Factory 1 “Needle and Thread”

It has been another sleepless night.

It is five a.m.

I have lost track of how many nights have ended up like this. I avoid sleeping because when there is just silence and me, eventually some terrible thought will enter my mind. And though people say that crying heals, there are some things that don't work that way. Things you have seen, some that might seem ordinary to others, but for you, those memories are everything. And if those memories are tainted, can you really make them seem right?

At first, I felt okay. I was sad, but it was a clean pain. It wasn't like it was. That dirty kind of pain. But recent events have brought it all back, and though I try my best to heal and to not let it all get to me, it still does. Because despite what people say, you can't just change some emotions. You can only suppress them. Eventually, when your guard is down, they come out.

The doctor was right when he said writing would help. It does help. In many ways, there are times when it is the only thing that will help. So, I write this and I pray that tomorrow will be better. Because this morning is a difficult one, and I just want to get some of this out of me. I want to feel clean, but more than that, I want to feel free.

But that is hard when it keeps coming back.

My wife's killer, the one they never caught, has been silent for some time. Many assumed he was dead. I had hoped he was so that this would be over, but he wasn't. He isn't. And he seems to be worse than ever.

They don't put the details in the newspaper. Crimes like his tend to upset people. But people around here know things. And they talk. And the fact is, many people just don't know what I have been through, and so they don't know how to censor what they say. So, I couldn't help overhearing a conversation at a table I was watching. And that meant I had to go home.

My boss. He is a good guy. He understood.

He understands that sometimes you hear things that remind you of other things. However, sometimes, that is all it takes.

When the Surgeon started, there were two victims. Two bodies. Two people. But by the time he was done, there was only one body. It took the doctors hours to remove all the stitches.

They were twins. He told them that they were beautiful. Perfect reflections; that no one could be as close as they could be. As they would be...

It was the oldest who tried to kill the youngest. Despite what people tell you, there is always an oldest. He had gotten scared. He didn't know when they would be rescued. If they were going to be rescued. He didn't want them to suffer.

Somehow, he managed to tear out the stitches holding down his arm. He also managed to find an old piece of pipe, and he tried to bash his brothers head in.

By the time they found the two of them in the old factory, the oldest was dead. He had bled out before he could finish his younger brother off. He couldn't get enough force behind it, sewn to his twin as he was.

It took twelve hours before they were discovered. No one would have noticed they were missing had their friends not seen the broken window. Had they not noticed the scratches on the floor.

I probably would have been okay. The doctor still thinks that I am doing well, that all those nightmares are normal. That it was just my mind trying to figure it out.

But I got a package yesterday.

I was supposed to see my kids for the first time in a while, but how can I after that?

It had been hand delivered. It was the note I read first. The note wasn't very long.

“You have had a hard time. I remember this helping me, when things became difficult to understand.”

They didn't sign it, but the moment I opened it I knew who had sent it. Because no one else would have thought it would have been a good idea.

It was a record. Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D.

I brought it to the police. I tried to touch it as little as I could. They said they would let me know if they find anything, that they weren't even sure if it was from the killer. But I know. Not just because of the music, but because of what he wrote on the back of the paper.

“Bun insisted you should have this.”

Bun. That was my pet name for Sarah. We had never told anyone.