Evelyn

She doesn’t remember how she got here. But I can imagine her now—her mind racing through the labyrinth of memory, desperately retracing those insignificant, almost invisible moments, the ones that could have saved her from this. Perhaps she thinks, even now, that it could all have been different—that her plan, once so meticulously woven, wouldn’t be slipping from her grasp, thread by thread, scattering across the polished floorboards of her past. Perhaps she remembers the blood—the crimson streak that glided down her victim’s throat. The same crimson streak that slid down mine. 

Evelyn Evander plotted my murder. She killed me, right there, in my own home. I am her victim. 

And I will tell you, in excruciating detail, how she did it. 

Of course, it didn’t begin with me. No, I suppose you could say it began with the death of her brother—though I had no idea then, blissfully unaware of the tangled fate that was drawing me toward her. She arrived quietly, like some friendly shadow. A woman with soft hands and a voice that lulled the senses. I still remember that first knock on my door, the smile on her lips as she offered me cake. Yes, cake—bought from the little shop down the road, no doubt as an offering. How foolish I was to see it as a kindness when it could just as easily have been laced with death. But no, that, I suppose, wasn’t her way. She preferred to take her time, savoring the anticipation like a beast stalking its prey, feeding on the thrill of the plan. 

Is this what they call a sadistic killer? Someone who delights not in the act itself but in the slow, deliberate unraveling of her victim’s life? If I could still feel anything, I might shudder at the thought. 

I remember admiring her hair, a golden cascade that gleamed in the sunlight—a cruel contrast to the split ends I’d been wrestling with for years. I envied her. No, I more than envied her. I studied her with the kind of quiet resentment that builds without one even noticing. Perhaps that was her hold on me from the start—her polished facade, her grace, her perfect ease. It blinded me to the darkness that was already taking root. I made a joke about how I should have been the one to welcome her to the neighborhood. She laughed. Graciously, almost condescendingly, she laughed. I had missed it—the subtle imbalance in her gaze, the way her questions lingered on my personal business, always prying, always digging just beneath the surface of my life. How easily she turned our polite exchanges into her meticulous research. 

She was patient. Her questions—oh, they seemed so innocent then. My plans for the week, the frequency of my mother’s calls, plans with friends, or lack thereof. How could I have been so oblivious? The scale was never balanced between us. Her knowledge of me grew while I remained in the dark, never asking, never wondering. 

Twice a week. That’s how often I spoke with my mother. Tuesday and Friday, like clockwork. And now, the thought of her voice on the other end of the line, reaching for me and finding only silence—it forms a tight knot of grief in my chest. A grief I can no longer feel. Will she call still, clinging to the sound of my voice in her memory? Or will she stop, unable to bear the emptiness that meets her every attempt? My tears—they’re cold now, the tears of someone who has passed beyond pain. But hers? Hers will likely burn like fire. 

October 19th. A date I will remember not for the dying autumn leaves or the chill that clung to the air, but for what came after. Halloween was near—my favorite holiday. I had been carefully crafting my costume, thread by meticulous thread, and the night felt full of promise. I was alone, as I had told Evelyn I would be, finishing the last stitches while a glass of red wine sat at my side, untouched. I remember the sound of Sidney Prescott screaming from my TV. It was the last thing I heard before the knock came—sharp, insistent, echoing through the hollow quiet of the house. 

I opened the door, the naive girl not thinking twice of the unexpected guest. Not that it would have mattered, she was a friend.  

There she was—Evelyn—her face twisted; her eyes hollow with something beyond anger. And in her hand, the knife. Cold, unforgiving, pressing into my throat before I had time to speak, before my legs could respond, before my mind could catch up to the horror of what was unfolding. She was speaking—no, screaming. Her voice was raw with pain and fury. She spoke of her brother, of his death. She accused me—me—of killing him. I shook my head, powerless, words dissolving before they reached my lips. My mind was racing, but there was no sense to be found in the chaos. 

I saw the wine bottle. I thought—I might hit her with it, might fight back, might live. But that hope—oh, that foolish flicker of hope—was snuffed out before it even took form. Slowly, methodically, she slid the blade across my skin, and the blood—my blood—spilled out onto the carpet, spreading, staining the world around me. 

Everything went silent. Time seemed to stop as Evelyn stood over me, her tears mingling with my blood. She smiled—a smile of peace, of relief, as if she had found some kind of twisted salvation in my death. I remember that smile. I had seen it before. In the flower shop down the street, when I bought my orange roses—a ritual, it was me opening my home up to the new season, a welcoming. 

Now, I can only see them as a mockery. Evelyn, in that final moment, reveled in my murder as I had once reveled in the roses of a bouquet. 

___________ 

“Inmate 972. You have a visitor.” 

I settled into the cold, hard metal seat, the chill seeping through my coat like the weight of this long-awaited moment. Across from me, she appeared, a shadow of her former self. That golden hair—how it glistened even here, in this grey place—but I remembered it differently. It once shimmered with my blood, tangled and clumped with the thick, sticky red, her hair marked just as her soul would be. Ah, yes, how fitting. She sat down, her gaze averted, her restless knee shaking the table, chewing her lips like a nervous child caught in a guilty secret. The marks of a woman slowly unraveling under the crushing weight of her own madness. 

