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The Hidden Crime by C.R.M. Nilsson I don’t know how I got here. There’s a smell, a stench, like that of rotting meat; an almost sweet scent that makes you want to vomit. Somehow I know that this stench is coming from me and I do not dare to open my eyes. It’s an enclosed space, which I know because I can feel the walls against my back and front. Not really against my body, though. I explain poorly. It’s as if I’m only sensing that they are there, only about an inch away. I have no name. It’s possible I had a name once, but I know that what I am gives me no right to carry a name. I know this, but why? What am I? I have neither any memories, which confuses me because I should have memories. Shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what set us apart from other primates; the ability to remember the past and plan for the future? I don’t think I’m in a state to doe either of those things. “Here’s a large amount of blood splatter!” somebody calls out. It’s not like the person was yelling; yelling would imply some kind of emotion. It was still loud enough to carry across the room. There’s a lot of ruckus outside my prison. I can’t work my tongue; call out for help. Phantom agony rushes through my body. It’s not a memory… more of an imprint on my body. It used to be so quiet. A knocking sound close to me. “It’s hollow here!” More noise as they attempt to break down the wall. Confusion – how can I know that it’s a wall they’re breaking down? He’s not going to like this, I think. The thought is vague and lost to the ether. Light streams in through the hole in the wall. Debris land next to my feet. I’m struck by the horrifying realisation that my eyes are not closed. They are wide open and staring. They see everything in a milky haze. I look down on my body – a mass of discoloured, rotting flesh. Blood has coagulated and hangs in black chunks from wounds. Maggots, pale against the darkness that is my flesh, fester in these wounds. They make a disgusting sight. The smell is positively revolting. I can’t understand how they can stand it – only coughing lightly, suppressing gags in an experienced manner; like this is not the worst they have seen. If it had been me, I’d probably be vomiting by now, if I could. It’s the implications of the smell combined with the sight that are the most horrific. Am I… am I… d-dead? “Female victim. Multiple lacerations of what appears to be stab wounds. Decomposition indicates…” Back

Copyright C.R.M. Nilsson 2010