Innocent Blood

The police arrived after an agonizing seven minutes—it wasn’t necessary for them to race here, because Logan was already dead.

Dead.

I could feel the death in my bones, the coldness and darkness like a thick cloak, suffocating me, like a depression. It lingered in the air almost painfully.

I kept Bree upstairs while they asked me questions—I tried to tell them as much as possible, but the entire time of questioning I couldn’t peel my eyes away from Logan’s body.

There were no suspicions that Logan’s death was anything more than suicide, so the questions weren’t that extensive. It was an open and shut case. They had to treat me and Bree like a suspect, initially, which I understood—they had to do their job. But given the obvious circumstances coupled with a suicide note and my own statement, they quickly determined that this was a suicide—they didn’t even have to talk to Bree, luckily.

I wished that they would clean the living room sooner, but it was almost as if his hanging body kept everyone in a trance, until, at last, they shook their heads and started to take him down. I forced myself to look away.

The house was quiet. The murmurs of the police officers were so low that I could barely hear them. My heart was merely a murmur, too, beating in the background while death rang in my ears.

I excused myself from the officers to retrieve Bree. I pulled myself up the stairs, wanting to run to her, but my legs wouldn’t bring me past the pace of slow motion. I felt heavy as I slowly made my way back to her.

When I finally made it up the stairs, I walked into her room slowly and quietly. Her exhaustion had set in, and she was sleeping—probably dreaming about a different world, where things like this didn’t happen.

She was still curled up on her right side, so I sat down carefully on the space in front of her. I turned slightly, brushing her head with my hand. “Bree,” I said softly, hating that I had to wake her up to greet the reality of the situation.

“Bree, baby,” I leaned down and kissed her temple. Her eyes fluttered open, and they were swollen and blood shot.

“Vic,” she croaked. She leaned up and wrapped her arms around my torso, resting her head on my lap so her body curled around mine. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just let her clutch on to me while I played with her hair. Tears started to blink out of her eyes silently.

“We have to go now, don’t we?” she asked quietly, and I nodded. She sighed lightly and pulled herself up. I brought her into a strong hug before we stood up together, and I felt sobs rack her body. I rubbed her back to try and comfort her.

I could only imagine what was running through her head. I wondered what had inspired her to go down to her living room in the middle of the night. Did she wake up to a nagging sensation in her chest? Did she hear it happen?

After a few minutes, she pulled away. Her bottom lip quivered.

I brushed a few stray tears from her cheek with my thumb. “We have to go…” I said quietly and reluctantly.

“I know,” she whispered, nodding.

“I’ll carry you,” I said, and she smiled weakly and gratefully, wrapping her arms around my neck. I scooped an arm under her legs and around her back, cradling her. She was light, and I held her almost effortlessly.

I slowly walked down the steps with her, and she turned her head into my chest when we neared the bottom level of her house. The living room was still stained, from what I could tell, but Logan’s body had been dealt with. An officer looked at us sadly, nodding at me to take her outside.

An ambulance was parked on the curb, the lights flickering. There were a few police cars, their lights on, as well. Everything was rather quiet, though, the sensitivity of the situation weighing down on everybody’s backs. Bree kept her face hidden—she didn’t want to see. As we walked out, I saw Logan’s body—covered in a white tarp—being carted into the ambulance.

“Bree, they might ask you a few questions,” I said softly into her ear, sitting down on the steps of the front of her house. I kept her in my lap, and she stayed clutching on to me.

“I-I know,” she said quietly. “Vic…” she said faintly.

“Yes?” I responded. I wrapped my arms around her more securely.

“We were each other’s only family,” she said quietly. “It was just him and me,” she cried.

I choked back the knot in my throat. I knew what she was feeling all too well. Both of us with dead brothers, both of us losing the only family member that ever loved us. It was an excruciating, murderous pain: the loneliness and emptiness that I only knew she had in her chest because I once felt this way, too.

“I’ll be your family, now,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head.

She sniffled and nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. “Don’t ever leave,” she begged quietly.

