Not really. I kind of cheated. Most of this was written last night before I went to bed. And I say read this with caution. There aren't any graphic details, but it does deal with killing. I changed it up a bit as I rewrote it in here (can't copy and paste properly lol).
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A cool New Mexican breeze wafted by me, reminding me of the lovely autumns passed. Actually, not so much. During the fall season in this state, the winds like to pound into people and try to push them across the street in front of a car. This year, the season had been tame. Or maybe it was waiting with baited breath like everyone else in this hell hole. Waiting to hear the verdict of a certain Scott Ryans; serial killer of the great village of Tijeras.
Or so the headlines read.
No one stopped to think that maybe he was innocent, which I knew he was, and they didn't really have any solid evidence against him. No fingerprints, no murder weapons, no DNA of his at the scene, no DNA of a victim on him, no tracks, no witnesses, so on and so forth. They had testimony of a large shadow at night, of lights going on in houses next door when neighbors were away on vacation and then suddenly someone disappeared.
We actually moved to this state to get away from all of this, believe it or not. It was three years ago we'd decided that where we lived, Colorado, just got too cold and snowy for us and we figured if we lived in the mountains of New Mexico, this little village of Tijeras, we could get away from the big city bustle. It's not like Albuquerque is a big city or anything to anyone that hails from a different state.
So we packed up and moved from our apartment into a small rental home. It was actually more expensive, but with Scott being a doctor, we didn't see much concern. We just didn't feel like up and buying a house and dealing with all of that on top of everything else. Sure, rental homes don't really pay off in the end. It's never your home and you pay monthly anyway, but it was what we wanted. So we got it.
It's a nice little home off of New Mexico Highway 337, or more commonly known in this area as South-14. Thirty minutes from the freeway, a church, a Wells Fargo, and a Subway; five minutes from a few local grocery stores and national forests. It's a large acred yard, or so we think without a fence and the landlord refuses to put one up. I guess people in this area are just relaxed about that. Most of our neighbors are far away anyway, it's kind of creepy if you think about it.
Nothing but a long dirt driveway with too many potholes to count and large wooded area just slowly moving in to suffocate the house. But we like it. It's got a porch just long enough to put up some chairs and one of those plastic picnic table type things. Two bedrooms, one of which we made a study, a living room with a split dining room and kitchen on the other side of a wall. A bathroom in the master bedroom, a large walk in closet and another bathroom on the other side of the house.
Nothing fancy. Cheap.
There are a few more developed neighborhoods nearby, which is where the disappearances happened. It started with one girl, as they always do. She went missing, no one ever found her. A week later, a shoe was mailed in a box to the police with a letter, and it said, typed nicely on the computer, that the criminal wanted to play a game. They would give them two weeks to figure out each disappearance, and if they didn't solve it withint those two weeks, they'd take another person.
They didn't solve that one and an older man went missing, around his late thirties. His car was parked on the side of the road, a red Chevy Corvette, one of the classics. There was no sign of foul play, nothing to give the cops a clue. After a week, all of his teeth were mailed into the police with a note reminding them that they only had seven days to figure out this one.
The next victim was a highschool outcast with a suicide note. It wasn't until seven days after his disappearance that they realized it was a murder. Actually, they didn't even realize it. They got another letter with the boy's hair in it.
The pattern continued on for two years. I think they arrested my husband out of desperation; we are the perfect suspects after all. We live in a rental home in the middle of practically nowhere, surrounded by forest. No one can realy see our comings and goings. They came three months ago to take him, then they got a warrant to search the house while I sat there, making my cloth bracelets and only half watching them. Unfortunately, they weren't kind enough to put the house back together, so I spent several days cleaning afterward.
In that time, I remembered an old song about tying yellow ribbons to an old oak tree. Many people nowadays use it for those captured in war time, but originally it was used when a loved one went to jail. Now, I don't have any yellow ribbons, but I have my bracelets. I don't know if you put one on the tree every day or every week or every month or just every year, but I've been doing it every week.
I started with a yellow and white one, and then I used a blue and yellow bracelet, using up the last of my yellow. This month, I tied up a red and black ribbon. They aren't on the pine trees around my house either. I drove to one of the national forests and hung them up on the trees with their leaves changing into a beautiful chorus of colors. The same place the bodies are buried.
I guess it's time for me to take my next victim.
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