Day Off

A body covered in blood. The principal losing her mind. The entire town asking, is this some kind of sick joke?
The girl who used to play basketball is now lying in the morgue. Will her parents cry? No. I’m sure that, even now, it’s still hard for them to truly imagine that she’s dead.
The tears will come this afternoon, when they return home from work and realize their daughter hasn’t come back. No kiss at the doorway. No goodnight hug. Every routine from now on will be nothing more than remnants of a girl who no longer exists.
“Such a sweet girl,” they all say.
I can’t help but feel empathy for her parents. But when it comes to her… I feel strangely indifferent. I’m not sure why. I hate that. The inability to feel.
I almost feel sorry for the principal. There were only four days left before the interschool competitions. Now the school will be all over the news—but as the site of a murder.
Something that has sparked my curiosity is the rumor spreading through my classmates: they’re bringing in a detective from the big city. I suppose our local authorities weren’t enough for a case like this—especially since things like this don’t happen here. This town barely has ten thousand residents.
Events like this are truly rare.
I went out for a walk to clear my head.
I always enjoy the air in this park—it feels like it ventilates my skull, as if I could almost experience what butterflies feel when they drift through the breeze.
Sometimes I wish I could simply let myself be carried away. With nothing to think about.
But I can’t.
Because I want to think.
Sometimes too much.
Dazed.
Dazed is how I feel—haunted by the unsettling remorse of not reporting the blonde woman.
It’s human to run.
To flee from what we refuse to accept.
I ran out of fear. I said nothing out of cowardice.
Although nothing guarantees things would’ve changed if I had spoken up. So I’ve decided she was already beyond saving by the time I found her.
That’s the only way I can calm my anxiety.
While watching cars pass by from the bench closest to the street, someone sat down beside me.
She wore a red coat that reached her legs, boots, and a black hat. Her hands were covered in gloves—leather, perhaps. And sunglasses that concealed any trace of intention.
It was unbearably hot.
How could anyone dress like that? Not even a masochist would commit such madness. Heatstroke seemed inevitable for anyone wearing those clothes.
When I tried to stand, she grabbed my arm.
“Stay,” I heard.
“Excuse me?” I turned to look at her. “Do I know you?”
“Fortunately, yes.”
I sat back down—this time closer to the edge of the bench.
“Your friend.”
“My friend?” I asked, confused. “Which friend?”
“The girl I killed a few days ago.”
A sharp pain shot through my chest.
She removed her sunglasses.
Those same glowing eyes.
This time without the reflection of fresh blood.
From inside her coat, she pulled out a small black pouch tied with thick string.
“Take it,” she said.
I hesitated—but took it anyway.
We sat in silence. There was nothing to talk about.
The small bag stirred my curiosity, but I didn’t want to open it.
She smiled faintly.
“You’re not going to?” she said. “Suit yourself.”
A whistle escaped her lips, sending chills down my spine.
She stood and positioned herself in front of me.
“Listen. I need to tell you something,” she said more seriously now. “I was ordered not to touch you—not even a little. I won’t. I respect the one who gave me that order. But I want you to keep what happened that day to yourself.”
“They ordered you not to—?”
Ignoring my question, she simply walked away in the opposite direction.
No further explanation.
She slowly disappeared from my sight.
I spent the rest of the morning trying to make sense of what had happened over these past days.
On television, reports about Sara’s death repeated endlessly.
“We have no idea who killed her,” they said.
But I did.
Would they believe me if I told them?
Definitely not.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, anxiety tore me apart.
I looked at the black pouch.
I untied the knot and opened it carefully.
A note covered the contents.
“For Cloe.”
What I saw on my bed terrified me.
A pile of fingernails.
Perfectly torn off. Covered in dried blood. Carrying a faint scent of death.
On four of them, letters had been carved. When arranged together, they spelled:
“Sara.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I vividly saw her hands being ripped apart by that creature whose glowing eyes and teeth lit up the room.
Viscera everywhere.
A frenzied animal slicing through human flesh.
Human flesh that awakens the fervent, glistening hunger of carnivores lurking with malice toward our species.
The images wouldn’t leave my mind. The darkness behind my eyelids was replaced by Sara’s visible suffering.
I wished that sleep would erase the pain.
It didn’t.
When classes resumed, I couldn’t stop hearing people talk about it.
“You look exhausted. What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
Iris tried to cheer me up.
“We’ve got an hour before dismissal. I heard the guard fell asleep.”
“And where would we even go?”
“Anywhere. This place is depressing.”
I sighed.
She was right. Anywhere would be less suffocating than here.
As we walked through the halls, she stopped.
“I’m going to the bathroom. Wait here.”
I paced around until she returned.
That’s when I overheard a conversation near where Sara had died.
“How do you know it was them?”
“Because I know them. I’ve seen them do it.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Guys, isn’t this why we formed the club? We’ll go there and see it with our own eyes.”
As I kept waiting, they walked past me.
Two girls and three boys.
I knew their names—they were from a different section, except for one of them who was a grade below.
Where were they heading?