The itch of fabric dug under my nails as my fingers scraped across the surface of the couch cushion. My eyes, baggy, heavy, glazed, fixed indefinitely on the television screen. The living room was warm, too warm, and filled with a thin haze of humidity. The faint boil of sweat beads bubbled under the surface of my skin as if trying to claw its way out, escaping the glands which held them so cruelly captive. My body was limp, my jaw ajar, my eyes unblinking, uncaring, unfeeling. 

“...in a parking lot at 8:00 PM yesterday evening,” the news anchor faded into my eardrums past the eerie ring of imagined silence. “When Tom McKanhy, a clerk at a local gas station, identified the witness and alerted police to his pre–” The voice faded again, a high-pitched ringing filling the void it left in its wake. 

My head swirled. For a second, my eyes fell from the screen. I blinked, squinting as I beheld the squalor around me. Broken glass from toppled picture frames embedded itself in the dirty carpet. Faint scratches, indistinguishable as either animal or human, decorated the cushions. In front of the couch I lay limp on, a small table sat. Cans of alcohol, some finished, some left only half-drained, littered its surface. An opened pizza box, its unfinished contents long since cold, lay rotting next to the cans. 

“...shortly after arriving at the scene,” the voice faded in again before it was quickly replaced with the pattering of rain on the windows. The downpour was torrential, the distant cracks of thunder barely audible beneath the blanket of rain that assaulted the outside world. My head swirled again in its drunken stupor, and the voice on the television briefly filled my ears again. 

“...quickly confirmed the suspect to be Timothy Arnolds, the fugitive suspected of having–” And then she was gone. 

My eyes fell back on the television screen as the mugshot of a man I didn’t recognize appeared on screen: Timothy Arnolds. Hazel eyes, dirty blonde, short hair, and a piercing in his nose. His face was blank, numb, almost cold as he stared at me. A mugshot. 

I raised my left hand to drink, but my fingers failed to act on the command. My drink fell to the ground, beer soaking into the carpet, introducing itself to an ecosystem of filth. “...had evaded police for two months after the attack,” the voice spoke before I tuned her back out. 

There was a hallway to the right of the television. It was dark, empty, lonely. My bedroom was that way, I thought. I couldn’t remember – didn’t want to remember. There was something else there, right? No. I shouldn’t think about that. I won’t think about that. 

“...opened fire on the officers, injuring two, and killing one in the shootout that ensued.” But why can’t I remember? Don’t I live here? I live here, right? My eyes fell into a harsh squint, as if that would help stir my memory. 

I saw a glimpse of something – a memory, I think. A field, a red frisbee in my hand, clear skies, and wind on my skin. I threw the frisbee at something; a small, blurry figure in a blue shirt off in the distance. The memory passed before I could see anymore. 

“...officer Ray Dallas died from his injuries on the way to the hospital.” 

That figure, I thought. I recognize them. Who are they? Something in my heart tugged against my mind at the thought, like a warning from deep in my subconscious. I pressed on.

I glared at the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness that permeated it. I could see three doorways: two on the right, one on the left. I looked to the one on the left. My bedroom, the memory recovered. Now to the far one on the right. Bathroom? I thought a little harder. Bathroom. 

“...Emily Dallas declined an interview, but has since been contacted by the families of the dozens of other victims, all of whom offered their support during these difficult t–” What does the closed door go to, though? What was in there? No, who was? Try as I might, the answers wouldn’t come to me. I tried to voice my disappointment aloud, but only an unintelligible groan could leave my lips. 

The lady on the news was muttering something again. I tried to focus on what she was saying but couldn’t – not as another voice caught my attention. 

“Daddy?” 

I jolted at the sound, ringing silence enveloping all other noise but this new, familiar voice. It came from the hallway. 

“Daddy? What’s wrong?” 

