• My days started and ended in the box. There’s something about the feeling of knowing your best memories are trapped between your worst that makes you feel kind of empty. Like how humans start and return to diapers, I was born to return to my personal hell. It doesn’t seem fair to me.
    What I am glad about is that I was able to control it in the end. It meaning her, and her meaning myself. I spent half of my life playing the role of slave to her. It’s hard to explain it in short, so I’ll explain it in full. I won’t pretend to know everything about who I am, and exactly what was going on in my head, but I will try to describe it. Maybe one day someone will realize what it all meant.

    Towards the end of my life, someone asked me why I did it all. That person was detective Joseph Michaels. I call him Joe just to screw with him.
    Joe is the most serious person I’ve ever met. He’s also the most compassionate. Believe me when I say I’ve had more than a few reasons to be given the death sentence, but instead of insisting on me being a heartless criminal, he thinks of me as another person. When he talks to me, it’s almost like I’m his daughter, and all he’s doing is scolding me because I’ve been bad. There’s no “good cop, bad cop” routine, no threats. Just talking.
    I think that’s why I went to him in the end.
    When I first entered the police station where he worked, I walked like I lived there. I’d never actually been inside the building, but I’ve skulked outside of it enough to feel like I belonged. The first room was small, like a waiting room, with a desk in the corner next to the door where the secretary sat. Or at least, he seemed like a secretary as he had a badge but no gun. Stubby and bald, he looked at me from over his newspaper. He had a serious moustache.
    “What do you need?” he asked, giving me this suspicious expression that everyone these days gives me. I think it’s my hair to be honest. I don’t have the faintest idea of the last time I had groomed it properly.
    “I’m here to report…” I started, counting the items in my pocket. “… about 69 murders, give or take a few.”
    The man looked at me like my head was turning green. Folding his paper and setting it down in front of him on his desk, he leaned across the table-top towards me. “And do you know who committed these crimes?” he asked slowly, making sure I wasn’t crazy.
    “I sure do,” I responded, sighing. There was no way for the officer to tell by my expression that someone was screaming in my head. She told me to stop, to leave, to live. I told her no.
    The man continued to look at me, and after a moment called someone over through his radio. After calling for whoever he did, he turned to me again. “And who are the criminals then?”
    I paused, giving him a good once-over. I checked his nametag, his desk, his clothes. This wasn’t Joe. No one else would understand but Joe. “I can’t tell you. I need you to take me to Detective Michaels,” I told him, a little too quickly. I hoped I didn’t sound nervous. I was trying not to have cold feet.
    “And why is Michaels the only one you can tell?” the cop demanded, rising to his feet. I think he realized I may be giving a confession, and wasn’t going to wait around for it. This was going sour fast. Thankfully, my man walked in just then.
    “What’s going on, Tim?” Joe Michaels asked the cop from the doorway.
    He looked at me, and I looked at him. I’ve been told that my eyes are like emeralds when you stare straight into them, and that they stand out so brilliantly against my pale skin. People have always told me this, since I was very little. I think he could tell right away from my eyes who I was. He must have had old pictures of me, because soon his eyes widened and he gasped. I nodded at him, then looked at the secretary-cop.
    “Tim, I need you to take this girl to my office, but it is vital that you do not touch her,” Joe said, his last few words given extra emphasis so that the man would pay attention and do what he said.
    Tim, the amazing desk-officer, made a face of disgust, and then motioned for me to follow as he walked with Joe into the next room. This room was filled with other officers, desks, computers, and lots of paper. Joe quickly took a right and went straight into what seemed like a locker room. Probably getting a gun, the paranoid creature. Tim showed me to a room towards the back with a glass wall covered with a shade for privacy. On the door was written “Detective Joseph Michaels, P.I.”. He opened the door and let me in. Once inside, I sat down in a chair in front of Joe’s desk.
    Joe’s office had a window with a view. On his desk were pictures of his family, a mug of coffee, and quite a few statues of religious symbols like the dove and angels and even one of Jesus. Good to know he was a man of faith. I felt the screaming in my head slowly reduce. She always had a soft spot for Christians.
    After a minute, Joe opened the door quietly and looked at me. I turned to him and smiled. He said nothing. Closing the door, he walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down uneasily. I couldn’t tell if he was excited, or simply scared out of his mind.
    Now Joseph Michaels is a rather hansom, young man. In his early 30’s, his face is smooth and free of stress. His blonde hair shows no sign of balding, his eyes as bright and shining as a sunny sky. He’s married with a wife and a son named Ryan, who I believe was 7 at the time. No, I don’t stalk him. I simply pay attention to his life. Joe fascinates me.
    “Joe, do you remember who I am?” I asked him, using a tone that sounded both mature and omniscient. It’s the very same tone that she uses, but this time I’m not using it by force. I cross my legs and place my hands in my lap. Joe seems to be glancing at them every few seconds out of obsession.