“Never,” I promised, squeezing my eyes shut as I ducked my head, resting my forehead on the top of her head.

“What do we do now?” she asked quietly.

I rocked her back and forth a little as I thought. “I don’t know,” I sighed lightly. “Try not to think about it too much. I know it’s hard, and I know you’re tired,” I said. She nodded.

“I don’t want to go back into that house,” she said.

“I know,” I said. The image of Logan—hanging dead—flickered in my mind, making me shudder. I tried to mask it for Bree’s sake, but his suicide affected me a lot. I mourned for him—he was really an awesome guy, despite his quirks. I really thought we could all be really great friends—Him, Bree, and me. But that possibility died right along with him.

His death hurt. He really loved his sister—how could he just leave her? I guess it made sense, though. He hated living everyday, afraid that he would have an episode with Bree standing too close. I guess he killed himself because he loved her. I knew he had serious problems, but when he was having a good day he seemed so… normal. The normalcy wouldn’t—it couldn’t—last; and this fact scared me to my core. I knew I wasn’t nearly as bad as him, but the thought lingered in my head… could this be me one day?

No, no. I could never do that to Bree. I couldn’t think like that. I was not Logan. I was Vic.

“I can see if we can go back to San Diego,” I suggested, knowing that I had to call Tony soon before he woke up worried.

“I don’t know…” Bree said. She pulled away from me and stared longingly at the house, as if she couldn’t stand to be within a hundred yards of it now that it was tainted with death, but also as if she couldn’t bring herself to walk away from it.

“It’s up to you,” I said, rubbing her back.

“I can’t even think right now,” she shook her head. “I can’t… I can’t…” her breathing started to become rapid and frantic.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” I said softly. I cupped her face with my hands, forcing her to look away from the house and at me, instead. Her face was contorted in misery. “Breathe,” I whispered. She took a few deep breaths, calming herself down. “Good,” I smiled softly at her. “An officer is coming over, now, Bree. They’re going to talk to you about Logan, okay?” I warned her. She nodded innocently.

She was just so damn innocent. She didn’t deserve any of this.

“Miss Lewis?” an officer approached us. She stared up at him, her eyes glistening with water. “You don’t have to tell us anything more; we were already told what happened,” he begun, nodding to me. “We are so sorry for the situation,” he added, his face sympathetic. I imagined that this was a very difficult thing to do—dealing with suicide cases. “We just would like to discuss with you about what you want to do with the remains,” he said.

“…the remains…” she repeated quietly.

The police officer grimaced slightly, as if he wished that he had chosen a different word. Although, no other words would have made much of a difference; they all meant the same thing.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. Her eyes were zoned out and her face reflected so much pain that it appeared that she was unemotional. I kept a hand on the small of her back for comfort.

“Do you have any other relatives who can arrange—”

“No,” Bree whispered again. “No one.”

“I can put you in contact with someone who can handle everything for you, okay? You don’t have to do anything. I know this is a hard time for you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said respectfully.

Bree simply nodded.

“Can I…” she started, but then she bit her lip. The officer raised his eyebrow, and I gave her an encouraging squeeze.

“Can I… can I see him?” she asked wearily.

“If you wish,” the officer said. “Come with me,” he motioned for her to follow him.

“Are you sure?” I put my lips at her ear and asked. I wanted her to do what she felt was right, but I didn’t want her to do anything that would damage her worse.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to go with you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered in that same, hissing, flat tone. I nodded and stood up with her, keeping an arm snaked protectively around her waist as we walked towards the ambulance where Logan’s body lay.

The officer looked at Bree for permission before pulling back the sheet that covered him, only exposing his body from his shoulders up.

Bree’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. I tried not to look at him, focusing on Bree and her reaction. I remained placid, not wanting to draw my own feelings into the matter right now. I couldn’t let my emotions get the best of me—even though I was distraught over his death, too. I couldn’t let them show, because Bree needed me to be strong for her.

“Oh, Logan,” she sighed, her voice a little louder than I’ve heard all morning. “What have you done?” she rhetorically asked.

