Confessions of a Teenage Murder Victim

"Hi. My name is Annabelle Marie Davids. I'm 17 years old, born October 12th 1995, died January 18th 2013. Well, to be brutally honest, I was murdered." Annabelle was your average teenage girl. She had it all; the boyfriend, the parties, the looks and the popularity. Her parents even had the money. Her life was perfect. So why was she killed? With the help of ALIS, the After Life Investigative Squad, Annabelle slowly discovers the bitter and twisted hatred which led to one of her "friends" to murder her.


7. Acceptance

Someone was shaking my shoulder roughly, and a voice was screaming in absolute terror, unlike I'd ever heard before in my life.

Suddenly, I realised the noise was coming from me. I jerked awake to see Sergeant Anderson leaning over me, gripping my shoulder. He was frowning down at me, yet still, his eyes betrayed no emotion.

My cheeks were damp with tears, and I quickly wiped the salty liquid off of my face, my eyes averting from his. He released my shoulder, and walked over to the plain little chair, settling himself down he opened up a brown folder, flicking through a load of papers.

I sat upright, my arms encircling my chest. I was shaking in fear, but couldn't remember a single detail from my dream. My breathing was shaky and I started sobbing, confused at why I was so scared; the only thing I knew was that this petrifying terror was lodged deep into my soul. I tilted my head down, staring at the blurred blanket as I started rocking back and forth, my hair slowly falling in front of my face.

I heard Sergeant Anderson snap shut the folder and throw it down on the table, before striding across towards me. He sat silently on the edge of the bed beside me, and put a strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him. 

I felt my heart shatter then, and the fear flooded out of me in the guise of tears. I turned and clutched onto his suit jacket, burying my head against his surprisingly muscular chest. He hesitated before putting his other arm around me.

For what seemed like forever we sat silently like this the only sound permeating the air was my lonesome sobs.

'I really was murdered... wasn't I?' I whispered, my voice shaking as much as my body. The absolute horror that my dream had inflicted upon me, despite not remembering a single detail of the dream, I knew that in it I'd relived my murder. The despair I'd experienced during the night was unlike anything I'd felt in my entire life.

Sergeant Anderson's arms tightened slightly around me.

'Yes.' He said. I could almost feel the frown etched into his face.

'I can't... remember what happened...' I started trembling all over again, on the brink of crying once again; but he pulled me even closer and held me tightly. Gradually, my tremors subsided and I calmed down slightly. My cheeks felt stiff with the salt from my tears and I knew my eyes were red and swollen like a pair of balloons.

'It's not often souls experience their deaths in their dreams here. Many dream of nothing at all. Only some of the most horrific and painful deaths permeate the veil between this world and the next.' His voice was emotionless, as always. I pushed away from him, wiping my tears on my hands. 

He held out a pure white handkerchief towards me with the initials "W.N.A" embroidered in the corner in jet black thread. I held it over my eyes, trying to hide from the awful memories that my brain had subconsciously blocked to save my sanity.

'It seems there is more to your case than I'd originally suspected.' Sergeant Anderson said, rising from my bed and walking over to pick up the folder he'd left on the table.

'This is a list of all the people we shall be interviewing. Meet me at my office when you're ready to leave.' I nodded, and reached out my hand clutching his handkerchief to give it back, but he shook his head, giving me the folder.

'Keep it.' He mumbled, striding out of my apartment. I sat still; numbness creeping across my body.

I hadn't truly believed it until now, but I was actually dead. Someone had murdered me. I had not lost faith in my friends, but... who could have done something so disgustingly perverse that my brain had locked the memory in an iron chest and nailed it shut with chains, before hiding it deep within my mind?

In order to distract myself, I opened the folder and saw that the first piece of paper had all of the details about my boyfriend, Lucas Anthony Morrison.  His handsome, rugged face grinned mischievously out of the photograph that was paper-clipped to the paper with what I assumed was all of his details on it. It was written in the same odd scrawling language that my Death certificate had been written in, so I could only guess what some of it meant.

Luke had been a good boyfriend; he bought me presents, told me I was pretty, all the things a boyfriend is generally expected to do. However, sometimes he was a complete idiot and didn't think about the consequences of his actions. He only thought about the funny side, until he was being shouted at by his parents and grounded.

He may have been reckless, but I knew he'd never purposefully go out to hurt anyone, let alone me; he was too much of a wimp to do anything close to murder.

The next page had a picture of one of my oldest friends, Laura Frances Langdon-Jones. She was smiling gently at the camera, her caring eyes making me feel as though she was right here with me soothing the turmoil in my heart. She had auburn hair, and deep green eyes the colour of forest moss. She was quiet, but would speak up for what she felt was right. She'd never harmed a bug let alone a person.  

My eyes began to flood with tears once again at the memories of my life these photographs dredged up. 

I closed the folder before standing shakily on my legs, unsure of everything. This world... this place had become fully real to me now. I knew that I was dead now. I would no longer hesitate to say it.

Whatever and whoever had killed me, had made it so awful that the memory still haunted me in death. I resolved then that I would find out who had murdered me so indescribably brutally the fear I'd felt still lingered in the air, choking me like a cloud of thick toxic smoke.

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