Elizabeth Pollum knew there was something off about Matthew Brownson the moment she had set eyes on him--the moment her sister introduced him as her fiance just a mere two months ago. Their mother had thought Jane was pregnant--and still does--but Liz knew that wasn’t the case. She had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that it was something much darker.
***
1998. Midnight. April 28. Whereabouts of Jacob Bansard unknown. Adam Pollum, father of Elizabeth and Jane, found dragged out of bed, stabbed approximately ten times, then promptly stuffed in the very back of the linen closet in the hallway. The wife had been staying at a friend’s house, babysitting a two-year-old; daughters fast asleep in their beds, door firmly shut. Wife discovers the body once she got home in the early morning--blood everywhere, a trail of it leading to the closet.
****
Elizabeth had spent a week looking over old clippings, old articles with a total of ten hours of sleep. Her mind had finally clicked- weeks turning over the same question over and over. What memory is nagging on my mind? The question had finally been answered only a week and two days before the thrown-together wedding. It didn’t make sense for her to suspect Matthew, of something that happened when he was barely twelve himself--but there was something very off...something he was hiding--she recognized the look on his face, for it was her own. The suspect, Jacob Bansard, turned in her mind. She had looked up photos of him, but that in itself was a feat, considering he was never in public, and once he was suspected, he went off the grid completely. A blurred out image finally surfaced on the deepest depths of the ‘net, and Liz practically dropped the laptop in surprise. Matthew Brownson. Jacob Bansard. Matthew Brownson...Bansard. The similarities were endless. Same jet black hair, same piercing green eyes, same slightly crooked nose. There was no question. These two men, they were father and son.
Her sister was about to marry the son of a murderer--the murderer of their own father! She had to stop her, she had to stop them both. Twisted ideas, sick ideas filled her already muddled brain, and she wanted to throw up. She knew she couldn’t go to the police without firm evidence. She knew she had to take this into her own hands.
***
The moment Liz had found out, she also knew she couldn’t tell Jane, at least not yet. Jane is already so blinded by what she calls “love,” that she would refuse to acknowledge even the slightest of possibilities. No. No, Liz herself would have to stand up to the monster itself. Matthew Brownson- no, Bansard. Matthew Bansard, the bastard. She cursed him to the deepest circle of Hell right then, making a promise to herself that she would bring this man to justice, at least in her and her family’s eyes. He could have committed no lawful crime, but to her, he had slaughtered her father himself, his hand soiled with his blood. He was far from clean.
She had a week and two days--no, now one day as her clock chimed midnight. Liz had Matthew’s name in her phone, saved number. Without thinking about it, she’s calling him. It’s ringing, ringing, ringing.
“Hello? Who is this?” says a groggy voice. Matthew.
“Bansard,” she says.
“Who is this?”
If he had been still half-asleep, he sure was not now. Alarm tinged his voice, and Liz couldn’t help but feel a rush of pleasure and adrenaline rush through her veins.
“Meet me at the corner of Fifth and Main in fifteen minutes.”
Matthew starts to protest when Liz disconnects. She puts the phone on the ground, picks up her discarded boots next to her desk, and brings both heels down on the phone hard. A long crack. Again. Bits of glass are flying off. Again, again, again. The phone was barely recognizable. There, Liz thought to herself smugly, the bastard couldn’t track her even if he wanted to. She doesn’t bother to clean up the mess, but instead slowly rises from her crouch, walking to the kitchen as if she was in a dream. She goes to the knife drawer, eyeing the largest, sharpest blade. Liz picks it up hungrily, gazing at it almost lovingly. Yes, yes, only for protection. Only for protection. She slides it into her back pocket, feeling the point of the blade digging into her skin through her jeans. Only for protection. She walks out of her apartment, stepping over the destroyed phone as if it was an afterthought. As Liz steps out of the door, she doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, letting it stand wide open for the world to see. Several things race through her mind as she walks to the corner of her street. Too many thoughts for one single person to handle. Dark thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Liz was half expecting Matthew to not show up, but nevertheless, as she approaches the corner, a dark shadow appears under the street light. Liz steps under the light, still unbeknownst to Matthew.
“Bansard,” she hisses, and he spins around, clutching a hand over his heart.
“Liz? Liz, is that you? What-what’s going on?” Liz steps closer to the bastard, as he steps back, hands raised in surrender. “Liz, Liz, it’s not what you think.”
She lets out a snarl, and her left hand is drifting to her back pocket. Matthew doesn’t notice. “Oh really? I beg to differ,” she’s spitting now.
The street light flickers and a jagged strip of white light flashes in Liz’s eyes.
Street light resumes.
“Liz,” Matthew’s voice is soft and gentle, and Liz is confused, so confused. He’s a murderer! A murderer! Her left hand is touching the cold blade. Every rational thought is escaping her- but really, were her thoughts ever rational?
White light.
Sidewalk morphs into a padded carpet under her feet. No boots, just bare feet.
Sidewalk again.
Matthew isn’t afraid, though oh he should be, oh he should be. “My name is Matthew Bansard,” he says calmly. “I am a guard at Jackson Mental Institution for Women.” Liz opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. “Your name is Elizabeth Pollum. You are a patient in Jackson Mental Institution for Women.” Liz is shaking her head in disbelief, her kitchen knife sliding up her sleeve. “Liz? Liz, do you know why you’re here?”
White light.
Padded floor.
There are walls now.
Sidewalk and street light again.
“You’re lying,” she says quietly. Matthew’s face shows sympathy, and she wanted to stab him in the face ten times then.
“Your sister, Jane. Your mother, Juliet. Your father, Adam. Liz...you killed them all. They’re gone. They’re gone, honey. Do you know that you did this?”
“Why are you lying to me?!” she screeches, now tugging at her hair with her free hand.
“I’m not lying, Liz. You know this. You know this, honey,” he says gentler still. A flash of the blade catches Matthew’s eye--it was slipping out of her sleeve.
“Liz, honey, why don’t we get you back home, alright?”
“Home? Home? I killed no one! You’re the murderer! It was your father, but now it’s you! It’s always been you. You-you were a child, and I, I saw you when I woke up in the middle of the night, and, and....”
The blade was cold and heavy in the little girl’s hand. A mere ten years old. She crept to her sister’s bedside- she was fast asleep. Ten times. First was instant death, straight through the heart. Blood spatters on the both the little girls’ faces. The girl restrains a giggle and licks a drop of her chin. Now to her parents. Another ten times to her mother- first not fatal. Ten times to her father. The ninth time was finally death.
Liz steps back from Matthew. The knife was now wrapped around her fingers. “Liz, put the knife down,”he says in a measured tone.
She shakes her head hard. She swings, Matthew flinches- it was happening too fast. A gasp, a harsh intake of breath. It was not Matthew. A spurt of blood erupts from her neck, enveloping Matthew. She falls to the padded ground.
In a way, it was poetic. Dying by her own hand, the hand that had killed her own flesh and blood.
Everything was clear now. Her apartment, the glass- glass window of her room shattered. Knife- stolen from the unlocked kitchen. The guards had been careless this night, and she had escaped, having it in her mind that Matthew, the only guard who had ever been kind to her, was her true enemy, while the whole time the real enemy was herself. That same guard was now kneeling over the dead woman, knowing that she was gone, crying for her, crying for her family. Elizabeth Pollum is one of many. She herself though she was perfectly sane, perfectly reasonable. The truth shattered her, shattered her into a million pieces. What world do you live in? Reality? Or fantasy?
Christiana Noll is a member of the class of 2020.