I smiled, feeling the slight twist of my lips without needing a mirror. It was the kind of smile one gives to a long-anticipated triumph. “Hello, Evelyn.” My voice came out soft, sweet even, like a lullaby sung to a child. 

Her reaction did not disappoint. The words froze on her tongue. Her body went rigid, and her eyes, those wide caramel pools of emptiness, snapped to mine. I could almost hear her heart’s frantic beat, the drumroll before the final act of tragedy. 

“No…” she whispered, her lips trembling like the words were a poison she couldn’t spit out fast enough. “You’re... but you’re... dead. I... I killed you. You’re dead.” 

A chuckle escaped me, low and indulgent, savoring her unraveling like a masterpiece slowly torn apart by its own creator. “Clearly, it didn’t stick.” 

Ah, the sweetness of this moment, after three weeks of agony, of restless nights. Every part of me had itched to witness this exact look on her face, this crumbling of reality. I had played this scene a thousand times in my head, but nothing—nothing—could compare to the reality of her suffering now. 

Her voice, like a broken ticking clock, stammered, “What...” 

I tilted my head slightly, my eyes narrowing in mock sympathy. “No need to worry, darling. I will tell you everything, answer all your questions. I’ll allow you to scream for the guards if you like, but... you’ll never truly know the truth, not unless you stay.” I watched her gnaw at her lips again, desperate to stabilize her thoughts, clawing at some shred of control in a world that had slipped through her fingers.  

Her lips parted as if to speak, but instead, the panic burst through. “GUARDS!” she screamed; her voice shrill, hopeless. 

Disappointment surged through me, heavy and cold. “I thought you’d have more curiosity than that.” I sighed, tapping my fingers impatiently on the table, the sound echoing through the empty room. “Settle down, will you? Did you really think I’d give you that as an option?” 

Her wild eyes darted around, still clinging to some foolish hope. “GUARDS! PLEASE!” she howled again. 

Another chuckle escaped me—this one sharp and disdainful. “Oh, Evelyn... Still so naive, even now. But where was I? Ah, yes... as you might have guessed, I am very much alive.” I leaned back, allowing the moment to linger, savoring her disbelief. “Surprise.” 

Her eyes narrowed, the horror morphing into something darker—confusion, fury, all swirling in a storm of incomprehension. It was delicious. 

“Oh, Evelyn,” I continued, the words pouring out as if they’d been rehearsed a thousand times—which, of course, they had. “You thought I killed your brother, didn’t you? That I tore him open, ripped him apart, left him begging for mercy as his life drained from him.’ I allowed myself a dry chortle, watching her shrink away, repulsed, as I raised my fingers toward her face, my nails – well-kept, almost absurdly so, shaded a delicate peach – hovering near her nose. She recoiled, nearly toppling from her seat, but I didn’t relent.  “Well, yes... I did kill him. Smart of you to figure that out.” My tone was almost sweet. “But, dear... If you were truly smart, you’d have realized that was precisely what I wanted you to think. You believed it was all about him.” 

Her eyes flickered with something—doubt, horror, disbelief. Ah, how I reveled in it. 

I leaned forward. “I killed a mailman once,” I continued, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “He should have been forgotten, unimportant. But no, fate is a cruel mistress. He was remembered by none other than the chief of police. Can you imagine my outrage?” My voice darkened as I recalled the moment, a bitter, choking rage rising in my chest. “It was as if he could see through my charade, through the innocent girl who bought orange roses every week. It enraged me,’ I muttered, the fury rekindling at the memory. My thoughts drifted to that night in the interrogation room, the stuffy air, my cheeks streaked with tears – tears that came so easily, pooling in my eyes, turning me into a trembling image of innocence. My voice had quivered with just the right amount of fear, each word soaked in desperation, while my heart raged silently beneath the mask.  

Evelyn stared, wide-eyed, her lips trembling like a child on the edge of a nightmare. I had to be closer to her, close enough to feel the tremor in her breath, to catch the flicker of terror in her eyes before it turned to rage. But not too close – no, not too close that she’d bolt from her seat again. There was something intoxicating in the way her fear hung in the air, thick, almost palpable. I could sense it, the way a wolf senses its prey, and soon – very soon – the fear would give way to something far more satisfying: the raw, uncontrollable fury of her grief. Ah, that was what I craved, the true essence of her pain, seeping from her soul like a bitter wine. 

“He wouldn’t leave me alone, he was like a hound, relentless. And you understand, don’t you, how difficult it becomes to pursue...other matters, when the chief of police has his eye fixed on you? I couldn’t move without feeling his weight, it was suffocating! Borderline harassment, really.” I paused, watching Evelyn, her lips slightly parted, hanging on every word. She was listening, oh, she was definitely listening.  

“But I’m rambling,” I sighed, feeling a strange fatigue. Funny isn’t it, how even telling the truth can feel like a burden, like a heavy stone you drag behind you. “I needed him gone. So, one night, when I knew his attention was elsewhere – distracted, perhaps by urgent duty – I found your brother. And I gutted him.” There was no time for the usual precision, no lingering. It had to be quick, brutal – like fate itself. “But...don’t cry. It gets better, I promise.” I waved a hand, as if brushing away some trivial matter.  

