Entry #8
December 7, 2009.
Monday.
4:49pm
Dear Alfred,
Detective Jeremy Cruz was murdered right in front of our house.
There was so much blood, Alfred. There was almost too much. You won’t think that the human head is capable of holding in that much blood. He was shot three times at the back of the head Saturday night.
I heard him ring the bell. My mom was on her way out to check who it was, when she heard the three gunshots. I rushed downstairs and I found my dad holding a gun and was commanding my mom to stay inside. He marched outside and I was just a few steps behind him. I saw him first. My dad was too busy looking out for the live ones than the dead one with his brains splattered all over our gate.
I don’t know why, but somehow, I knew who it was the moment I saw him lying down there. It was weird.
We called the cops. They responded quickly. Took them around 15 minutes to get to our house. You know what’s weird though? They just looked around, took the body and moved out. Some cop asked my dad a few questions, but nothing much about the dead detective. They didn’t even ask us if we knew the dead person or if we knew what he was doing there. They just left.
What was he doing in our driveway? Why would anyone want to kill him?
I talked more to my dad about it, but he didn’t want to talk at all. He kept quiet like he used to and went straight to his room. Some dad he is. He didn’t even check how I was feeling.
When I came back up, there was a message from Maika, checking if we’re still on for coffee on Sunday. I didn’t feel very social at the moment, so I made something up and just went to bed. I thought about writing to you, Alfred, but I just wasn’t feeling it.
I wasn’t able to sleep that night. Not one bit. I have a sinking feeling that this is all connected to me. What could it be?
Sunday was uneventful as always. I should have written something, but, well, I missed it. Sorry. I researched more about my accident, but again I found nothing. I just slept the whole day. I think I ate dinner, but I can’t be so sure. I didn’t feel good at all.
Today, well, today was interesting.
It was my first time back to school since my accident. I think there’s something you should know about me, uh, I’m a nobody in school. Nobody talks to me, nobody acknowledges me, nobody does anything with me.
Anyway, people we’re looking at me weird when I came to school. At first, I thought it was because of the bandage on my forehead, but it wasn’t. They weren’t looking at me in a bad way, but it didn’t seem like a good way either. They shot curious glances and they weren’t being too discreet about it.
This girl I barely even nod to, talked to me in bio class about my injury. She asked me about what happened. I told her I was in a minor crash. She looked concerned. She didn’t look sad, but she looked concerned. I asked her why she was looking at me like that, and she just said something about me being blessed.
A few more people asked me about my accident. Word of that day seemed to spread fast. I think every single one of the people in school knew about it and I had no idea how. They kept on telling me that everything was going to be okay and that I shouldn’t worry.
I’m not worried, Alfred. What am I supposed to be worried about?
I got so sick of the attention everybody gave me. I mean, I don’t even know these people.
Bah, weird.
Unfortunately, weirdness doesn’t stop there.
I dropped by Greenhills before going home. I bought a new cell phone and SIM card. It was a Nokia N97. It’s a pretty fancy phone. I like it. I loaded my SIM card and got a few text messages in. I got 5 new messages. 4 of them were from Globe.
The 5th was from someone else. The number can’t be displayed, but the text message read: Remember.
I’m assuming it’s the same person who sent me my shirt. I’ve seen this in movies and TV shows a lot, and it’s really irritating. I hate it when this shit happens. Why won’t anyone just please walk up to me and tell me what the hell is going on?
This is getting old.
-
Rick
-
5:25pm
Monday.
4:49pm
Dear Alfred,
Detective Jeremy Cruz was murdered right in front of our house.
There was so much blood, Alfred. There was almost too much. You won’t think that the human head is capable of holding in that much blood. He was shot three times at the back of the head Saturday night.
I heard him ring the bell. My mom was on her way out to check who it was, when she heard the three gunshots. I rushed downstairs and I found my dad holding a gun and was commanding my mom to stay inside. He marched outside and I was just a few steps behind him. I saw him first. My dad was too busy looking out for the live ones than the dead one with his brains splattered all over our gate.
I don’t know why, but somehow, I knew who it was the moment I saw him lying down there. It was weird.
We called the cops. They responded quickly. Took them around 15 minutes to get to our house. You know what’s weird though? They just looked around, took the body and moved out. Some cop asked my dad a few questions, but nothing much about the dead detective. They didn’t even ask us if we knew the dead person or if we knew what he was doing there. They just left.
What was he doing in our driveway? Why would anyone want to kill him?
I talked more to my dad about it, but he didn’t want to talk at all. He kept quiet like he used to and went straight to his room. Some dad he is. He didn’t even check how I was feeling.
When I came back up, there was a message from Maika, checking if we’re still on for coffee on Sunday. I didn’t feel very social at the moment, so I made something up and just went to bed. I thought about writing to you, Alfred, but I just wasn’t feeling it.
I wasn’t able to sleep that night. Not one bit. I have a sinking feeling that this is all connected to me. What could it be?
Sunday was uneventful as always. I should have written something, but, well, I missed it. Sorry. I researched more about my accident, but again I found nothing. I just slept the whole day. I think I ate dinner, but I can’t be so sure. I didn’t feel good at all.
Today, well, today was interesting.
It was my first time back to school since my accident. I think there’s something you should know about me, uh, I’m a nobody in school. Nobody talks to me, nobody acknowledges me, nobody does anything with me.
Anyway, people we’re looking at me weird when I came to school. At first, I thought it was because of the bandage on my forehead, but it wasn’t. They weren’t looking at me in a bad way, but it didn’t seem like a good way either. They shot curious glances and they weren’t being too discreet about it.
This girl I barely even nod to, talked to me in bio class about my injury. She asked me about what happened. I told her I was in a minor crash. She looked concerned. She didn’t look sad, but she looked concerned. I asked her why she was looking at me like that, and she just said something about me being blessed.
A few more people asked me about my accident. Word of that day seemed to spread fast. I think every single one of the people in school knew about it and I had no idea how. They kept on telling me that everything was going to be okay and that I shouldn’t worry.
I’m not worried, Alfred. What am I supposed to be worried about?
I got so sick of the attention everybody gave me. I mean, I don’t even know these people.
Bah, weird.
Unfortunately, weirdness doesn’t stop there.
I dropped by Greenhills before going home. I bought a new cell phone and SIM card. It was a Nokia N97. It’s a pretty fancy phone. I like it. I loaded my SIM card and got a few text messages in. I got 5 new messages. 4 of them were from Globe.
The 5th was from someone else. The number can’t be displayed, but the text message read: Remember.
I’m assuming it’s the same person who sent me my shirt. I’ve seen this in movies and TV shows a lot, and it’s really irritating. I hate it when this shit happens. Why won’t anyone just please walk up to me and tell me what the hell is going on?
This is getting old.
-
Rick
-
5:25pm