She stared at him for a few more minutes before she reached up and stroked his face with her hand delicately. “Logan, you’re so cold,” her voice broke. “And pale. Logan,” her face twisted. “Logan, open your eyes. It’s okay, I forgive you,” she lightly touched the bruise on her head. “You don’t have to go anywhere, Lo. I know you didn’t mean to,” her voice cracked and her lip quivered.

“Logan, please wake up,” she nudged his shoulder. I grimaced as his body stiffly shifted at the push. The motion was unnatural.

“Wake up,” she demanded, a new emotion plastering on her face: anger. “Wake up!” she yelled, giving his body a punch. I widened my eyes and tried to pull her away from his body, but she thrashed and pushed me away. I stumbled back and stared at her as she lost control. Maybe I shouldn’t let her do this, but maybe this was what she needed—a way to release her emotions. The police officer seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he backed off, as well.

“Wake up, damnit!” she cursed, punching him in the chest.

She slammed her fists into his chest so hard that I heard a crunch. “Wake up!” she screamed. “Wake up, Logan! Wake up!” she shook his shoulders. This was the part when someone was supposed to intervene, to pull her away even as she continued to throw useless punches. This was the part when someone was supposed to hold her back and let her use their body as the punching bag, until she settled into calmer emotions. But we—being me and the other officers—stood around her, unmoving, knowing that trying to rip her away from her dead brother would be a hopeless case.

“God damnit, Logan! You were supposed to be here forever! It was supposed to be you and me forever! Why did you do this to me? Why did you leave me?” she yelled, but as she continued, the yells evolved into cries. She gave up on attacking his lifeless body, and, instead, she draped over him in agony, sobbing into his shoulder. “Why would you do this?” she croaked.

“Come on, Bree,” I said sadly, wrapping my arms around her shoulders to try and pull her back now that she appeared to calm down.

“No,” she said, trying to shrug me away as she gripped to Logan’s body, her eyes clenched shut.

“Bree, come on, let go,” I said softly. “It’s time,” I added lowly.

“No!” she protested, her grip on him tightening. “No,” she added with a whisper.

“I don’t care that you are sick, Logan. You’re my older brother, and you’re supposed to protect me, you fucking asshole,” she raised her voice to a scream.

“Bree, please,” I begged, tears prickling my eyes. Seeing her like this… so unleashed… hurt physically. The officers and other people around were staring at us sadly, but that was all they could do; they didn’t know how to handle the situation. They simply didn’t understand, so their sympathy only went so far. This was suicide for God’s sake—I was sure that some of them were being judgmental. I could sense it; it was a weird sensation, feeling their eyes bore into the back of my head, because they could only imagine how we were feeling. They didn’t live lives full of mental illnesses and death, like us. It was all so foreign to them, like they couldn’t fathom what we were going through because they’ve never felt it before. And because they’ve never felt it before, they couldn’t fully grasp the situation. They could only superficially witness it.

I paid no mind to them, though. I didn’t care that they didn’t understand, that they were probably staring at Bree like she was crazy. They didn’t matter. I didn’t want to restrain Bree for their sake, but for hers.

“Wh-Who’s s’posed to th-threaten my b-boyfriend w-with a shot gun, now?” she asked with a sniffle and a careful laugh. I smiled weakly at her, interested at her attempt to use humor to lighten the situation.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t lighten the black ink of death. Bree shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re gone,” she moaned.

“Come on, Bree,” I rubbed her back carefully, trying to bring her back into reality. She finally calmed down, and she nodded slowly. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, big brother,” she cried softly.

She released her grip of Logan and transferred to my arms. I kissed her hair and held her tightly. An officer slipped me a piece of paper—information regarding funeral arrangements, the address of where to visit Logan, and all of that heavy stuff. I nodded as a thank you and put it into my back pocket. We could deal with all of that later. Obviously, we weren’t going to abandon Logan’s body or the duties that we had to fulfill regarding taking care of his death, but that just wasn’t our primary concern right now.

It was so raw in our minds that the primary concern was dealing with the overwhelming pit of grief that opened itself up in our chests.

Notes