I turned, my glazed eyes wide as I beheld a boy standing in the hallway, the blue of his shirt barely illuminated by the light of the television screen. He tilted his head in inquiry. What’s wrong? I thought to myself. I don’t know. Why does he think something is wrong? Who is he? I know him? 

“Daddy?” he said again. I cut him off. 

“N-Nothing. Go back to bed,” I stumbled, the familiarity in my tone surprising me, confusing me. 

Is he my son? 

“What’s wrong?” the boy simply said in response. 

“Go back to bed,” I replied, rolling my head on my limp neck to meet the boy's eyes – the boy’s dark, hazel eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he said again. 

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong? The words echoed in my head, bouncing off the inside of my skull as if trying to escape. “I don’t know,” was all I could say in response. The voice on the television faded back in again. 

“...though many are relieved to hear of Arnolds’ death at the hands of the police, now knowing that his two-month reign of terror is over, many others are extending their sympathies to his many victims, who now believe they will forever be deprived of true justice for what was taken from them…” 

“Daddy? What’s wrong?” 

My eyes darted between the boy and the screen. I felt cold. A twitch in my arm revealed a feeling of dampness – I was sweating. 

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Daddy? What’s wrong? Yes, this boy was my son. I’m talking to my son. Why is he up? Why won’t he go back to bed? Why does he keep asking me this? 

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

I don’t know what’s wrong though. Just go back to bed and leave me alone. Please. Please just– 

“Go back to bed!” 

My volume startled me. It startled the boy too, and he stumbled back a step.

“I just want to know what’s wrong, Daddy.” 

“Nothing is wrong. I’m just watching the news, that’s all. Now go back to bed.” He stared at me blankly, then he turned to the screen, glancing over it for a few seconds. He turned back to me. 

“Don’t lie to me, daddy. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

I wasn’t lying, though. Right? Was I lying? I couldn’t have been. No, I’m just watching the news. Yes, it’s just the news. 

“Nothing is wrong, now go to bed. I don’t want to ask you again.” I didn’t. He just stood there, eyes on me, wrapped in darkness, not a feature on his face visible past his eyes, which glowed ever so faintly as they reflected the television light back. “I said go to bed. So go back to bed!” I moved to stand up but stumbled, falling face-first into the carpet. That voice, the news anchor, filled my ears again. 

“...said Deborah Smith, the mother of the sixteen-year-old victim–” 

Mother. Mother. Mother. The word puzzled me. Yes, mother. If this boy was my son, then who was his mother? 

I pressed my hands against the carpet, hoisting myself up onto my knees. I turned to the hallway to find it now empty. I guess he went to bed. I turned to glance behind me, and I collapsed again at the sight. 

A woman, a pretty woman, lay splayed on the floor by the front door. Her limbs were contorted, broken, and she was bloody – so bloody. A crimson pool had formed around her, with smears of red covering the walls, nearby furniture, and everything around her. Her throat had been slit ear to ear. The cut was deep, as if the entire length of a knife’s blade had been used to make the cut. 

“Daddy?” the boy said again. I whipped my head around to find him in the hallway again. “What-” I stumbled. “What did you–” 

“Just tell me what’s wrong, daddy.” 

No, he didn’t do this. He couldn’t have done this. This boy, my boy, my sweet boy, my son, would never be capable of this. This woman, his mother… This was an unrelated crime. “Tell me.” He stepped forward, his hazel eyes glowing again in the light. 

If there’s a body in my house, doesn’t that mean we’re in danger? Is my son in danger? Surely, he must be, right? 

“Son?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes. 

“Yes?” he replied meekly, sheepishly. 

“Come here, please.” I took my seat back on the couch. My son sat down next to me, his hands tucked behind his knees as he looked at me curiously, innocently. 

“What is it?” 

I racked my brain trying to find the words I needed. Something, I needed to say something. Before I could think of anything, the television spoke again. 

“...Jessica Arnolds–” and the voice faded just as fast as it came. 

