Thanks

   Blood was always difficult to clean off. She grabbed a sponge from the bathroom and put it under the water with some soap. She then grabbed the sponge and started cleaning her boots, as they were covered in red. The sponge, that used to be yellow, got heavily tainted and it was almost impossibly to clean it after having removed almost every trace of blood from her boots. As she walked the bathroom, she grabbed the sponge and walked with her footwear on the other hand.

 Her name was Linda, which means “beautiful” or “cute” in Spanish. But that had nothing to do with her. First, because her parents had no idea of another language and they would have never bothered to learn anything about a world outside theirs. Second, because although she had a nice body and all the curves men would like to stare at, she didn’t found herself all that cute.

 She put on the boots in the living room and then went to the kitchen to throw away the sponge. She grabbed a yogurt, cheese and an apple from the refrigerator and ate them all practically at the same time. She hadn’t had a decent meal in a while and she had to take that moment to eat something recharge batteries. As she gulped down the yogurt, she realized her hands had lots of little cuts and she had blood under her nails. When Linda finished eating, she tried to clean it off but failed.

 It was time to go. Linda took out a cellphone and checked her messages. She had told Marlon to only text her and never to call her. Apparently he had gotten the idea because she had not received any calls, only one text when he asked if she was ok. She answered by only writing “yes”.

 When she walked out the house through the back, a gust of very cold wind hit her directly in the face. Maybe rain or some kind of snow front was coming. But that wasn’t important right now. She just closed her jacket the best she could and walked towards the car that was parked just on one side of the garden. It was one of those houses where everything looks perfect. But what was inside was not perfect, unless you were a homicidal maniac with a thing for order.

 Linda dismissed the thought of it all and got in the car. She had found the keys in an ashtray inside, as if the person that drove the car was always very careful about them. Linda drove faster than the previous owner, getting to the highway in no time. She tried not to speed in order not to attract any attention but it was hard. Her only wish was to be very far away from there, and that had to be done fast or they would link everything that had happened the last few days to her. And she couldn’t face that.

 Night came fast and also a thin rain, which was more annoying than anything else. She kept driving, remembering the faces she had seen recently and putting tags on the ones that she would never see again. Many people had died violently because of her lately and it was something that, although not honestly shocking, she did want it to be left behind. She wanted to be free from those awful memories and sights; she wanted to be left alone.

 However, as the “gas” sign on the car’s dashboard started beeping, she knew that wasn’t going to be possible. Right now, many cops, many people in general, were thinking that it was all her fault, it was all because of her and it was her who had done it all. And they were right, at least partially. Because she did have blood under her nails, because her body did ache because of the struggle and because she had seen what no one else had seen that week.

 Seven hours after departing the house, Linda pulled over a gas station. It was self-service, so she used the cash she had found on the house to fill the tank and hope no one would catch up with her there. She entered the store to pay and realized a table had been set up inside and, before she could walk back, the family having dinner there noticed her and smiled. Somehow, they were happy to see her, even if she had no idea who they were or what they were doing. Suddenly, people got up and smiled and she saw food on the table and remembered.

 It was Thanksgiving Day. She had forgotten all about it as she had been too busy dodging life. She walked closer and asked to pay for her gas but the family invited her to a plate. She insisted on paying but the mother replied they had all decided to celebrate the day there because the station was family property and they couldn’t close it down so the best way to celebrate was to do it in the store and give any costumers a plate to share the joy of the holiday.

 Linda insisted many more times, looking out at the car, but every single one of them kept insisting. They then put a plate on her hands and she had to do something she had almost forgotten how to do: act. She forced a smile on her face and went around the table putting various types of salads and vegetables and turkey on her plastic plate. She then thanked them all and told them she would prefer to eat it in her car, as she didn’t want to interrupt.

 Then, Linda heard it again. She froze right where she stood as the voice, which was not feminine or masculine, invaded her head. She didn’t understood how it had found her again. It had to be close. She asked for it not to do anything to her or to the people there but, when she realized it, she had dropped her plate of food and was now holding the knife they were using to cut the turkey. Her arm moved and she was inside of her body, unable to control anything. But as she was about to slash one of the attendants, a bullet entered her leg and she lost balance, collapsing to the floor. She lost consciousness right there.

