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As I drove back to college, on one dreary day, I couldn’t help but remember a traumatic experience I had had, on a day very much like it. It crept inside my head, no matter how much I willed it to stop. I didn’t want to remember what happened to Mr. Collins, nor who had done that to him. It made me shiver, though it was very humid in my car. That day ruined me. My discovery soon after had destroyed me. But at some point I had to reminisce. Apparently today was that day.
Ten years ago, I had been staring at the body of Mr. Collins, seeing his obviously dead body lying there on the living room he shared with Mark--
No. I didn’t want to remember this, not yet. I wanted to remember when I met him, not when everything changed.
That day, the day I met Mr. Collins, was a cold winter day, one that some people dreaded and some looked forward to fondly. I was waiting in our window seat. Waiting for what? I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for my father to come home from work. Maybe I was waiting for the snow to stop or for my stepmother to wake up from her slumber. Or maybe I was just waiting.
Our old neighbors had moved out just a few weeks earlier, and they had said not a word to us in the six years they were here. I was ready for someone else to move into 734 Bluebell Lane. So as I was waiting for something unknown, I watched the Blacks’ former driveway. And at exactly 1:34 PM, a large moving truck showed up at their house, which was the first surprise of many.
As they stepped out--a father and son duo--I noticed how peculiar they looked. The boy, who looked to be around my age, was wearing a light short-sleeved shirt and jeans. In this weather! I must have laughed.
Then--after putting on a winter coat--I walked outside, into the cold winter air. I must have welcomed them, then offered to carry a few of their boxes. I believe they accepted. I suppose I picked up a box, one that was labelled Puzzles, and the boy grabbed it out of my hand.
“This is special,” I believe he said, “I would like to carry this in myself.” I imagine I shrugged it off.
After we had carried in all of the boxes, the man--Mr. Collins, I had learned--offered to make us a bit of hot chocolate.
“And then,” he said, “We can teach Caitlin a little puzzle.”
That was how it started.
I reminisced about that day, when everything was pure, when I was pure. I was apparently so invested in this memory inside of a memory, I almost ran my car off the road. Red-and-blue lights flashed in my peripheral vision.
And then I remembered what Mr. Collins was, before he died. Tears started streaming down my cheeks.
Another memory surfaced.
There I was sitting at the Collins’ dining table, a puzzle cube in my hands. I had just figured it out, in less than a minute. Mark was just staring at me, a look of disgust on his face. Mr. Collins looked proud.
“Well, look at that, Mark! Caitlin beat your record, aren’t you so happy?” He rejoiced.
Mark started mumbling, and even though he was trying to be covert, I could still hear him.
“So happy, Dad,” he whispered spitefully.
Later, I received a note, written in Mark’s trademark messy handwriting. It said to stay away from the Collins’, or I would be sorry.
I disregarded the note. I thought it was just Mark being immature.
Trust me, I was sorry.
As I recall this I am sobbing; the police officer walks over to my car.
“Are you alright, miss?” He asks. “I need to see your licence.”
He is young, with colour in his cheeks, but his kind tone reminds me of Mr. Collins. I tearfully hand him my licence, and in that moment a memory resurfaces once more.
Mark and I stand at the edge of his backyard, one morning in April, an obstacle course laid out in front of us.
Mark looks joyful.
“Just like always, Dad! When did you get the time to do this?”
Mr. Collins grins happily.
“While you two were at school yesterday, son.”
Mark’s look goes dark. This was a pattern of his--he has always been his father’s one and only, and now that’s changed. In his mind I am the reason for all of this.
Mr. Collins nods at him, telling him to start. He has a handheld stopwatch timing Mark’s movement.
From the first moment, Mark trips, and takes five seconds to get up--five valuable seconds wasted. Mr. Collins shakes his head in disbelief. I know what he’s thinking. Time and time again, Mark has proved his incompetence in all things physical and mental.
Finally he finishes--five minutes and forty-five seconds on the clock--and I can start.
I glide through the obstacle course, every movement made from the subconscious of my mind. It feels as though I am flying.
I finish in one minute and twenty four seconds.
Mr. Collins claps, and pats my back.
“Well done, Caitlin! You will become a marvelous police officer someday.”
In the corner Mark lurks. We never knew what he would become in that moment, as I was being praised for my excellence.
