I didn’t do it

I pushed the curtains of my bedroom window roughly aside, feeling their coarse material brush past my fingertips. A pitiful sob was wrenched from my throat and I fell against the window, my tears dribbling down the glass like salty droplets of rain.

“I didn’t do it,” I hissed at my vague reflection. As I spoke, my breath warmed the window, leaving a smoky mark. “I didn’t do it,” I repeated, more forcefully. I pounded my fist against the window, pushing the latch so it would open. Then I stuck my head out into the raw December air and felt the bitter breeze scuffle past. My heart sank as the wind died away. Even nature seemed to be avoiding me. “I didn’t do it!” I screamed into the night. I felt my anger slowly die away as the wind had, then suddenly build back up again.

“Are you sure?” I swivelled around.

“John,” I growled. “Get out of here.” He shook his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. So shut up and stop acting like my dad!” He flinched. I could see that I had hit a nerve.

“You know that I only want the best for your mother…”

“For God’s sake, John. How clear do I have to make it? Get. Out. Of. Here. Now.”

“There have been rumours and I want to know if they’re true,” he said, ignoring my comment. His unwavering gaze met mine. “Are they?”

“No, I didn’t do it.”

“That’s not what everyone else is saying.”

“Forget what everyone else is saying, John. Don’t believe it.” My hand slid into my coat pocket. I fingered the cold steel under my fingertips. The thin barrel, the silent deadliness. And the trigger.

“I don’t want to, but how do I believe you? Your mother is in hysterics. You’re nearly eighteen years old, Bel. You’d go to jail.”

“It’s serious, Isabella. Someone was murdered. A single bullet to the head. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? And the fact that the police are coming here in about five minutes because you happen to be the main suspect- does that not bother you?” I felt a lump rise in my throat.

“I’m not going to jail because I didn’t do it.” My voice cracked.

“And does the fact that the victim was my own son not bother you?” His eyes- blank and emotionless- flickered furiously. I saw madness in them. “How does that sound, huh? My stepdaughter killed my son. You killed your stepbrother. How does it sound, Isabella?”

“I didn’t do it.” My hand tightened on the gun. Then he lunged, his face inches from mine, red with rage.

“Tell me now, Isabella Hayes. Tell me you murdered him. I know it was you. I’ll kill you for what you did to my son. Gregory had a life before he met you, you know. And you killed him. For what, Isabella? I’m going to kill you.”

“No you won’t.” I kicked him hard in the shin. He doubled over for a second. It was enough. I whipped the gun from my pocket and with a pathetic smile, I whispered goodbye. Then my hand tensed on the trigger and I felt him collapse to the ground. He shuddered, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. A web of blood spread out over his chest and I stepped closer to the window. Then with one last shudder, he was gone. My smile faded away. There was the distinct sound of steel on wood as I dropped the gun. Then a horrible realisation dawned in my head.

I had done it again.