 The woman had some awful dream, were voices in different tones told her what to do. One wanted her to poke her eyes out, another one advised to grab a knife and cut her legs off. Another, deeper voice, ask her to just drop dead. And then they all stopped talking and she heard a beautiful female voice. It was someone she knew or at least she seemed to be very familiar to her. But that didn’t matter. The voice told her, in words that felt like a medicine, that she had to fight back, not letting them in.

 Linda woke up, panting and sweating in a hospital bed. She had wanted to move but two things stopped her: she was tied to the bed, as they did with mental patients, and her leg was hurting too much, so she could barely move properly. She tried to fight her restraints but it was useless and she tried to scream too but her throat was dry and she would only hurt herself. Linda couldn’t cry either, as much as she had wanted to do so many times before. Somehow, she couldn’t.

 Two men then entered the room, a policeman and a doctor. The agent started talking about how she was going to be incarcerated due to her having murdered over twenty people the past few days and her attempted murder of a family that had been seating about to have dinner. Linda just shook her head, unable to speak. The men ignored this. The doctor then spoke, telling her that she apparently suffered from a condition in which illusions and voices were very present so he had recommended the police not to put her in jail but in a psychiatric ward.

 Again, Linda tried to scream, but couldn’t.

 She was transferred to a psychiatric hospital two days after they had extracted the bullet. There, she wouldn’t be isolated but she would remain for life. They had deemed her “incurable”, so she was just left alone with her thoughts.

 As much as she tried, for several years after her demise, she never regained the ability to speak. However, people understood her all the same. She had no idea why and she had no need for an explanation. The voices, both the crazy ones and the beautiful one, disappeared from her life. So she was just a regular girl living in a place filled with the most criminally insane people in the world. And all because of what some voices had told her to do, controlling her mind and body.

 As she got older, the clinic used her as the patient that welcomed any new additions to the madhouse. It was then when she realized how it was possible that people understood her. And it was amazing no one had said anything, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Maybe she was manipulating them too but realized that was too far fetched. Linda could only be in their heads, that was it.

The city's rage

 - Stop harassing me. I know nothing.

That was what Emmy, a boy who sold his body for a living, told officer Amalia Jones. And she couldn't stop thinking about it.

Ever since they had finally found him, everything had turned even darker and more complicated. Having been on the case for almost two years, Amalia knew there was more than the obvious but always thought things would become clearer if they found the boy everyone spoke about. But it wasn't like that.

She had to take a weekend off, with her husband and daughter to clear up her mind and get away from all the darkness of the case but, even there, on the beach, the details hunted her.

Jonas Van Doren had been found dead two years ago, floating on a tub filled with with water tainted with his own blood. The apartment was huge, all done in black and white, with the best furniture and the ultimate sound and video equipments. Neighbors told the police many parties had been held there, as Jonas was the son of a renowned Texas banker. The kids went to school in New York but had only found parties and ultimately death there.

To Amalia, New York was also a death trap. Her grandmother and her second husband had arrived to the city after been freed from a plantation in Georgia and had it hard to cope with. New York was not a plantation, but it was filled with slaves. Her second husband died when shot by a burglar so she raised her children by herself. One of them had been shot down by the police when they mistook him for a robber.

Rich or poor, the city appeared to eat people up everyday and Amalia's family and Jonas had already been consumed. And she suspected Emmy had been too. The only difference was that he had evaded death, who knows how.

During the interview she made to the boy, he proved to be fearless and poignant. He would always answer with an act of defiance, as if he had to defend himself over and over again from every single person around him.

The young Van Doren had copious amounts of drugs in his apartment. If it had been the 1980's, he would have been a Wall Street guy: cocaine, pounds and pounds. Also acids and ecstasy. Amalia was assigned to the case when the police began tracing the drugs, the sellers, the real buyer. And there was the first time they heard of Emmy.

Of course, that wasn't his real name. Emmy stranded for "emerald", a reference that only made sense to the boy, whose real name no one knew, not in the underworld, nor in the "real" one. Everyone knew about it him, though. He was very popular at parties, specially those involving high rollers of the highest pedigree. Politicians, military, even policemen. They would pay for him and his services.

