murderer did for his victim here.
Despite the gore, I don’t see the body. It must have already been taken by the coroner. I wonder if the blood that surrounds me belonged to a man or a woman. The detectives chatter about a man being caught on a hotel security camera, fleeing the premises.
“Lovers?” asks one detective.
Another one gruffs and answers, “Probably. She was wearing a red chemise.”
It was a woman. I feel an immediate sister-spirit connection to her. I, too, recently bought a red chemise when Peter and I reached an agreement to work things out. Of course, he first demanded I completely cut all ties to Melissa, claiming he knew me better than I knew myself. But he knew the deal before we began dating, and he still knows the deal now.
Another detective enters. “He just turned himself in down at the station. But he’s stone-cold and won’t answer questions without his lawyer.”
Typical, unfeeling, cold-hearted man. I both envy and hate Peter for his ability to switch off his emotions, only occasionally letting them out in short, fiery, supernova bursts. Women like me don’t get to have such a luxury. Or, at least that’s what Melissa likes to say.
Another detective patiently collects broken glass shards from a wine bottle. Even though I can only see a hint of the label, I recognize the wine as my favorite Bordeaux, which Peter first introduced me to. The victim and I have yet another thing in common. Could she also have been a refugee? Grief comes over me for losing a friend I never knew. Peter and Melissa made me feel safe and helped me rebuild my life, but they couldn’t relate to my past. At least not in the ways the victim in this room could.
“Gotta get ICE. This broad ain’t from here,” the first detective says.
Did he just call my new best-friend-I-never-met a “broad?” What the fuck? I try to form the words I need to correct him, but my lips won’t move. Maybe I’ll see him after we both leave this place. I’ll be in a better state to berate him.
One of the hotel staff tries to enter the seventh-story room, and the detectives immediately usher him away. Sounds muffle, and I have trouble hearing what anyone says. Someone turns on the light. I go deaf from its brightness. My vision turns into a cloud.
I am a suertuda--one of the lucky ones.
About the Author
Dr. Nick Sibicky is an educator by day, and a creative artist by night. His passions include writing fiction, avant garde music production, and game design. Common themes in his works include existentialism, mortality, and consciousness. He resides just north of Seattle Washington where he teaches at Edmonds College. In 2019, he won a national AGA "Teacher of the Year" Award for his work to promote the ancient Chinese game of "Go," which most of his YouTube channel is devoted to spreading. When he asked his 3-year old son what else he should include in his bio, his son replied, “Star Wars.”
