The Crimson Knife

I woke up feeling dizzy and strange. My head was heavy, and sweat clung to the back of my shirt. My throat was parched as if I had a severe fever. 

In my delirious state, I looked around for my phone. I tried to turn it on, but it was unresponsive. I attempted to get up from my bed, but every part of my body ached and screamed in the process. 

Trying to fight off the nausea, I ended up vomiting in the waste bucket. Blinking away the black spots in my eyes, I reached for my desk and charged my phone. Sitting on my chair, I looked around my small dorm, trying to remember where I was last night, but I drew a blank. 

I remembered the entire day until 7:00 pm, and after that, there was nothing. Unlike my usually messy room, it was even more chaotic and dirty, which was unusual for me.

I started to clean off the mess of papers on my desk, and on removing just one layer, I felt like throwing up again as a crimson-stained knife lay there. My hands trembled as I started to reach for it but stopped midway. All the spy movies made me wise enough not to leave imprints on the murder weapon. But whose blood was it? The bigger question was: did I kill them? 

I tried to go back in time, scrolling on my phone for answers but found nothing. 

Looking down my window, I saw no one in the hallway on a Sunday at 7 am. 

Upon further inspection, I found no one’s body in my room. I might be strong, but my gut was not strong enough to drag and dispose of a body. 

After clearing all the mess in my room, I found no clues. I felt more confused than ever. 

Even if I did murder someone, why would I bring back the murder weapon with me? Shouldn’t I have left it back at the crime spot or disposed of it somewhere carefully? 

Maybe someone is trying to frame me. What if they killed my enemy and were planning to make me the number one suspect? Would I be playing into their hands by hiding the knife?

Should I be downright honest and tell the authorities everything? But even I'm not convinced by my story; 12 hours of my life are a blur. I have no alibis to back me up. 

Could it be possible that someone drugged me to set up this game? Or maybe that’s not blood but crimson paint, and I am the butt of the joke, and they are all waiting to laugh at me. 

It wouldn't be the first time I've been laughed at. Being overweight and slow doesn't help you fit in. I stand out and am always judged and mocked. 

I eat a salad; they say it's about time I started to diet. I eat a sandwich and order another, and they say one would never be enough. They say if I don't exercise, shouldn't my brain be like Einstein's? 

In their glares and mockery, I find solace in this chair. As I stare at the knife, I feel the weight settle on my shoulders. One deep cut is all it takes, and maybe by evening, they would come to help me, but the doctors would say they were 20 hours too late.