Amalia looked for his real data everywhere but it proved impossible. Every time they would set up a raid to catch him, he would already be somewhere else, probably laughing at the police. It was obvious someone powerful was helping him escape and there was maybe no way to find him if he kept leaping from hiding spot to hiding spot.

Then, after the first year of the murder passed, knew autopsy reports on Jonas revealed something the first person to check his body had missed: he had traces of cocaine all over his body, as if someone had sniffed the powder off of him. It was specially interesting when residue was found on between his butt cheeks and on his penis.

Amalia and the other officers then assumed, quite correctly as other tests proved them right, that Jonas had had sex with someone else just before dying. So they started to check every single man and woman that had ever come to a party hosted by Mr. Van Duren.

It was useless because everyone had had sex with him, or so it seemed. To the family, officer Jones recalled, was devastated to learn that their dear son was a promiscuous drug addict, also prone to gambling. It looked awful for them, his father specially, and they decided never to come back to New York.

And then the investigation stalled. As it was now, Amalia thought, as she saw her husband tucking in their child, She smiled at him, thanking life for giving her the joy of having a family she could be proud of. She kissed her husband hard and passionately, as she felt she needed the infuse herself with all the love she could muster.

They had sex that night, as they hadn't had it for several weeks. And at the end they kissed and hugged to get some sleep but, she didn't. She kept thinking about Emmy. Because it was him who had helped her. Well, not before she had the chance to help him.

When the case stalled, Amalia was asked to survey several parts of the city, tracing the drug dealers that had sold to Van Doren. But one of those night she found Emmy. And he was not a in ugly neighborhood but in front of the Waldorf Astoria. He was coming out of it as Amalia passed by on her patrol car, en route to work.

She recognized him immediately and could see he wasn't feeling well: he seemed to mumble, and couldn't walk straight. As she stopped the car in front of the hotel, Emmy fainted.

Hours later they were in the hospital. Amalia had spoken to the doctor: Emmy had been drugged with a powerful sedative. He had been raped after that. When officer Jones visited the boy in his room, he was awake and looked at her directly to the eyes, as if checking if it was safe to be near her.

 - Who are you?
 - A friend.
 - I don't have any friends.
 - You do now.

They did become friends or, kind of. He stayed at her house and he decided to trust her enough to tell her who had raped him and, more importantly to her, who had sold Jonas the drugs. Yes, he knew him. No surprise, they had had sex. But according to Emmy, they were in love too. It had been him, before they had fallen for each other, that had made the bridge between Jonas and the dealers, dangerous, vicious men.

Amalia captured some of them with help from the FBI but just then, Emmy vanished. That was until now, when he had been recaptured trying to board a flight to Europe. He wanted out but Amalia couldn't afford such a valuable source of information to vanish that simply.

So she had asked questions, harder ones, once and again. But he had only said:

 - I know nothing.

The drug dealers plead guilty or charges of drug dealing and admitted having sold merchandise to Jonas Van Doren. But they said, adamantly, they hadn't killed him. They were actually shocked to hear from his death, as he was one of their best buyers.

After her weekend rest, Amalia came back to the city and demanded to talk to Emmy but he had been freed and he was nowhere to be found. Again, he had vanished and this time, it appeared to be forever.

Amalia arrived to her home that night, sad no to have had a last chance to speak with such a tormented soul. But it was no need. Her husband handed her a letter she had received earlier, with the name Jonas Van Doren in the front.

Inside, there was the most heartbreaking love story she had ever read or heard about. And it's conclusion, was just incredible. As it happens, Jonas and Emmy did love each other but Emmy was too tied to the dealers and they had demanded him to keep pressuring Jonas for more deals and to get them more buyers. Emmy didn't wanted to as he saw the man Jonas was turning into. They had fight over the drug issue, over the fact that Jonas was loosing himself.

The dealers finally made Emmy decide: make them richer or they would kill Jonas. In the letter, he confessed Amalia it had been him who killed Jonas. As a final act of love, he had poisoned him with a painless substance and had laid him in the tub, were they had shared their first kiss after having too much to drink.

Emmy had known the dealers would never settle, so he decided to do the job himself, before them or the drugs. And before killing Jonas, he had promised him never to let him alone, ever.

Weeks later, Amalia heard of the body of a young man found on the Hudson, with his pockets full of stones.