Jessica? Jessica. I whirled my head around. 

“Jessica!” I leaped from the couch, falling to the ground again. I crawled to the corpse in the foyer. “Jessica! Jessica, can you hear me?” 

I shook Jessica’s body, my hands now stained with her blood. She gave me no response. She’s not breathing. What do I do? What do I do when someone isn’t breathing? I rattled my

brain for a second before it came to me. Chest compressions. I need to give her chest compressions. 

I placed my hands on her chest, pushing my body’s weight into her in short jolts. Try as I might, but I couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. 

“Jessica!” I yelled again. 

With every desperate push, the gash in her throat opened and closed – laughing at me. Her mouth hung hopelessly open, hopelessly breathless. Her eyes remained blank. “Jessica!” I screamed, the pangs of desperation breaking my voice. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t let my wife die. If only I had been from work that day I– 

My hands hit the floor, as if falling through the thing, my wife, that they had been pressing against. I blinked the tears away from my eyes to be met with a clean floor. No body. No blood. 

“Daddy?” My son called to me again. 

I turned around to see him standing over me, a knife in his hand. He was soaked in blood, my blood, my wife’s blood, and that of so many others. So many others. “Who are you?” I choked through my tears. He seemed to look confused at my inquiry. Those hazel eyes still held so much innocence. That scruffy, dirty blonde hair was still unkempt from a day of playing outside. He was still a boy, a child, innocent and pure. Surely I– “...William Arnolds has also since declined any interviews after his son’s death during his shootout with the police.” 

William? That’s me, right? William… Arnolds? Would that mean my son is– I looked back at the television screen. The mugshot of that man, Timothy Arnolds, was on display again. Hazel eyes. Dirty blonde hair. A piercing on his nose. I looked back at my son. He looked older now. He looked… just like the man on the screen. 

He crouched before me, looking me in the eyes. His hazel eyes, his innocent eyes, were the only part of him I still recognized. Yet, there was something under them, something different. 

“W-Why?” I whimpered. 

“Just tell me what’s wrong, daddy.” His voice was still childlike, innocent, pure – nothing like that look he was giving me. He held out his knife to me, coated in the blood of countless others. I took it in my hand. 

“W-Why?” I sheepishly asked again. I held the knife up to my heart. 

“Shouldn’t you know?” he replied, placing his hand over mine as it gripped the knife. “I’m your son. I’m just like you, remember?” 

No– No he’s wrong. He’s nothing like me. I’m nothing like him. He– My eyes met his again. You killed those people. You killed Jessica. 

“I’m nothing like–” but my words were cut off as he pushed the knife into my heart. I swiftly coughed up a wave of blood, daring a glance at my wound. My eyes widened to find that my son’s hands no longer wrapped around mine. I looked up to find him gone; disappeared as if he were never there. 

I looked past where his visage had just been to the television. The news anchor had moved on to other topics by now. Evening traffic. Political updates. Local scandals. Whatever. But that image still held in my mind – Timothy, his picture displayed on screen, headline of the week. My son, a murderer.

My vision began to darken, a phantasmagoria of memories flashing past my eyes. Jessica giving birth. Me holding Timothy for the first time. His first day of school. His first hospital visit – he had broken his arm riding his bike. Timothy’s cast, covered in signatures. His first homecoming, with Jessica insisting on him posing for a slew of pictures before he left. Timothy bringing home his first girlfriend. Timothy coming home with a piercing. Timothy leaving for college. 

Timothy Arnolds, murderer, fugitive, headline of the week, displayed on my screen. “You can’t–,” I whispered as the world grew dark. “You can’t be my son. I don’t know who you are…” 

I felt chills running up my body. I felt drowsy, tired, and exhausted. I rested my head against the wall behind me. As I slipped to sleep, I heard his voice again: 

“Shouldn’t you know? I’m just like you, remember?” 

Denial. Denial and grief were the last things I felt past the sting in my chest.