Silent and delicate tears traced their way down her pale, almost ethereal cheeks. They made her beautiful in a tragic, almost poetic way. Fury and grief clashed on her face, and I drank it in like a woman starved. She held a timeless kind of beauty – high cheekbones, full lips that seemed more alive when gnawed upon, as if she bit them out of desperation to feel. When still, they were nearly colorless, merging with the color of her face. But her eyes – ah, those caramel eyes – dark, almost bottomless, held a kind of trustfulness that would lead anyone astray. There was something so disarming, so tragically naive in their depths, it made her beauty all the more unsettling.  

“I chose you, Evelyn,” I whispered, my voice soft as silk. “You were perfect. I needed someone to kill me, to take the fall for all of it and you shared with your brother this murderous kind of love. I needed... you.” 

“I began to wonder if you had it in you, but there was no time to indulge in doubts. No, I had to move quickly, carefully – so I led you along, each clue a thread in my web. Never enough to trap me, of course. I couldn’t afford to be careless, to expose myself. Imagine! Can you picture it? ‘Dear Evelyn, here’s the knife I used on your brother, with my fingerprints all over it, just for you!’ The absurdity of it!” I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound echoing in the cold space between us. And yet, even in that moment, I saw another tear slip down her tormented face.  

“Right. Well, of course, you walked straight into my trap, Evelyn, like a moth to a flame. I needed someone, someone like you, to shoulder the blame while I began again – anew. You see, the thrill had dulled, the murders became routine, predictable. The patterns too obvious, too dangerous. So, what better escape than to vanish from suspicion altogether? To die, but only in appearance? To transform from predator to prey. Ingenious, wouldn’t you say?” I paused, savoring the moment, waiting for her to speak, but instead, her eyes narrowed to slits, and then I felt it. The rage – silent, seething, - rising within her. Ah, this, yes, this was the moment I relished the most. 

Her rage, finally breaking free, burst from her. “You evil bitch,” she hissed, her words like venom. “You... you were dead! I slit your throat!” I smiled, gently touching the bandage on my neck, a reminder of her failed triumph. “You tried, yes. But as you can see...” I spread my arms wide, “I’m still very much alive.” 

I knew that she would use the knife, of course. It had gone missing from her kitchen days before, and I imagined her, in those quiet, tense hours, weighing the cold steel in her hands, readying herself for the day. I knew then what had to be done – ensuring she would strike only enough to draw blood, a dramatic illusion of death, nothing more. The rest relied on my performance. I collapsed to the floor, perfectly still, my life seemingly slipping away. I even let out those pitiful, gurgling sounds, as though choking on my last breath. Oh, how convincing I was! 

“The police must have known you were alive – it's...it’s simply not possible,” she stammered, her voice laced with disbelief as she shook her head, her hair cascading over her shoulders. In that moment, an unexpected pang of envy gripped me; how I longed to own that hair, to possess it for myself...but no, focus. 

“They initially proved to be problematic,” I replied, adopting a tone of casual disdain. “However, I observed one officer, keenly aware of his every move, dissecting his habits with the precision of a surgeon. There is a darkness lurking beneath every soul, Evelyn, it is only a question of whether one chooses to confront it.” Pause for dramatic effect. “This officer did just that. He found a price – quite a modest one for someone drowning in debt, a man on the brink of losing his little girl. How utterly tragic,” I mused, pouting with exaggerated sorrow, as I surveyed the contorted expression on her face with a sense of grim satisfaction. 

“This can’t be true...” she exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief. “You can’t get away with this – it's too-”  

“Brilliant? Yes, I know,” I interjected, allowing a coy smile to grace my lips. I sensed that she would eventually come to appreciate the audacity it took to orchestrate something like this. To admit it myself would risk arrogance, yet I held onto the hope that she might recognize it, even if grudgingly.  

“No,” she replied, her voice hardening into a blade of steel. I leaned forward, my brows knitting together in curiosity, my hands laying on the table between us. “You are wicked and cruel and...and inhumane,” she continued, her words spilling over. “You killed my brother, and clearly more before him! And here you are, prideful as though you’re recounting some fairytale! You’re diabolical!” Her chest rose and fell violently, each word a dagger aimed at my throat. Again. 

I had anticipated the anger, the tears, and yet I hadn’t anticipated this blindness. How could she be so ignorant of the skill and intellect it takes to execute something like this? No one could understand... Would I truly live without the recognition I deserved? 

She leaned forward, eyes burning with hatred. “You’ll never get away with this. They’ll find out the truth.” 

I leaned in, my face inches from hers, feeling the heat of her breath, smelling the despair mingling with the rage - the look of fascination missing from the creases in her scowling face. The expression I had envisioned in my mind had lingered for weeks. An image so vivid, so undeniable that even my restless dreams were shaped by its certainty. I recoiled, my spine pressed harshly against the cold, unyielding steel of the chair. 

“Some truths,” I whispered, my voice cold as death, “are meant to be buried with the dead.”