I left the park, wandering aimlessly; weaving in and out of morning traffic, trying to formulate some type of plan. Since death didn’t seem to mean the end for me I needed to work out what I was meant to do next.
The sun rose slowly into a bright blue sky. It’s hard to describe how odd it felt to be out in the sunshine yet not feeling its warmth on my skin. Colours seemed so much more vibrant yet I felt disconnected. I was there but not.
My thoughts were chaotic. I was scared, confused, angry and so very much alone. I needed to find somewhere I could think and process all that had happened in the last couple of hours. There was only one place I could think of. One place I could collect myself and take a moment to breathe; figuratively speaking.
I went home.
At my apartment I lingered at the front door. I’d turned a key in that door for over four years and here I was wondering how I was going to get inside. Deciding how to get into one’s own apartment after death was a pickle of a situation, I had to admit.
‘Oh shit,’ I said. It dawned on me the only way in would be to go through the door. I shivered. ‘How fucking weird is this?’
I felt such loss with the sudden realisation it wasn’t my door any more. Staring at each deep red brush stroke and remembering the day I’d painted it I became painfully aware my apartment would be sold off and the contents removed. Someone would eventually come and clear out all traces of me.
Not wanting to delve too far into those thoughts I pushed through the timber door and yes, it was just as creepy as it sounds. You don’t actually feel anything but you do see it. I could see every particle making up the wood as I passed though. I was afraid the tiny specks would get into my eyes so I kept trying to shut them.
Once through the door, my loss deepened as I entered the bright entryway. I stared at the empty ceramic dish on the table where I always tossed my keys when coming home. My keys where in a plastic evidence bag at the police station and would never sit in the bowl again.
I moved through the living room catching myself avoiding the furniture.
‘You’re dead, stupid,’ I muttered and forced myself over the couch and for good measure I went through the wall into the kitchen.
My beautiful kitchen. To say I was pissed off is an understatement. I’d only finished remodelling the kitchen a few months earlier. I finally had the kitchen exactly how I wanted it and now I was dead. It might be just me, or even only a girl thing, but that really pissed me off.
I hovered by the sink, looking out the window and out at the garden I got a sense of rightness. I was where I was meant to be. I went through the wall, out on to the timber deck. My favourite place on Earth was my little slice of Eden. I could smell the fragrance of the flowers which made me wonder, could I really smell them or was it simply a memory?
Hovering over the well manicured lawn I began to think. Floating aimless, drifting amongst the foliage I thought about the book sitting on my nightstand, the slice of chocolate cake in my fridge or the cute little dress I’d bought last week. I would never get to wear or finish any of those things all because some fuckwit had taken my life. He’d stolen away those simple pleasures from me and he was going to pay.
I had to find him.
In life I was a list girl. I liked well ordered lists to keep my mind clear and everything organised. Apparently death didn’t change someone’s little idiosyncrasies.
I began to make a mental check list, an ‘How to find a mother fucking killer,’ list.
Item one on the list, how did I die?
I couldn’t remember anything after first walking into the park with Milton. I was assuming I’d either blacked out, got hit from behind or was blocking out the memory. I forced myself to remember. I closed my eyes. Actually I don’t know what I closed, I simply shut something to block out the world, the light. I visualised the walk to the park with Milton by my side. We stopped periodically so the Collie could investigate a tree or a post. We entered the park as dawn began to lighten the sky. Milton ran a head and he turned back to look at me. Then there was nothing. It was a black void of nothingness.
Frustrated I opened up, finding the yard looked sadly empty without Milton running around chasing the butterflies or the bees. I needed to find out what had happened if I had any hope of working out who had done it. It wasn’t like the answer was going to be obvious or anything. I didn’t lead a high risk lifestyle with enemies or people who wanted me dead. I wasn’t a hooker or a druggie. I was not rich and my family had no money or crime connections. There was no abusive husband or jealous boyfriends. There really was no reason for anyone to kill me.
I was beginning to think I was a victim of random violence, a crime of opportunity. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Meaning finding my killer was going to be a bitch.
I went back into the apartment, slowly savouring every last detail since I would probably never see the place again. I left and would have cried if I had been able too.
I headed towards the centre of town, to the police station.