I wake from the memory, the rain pouring outside. The police officer is still here, scribbling out a ticket. As he looks down at my licence, he mumbles the information softly under his breath. Yet another thing Mr. Collins used to do. Used to. He would have been forty-seven years old today.
Now I am forced to remember what happened to Mr. Collins. He was a mentor, a father…and my friend, my only friend.
I slip into memory once again.
I clearly remember that day, all the small details of it. It is one of my talents, remembering things that seem unimportant.
I had just walked into the Collins’ living room. Mr. Collins and Mark are in the study, and I cannot help but listen in. I grab a glass and press it to the wall, and suddenly I can hear their entire conversation.
“--but Dad, I just feel like Caitlin’s been around too much. It’s like she lives with us.”
“Mark, she has talent. She’s a great role model for everything you can be. And she definitely has more potential than you, which surprises me.”
“Dad! I’m your son, I have your blood. And Caitlin’s a girl. She’s never going to amount to anything, girls are just weak that way.”
I hear hands pushing down on Mr. Collins’s desk.
“That kind of attitude is why women are so reluctant to go for jobs in law enforcement! Open your eyes, son. The world is changing around us. You might as well change to fit it.”
A hand slaps the desk.
“You’re crazy, Dad. Mental. I might as well just refer you to the loony bin. Women are so weak. Caitlin’s just lucky.”
At this I run home, crying. I sit in my room until after lunch, just sobbing. I thought Mark believed in me, even if he was a bit jealous. I never thought he really hated me.
After I come downstairs and eat a few cookies, I hear some sharp knocks at the door. I open the door to find Mark, weeping. Although I can’t believe what he said earlier, he seems hurt, in more ways than one. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“What happened, Mark?”
His voice is broken up as he explains I need to come to his house.
We walk over to his house, and he guides me into the living room, where I see the most horrific thing ever.
Mr. Collins is lying on the floor, so very obviously dead. Tears start streaming down my face, but I know what I need to do.
I need to use what Mr. Collins taught me, and put it to good use.
I walk around the body with an investigator’s eye, noting that there is no blood. It looks like a sharp blow to the head.
I walk out back, where there are muddy footprints leading to the back door, and out of the yard. It seems so sloppy--what criminal would leave footprints--and almost seems fake. But this is what I have. I have to find something.
In the corner, Mark fidgets.
“Caitlin--maybe we should, you know, call 112? The cops?”
I hadn’t thought about this, I guess I thought I could find Mr. Collins’s killer. Do him justice.
“Nah, let’s do a bit of investigating ourselves, Mark. We don’t need to do an autopsy or anything, just look around.”
Mark still looks nervous, but I roll my eyes and look for the weapon. There is a yardstick in the corner--but why? Mr. Collins’s work didn’t require him to measure, and there wouldn’t be any other reason for it to be there.
It is now that I start to look around the room as a whole. It all looks rather pell-mell, as if somebody threw everything around in anger. It was a crime of passion, that was for sure.
By this point Mark looks sick, and I put all the pieces together.
The yardstick, probably brought from school.
The anger with which the room was thrown apart.
Mark, nervously waiting in the corner.
It all makes sense now.
I turn around furiously, and stare Mark in the eye.
“Mark, you know what you did.
“You left the weapon in the corner. You trashed the room and thought nobody would notice.
“But I know, Mark. I know you’ve been jealous. I know you hate me. But I never thought it would go this far…”
Mark looks frightened.
“Wh-what do you mean, Caitlin? What?”
I stare him down, tears still falling like rain.
“Mark, you murdered your own father.”
And then I resurface.
“Miss? Are you alright?”
I blink a few times to regain my sight. I’ve seen so many saddening things, things that make me cry at even the memory, but this one was the worst. Last time I thought of that fateful afternoon, I had a panic attack.
The officer once again asks me if I am okay.
“Sorry, sir. I-something just came up in my memory, a very sad one. I’ll be on my way.”
As he walks away, I take a rolled piece of paper from my purse. It is tied with ribbon, I haven’t touched it since I got it a week ago.
It reads Caitlin Bridie Davies, my full name.
Then below it, Master’s in Criminal Justice.
Thank you, Mr. Collins. I know what I am living for now.
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