    He hesitates, looking at my face. He pulls out from under the rubble on his desk a file. Opening it, he reveals a very old photograph. I smile. She looks familiar. But her face is so cherubic yet so sad. It hurts me to see it, because I know why she feels that way.
    He examines the photo, then my face. I had forgotten that the last time we met, it was in shadow. Breathing in sharply, he stares at me in disbelief, with a hint of horror. “Isabelle…” he says. I still can’t tell if he’s thrilled or fearing for his life. I chuckle.
    Looking back, I wouldn’t blame him for being a little scared. Given what I am, his life is in danger simply for being in the same room as me. You see, I have about the worst gift to ever be given to a human. It may be evolution taking place, or the work of a divine entity, either way it’s cruel. But don’t fear, I’ll get into that a little later.
    Breathing deeply to restrain the monster inside of me telling me to flee, I give Joe a warm smile. “I’ve wanted to see you for so long. I feel you’re the only one that will listen to me without bias.” Or without yawning. Joe Michaels has spent the entirety of his career searching for me, profiling who I am and tracking my movements and habits. He’s like my personal shadow, but he cares. That’s what makes him beyond the others. He’s committed to knowing everything.
    “Isabelle…” he begins, his voice hushed. “For five years, I’ve examined every scene, body, and message you have left for me. No other officer has ever given this much devotion to a case. I’ve been told to give up, to move on, but I’ve continued on so I could see this day. And now that it’s here, all I want to know is why. You’ve killed 71 people, half of which with no effort at all. I want to know what could drive you to kill them all. What is especially interesting is this last one.”
    He pulls out another file, the name on this one I recognize instantly. My heart skips a beat as I stare with upmost horror at the folder. Standing up instantly, I rush to the window and open it, thrusting my head out into the air. I close my eyes tight and breathe heavy, rushed quantities of air in and out. I was prepared for this, believe it or not. I was prepared to be faced with this one victim, and yet still I can’t stand the mere mention. How pathetic am I?
    He stares at me in shock, or at least I assume he does. I don’t look at him again for another five minutes, after which I say through clenched teeth, “Put. It. Away.”
    I look at him, and his face is completely pale. I think one of his goals was to try not to make me angry. Congratulations on the failure, Joe. Walking back to my seat as calmly as I can muster I sit down quietly, re-crossing my legs and placing my hands in my lap. I still haven’t put on my gloves. I hope he realizes it’s not a threat but more of a precaution.
    “I’m sorry,” he stammers nervously, shoving the folder out of sight clumsily. “I didn’t realize how deeply you felt about… never mind.”
    I smile pleasantly and shake my head. “No, I was expecting it. I apologize for frightening you. I didn’t come here to give you a heart attack. I wanted to confess to my crimes before I am put away forever.” I don’t expect to be given the death sentence to be quite honest. I’m too important a specimen to be killed. I know some stiffs in white coats out there would love to examine me like they used to until my days are done and I die of either old age or boredom.
    He stares at me for a moment, then asks, “Why me, though? Why do I get to hear all of this? Couldn’t any other officer do?”
    “What is this, Joe? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to be the one that unearths my motivation and the whereabouts of all the bodies you haven’t found yet?” I ask slyly. That sure does catch his attention, as his eyes widen at the mention of other bodies. My smile widens. My head screams.
    And suddenly, without any warning, there’s a loud, violent bang on the window. Like someone wants in and is trying to break the glass to do so. I instantly twirl my head in shock to look at the source of the noise, only to find no one there. I look curiously at my reflection, and Joe looks curiously at me. Why does my reflection look like it’s snarling at me, like it wants to kill me? Do I look like that? I feel my face, but it’s calm, relaxed. Why is my reflection…?
    “Is something wrong?” Joe asks. I can hear the concern in his voice.
    Suddenly, I get the worst headache in history, and I know exactly what’s happening.
    “Joe, get a tape recorder and a few tapes. I have to start now, or you may be in danger…” I say, clutching my head in my hands and grinding my teeth. It hurts. It hurts. Just go away, Izzy.
    “Isabelle, are you alright – “
    “Dammit Joe get the tapes!” I roar at him, losing my patience. The story needs to get out of my head before it’s gone.
    Joe almost sprints from the room, half tripping out the door and around the corner. A few seconds later, he comes back, slams the door behind him, and presses play. He’s breathing heavily, but I have no time to tell him to settle down and relax. I’m breathing hard now too, and I grip the desk. Deep breaths. In and out, in and out.
    Slowly the pain begins to recede, but the banging on the window continues. I know I’m the only one that hears it, because Joe doesn’t react. I sigh, and smile up at the man on the other side of the desk. “Alright, let’s begin. I’ll start with my earliest memories, so you know why,” I say calmly, and I stare at the tape. The green light is on, so it’s recording. Time to be heard. Time to confess my sins.
    Now that I think about it, there should be a priest in the room. Maybe Joe can give the tape to a priest after, or one can visit me in my box. My box, where I will spend the rest of my days; where it started, it will all end. Doesn’t seem very fair to me.