#4

"So how are you really feeling about this...?" Emily said after a long pause in our 'Bridesmaids is probably the funniest movie I've ever seen' conversation. She caught me off guard. Light conversations were always my enemy. Always a distraction from the mess of trouble that really needed some attention. I didn't answer to be safe. I honestly had no clue what I would’ve said if I had decided to answer. Instead, I made my hands busy chipping old paint off of the side of my bed.
"Trish... can you just say something?" She said hopefully catching my gaze.

"Where did that stuff come from?" I pushed out. It was the elephant in the room anyways. I didn't do any harm, did I?

"Where did it come from? It came from a body..." She said shyly.

A body? A body. This was probably an obvious answer, but it was the one I didn't want to hear. For some reason, my conscience was yelling at me to protest against the fact that she was a murderer. To say something cheesy like, 'Oh God, no! Not you!' She could see that I was thinking rapidly. My mind was on a rampage, she should know! Without me saying anything she jumped off my bed to the floor where I was sitting.
"Don't freak out, Trish. I'm still me!" She said, probably trying to make me feel better. That didn't help though. My mind was still trying to figure out how it happened. I'm sweating now. It's not like she's gonna kill you, Trish, calm down.... I tell myself. She's not still her. She's different. A whole new aspect. I need to get out of here. Though, it's my house. She needs to get out of here. I stand up and point my hand at the door. I don't want to look at her in case she gives me a 'don't do this' look. I can tell she's looking at me. I just need some time. She just sits there, not moving but instead questioning my abruptness with her big blue eyes. She finally stands up and instead of walking out, she plopps herself onto my bed again.

"I'm not leaving until you have a normal conversation with me." She said coldly.
Where does she get the right to be cold toward me?
"Sit." She says, pointing her finger at the bed like I was a dog. I sit anyways. Maybe I'm overreacting.
"Instead of thinking all the things you want to ask me, how about you actually ask me." She said calmly staring me straight in the face. I look back up at her and like instinct, I ask so many questions in my mind I lose track of the request she has made. Where has she hidden the body? How did she kill it? Animal or man? Man or woman? Where? When? Did she tell anyone else? What was her motive? Is she scared? Does she have a plan? WHY IS SHE SO CALM?!?! My mind screams at me and I blurt out one question I am having the most trouble answering.
"Who." I say. Not a question. Just who. I have no energy to use a questioning tone. I just want to know.
"You don't know who it is." She said so coldly it sent shivers down my spine.
Who are you Emily Thomas? I suspect my eyes have narrowed to a glare because she changes her mood and scoots closer to me.
"Don't freak out Trish, I'm not a psycho, I needed to do it!" She was starting to cry again. She's not calm and her motive was because she needed to? This doesn't satisfy my question.
"Why did you need to, Emily?" I questioned.
"He was going to kill me! Well, eventually at least..." She answered.
He. That was another answer. Her motive was fear. Fear that this "Man" was going to kill her? Next question I thought in curiosity.
"How old was he? Was he a man or our age?" I asked.
"I don't know..." She admitted. My eyes widened and she could tell I was about to yell.
"Well maybe he was about twenty. Eighteen?" Her voice trailed off, trying to figure out how old he must have been.
"So you didn't know him either?!" I shouted in discust.
"Well he knew me pretty well!" She yelled back.
I just sat there. Not knowing what to say but wondering how this guy knew her.

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