True
Colours
By
Maria
Caesar
The
focus of the news had varied little over the previous months. Each day bore
another gruesome article on a spate of violent break-ins. The only alteration
being a new victim’s name added to an increasingly long list.
As
chances of encountering the home-owner were always high, the increasingly
brazen burglar targeted the properties owned by people who were either single
or alone at the time of each incident.
Then
recent articles reported newly-found evidence linking the burglaries to a
number of unsolved murders. At first the killings had been considered random,
but as time progressed, police assumed that the repetitive robber had mutated
into a serial killer.
My own
neighbourhood bordered the radius of the intruder’s playing field. And as a
single female living alone, the chances of me being selected as the thief’s
next target rose tenfold. I shrugged aside my friends’ concerns stating
defiantly, “I can take care of myself.”
In
fact, I wanted the burglar to trespass onto my territory. The culprit needed to
be taught a lesson, and I was willing and able to teach it to him.
As
time passed I continued to monitor the news reports; my eyes peeled for
developments. There was a three-week gap before the next burglary, with yet
another link to a murder, occurred.
I knew
the victim well. He was considered by many to be a highly respected member of
the community but I begged to differ. Nonetheless, his death generated public
concern and investigations to track down the burglar increased tenfold.
Ensuing
police reports claimed they were “hot on the trail”. A sketch of the killer’s
chosen weapon, based upon casts taken from the victims’ fatal wounds, was
emblazoned upon the front page.
The
accuracy of forensic science was amazing. I peered at the drawing of the knife:
a sixteen centimetre blade, smooth along the base from the hilt to the pointed
tip and a decorative saw-back along the top.
The
police were close, but not near enough to prevent the intruder’s next and final
attack during which I got my wish and the burglar was finally taught his
lesson.
After
the ‘assault’ the media went into frenzy. The burglar was dead but no one
expected that his family would try to charge the robber’s last intended prey
with his murder.
I
didn’t appreciate being classified as ‘a victim’, but for the purpose of the
trial I made an exception. After all, the result of my court case was hinged on
the jury’s opinion.
The courtroom was packed. Outside closed doors
a crowd of eager reporters waited. As
the intruder’s family accused me of homicide I studied their crumpled up faces
and watched every tear that fell.
I
wasn’t angry with them but in their eyes I was the monster. It didn’t matter
that their son was over a foot taller than me, or that he had trespassed into
my home. Yet again I was grateful for my short stature and somewhat delicate
physique.
The
family’s vain attempts at seeking some sort of compensation were treated with
disdain by the general public. The trial was merely a formality; a battle
between lawyers and a one-sided affair at that.
There
was no doubt amongst everyone else present that I had acted in self-defence. To
bolster my already unbeatable case, my lawyer presented the evidence and a
stack of police file reports on the intruder, detailing a history of increasing
violence and a record a mile long.
Throughout
the trial I fiddled with the bandages on my arms. My limbs were coated with
‘defensive’ wounds. The state of my body suggested that the battle between the
burglar and I had lasted for hours, but instead the struggle had been
surprisingly brief. It ended with a single fatal wound straight through my
opponent’s heart. “Killed with his own weapon”, was what the police had
decreed.
By the
time paramedics arrived on the scene he had bled out onto my floor, leaving a
massive circular stain in the beige coloured carpet. As soon as the trial was
over it would need to be replaced.
I
waited patiently for the final decision to be made. Beyond the courtroom walls
the media discussed the potential floodgates that would be opened as a result
of my case.
Did my
actions on that fatal night inadvertently change the way the law would view
future innocent victims defending themselves, their homes, or their families
from invasion? I could only hope.
The crowd openly cheered when
the jury made their announcement. Meanwhile my lawyer nodded at me and smiled.
I watched as the evidence was packed away. The knife had been cleaned though no
disinfectant in existence would be capable of removing the long history of
blood upon its plain metal surface.
I observed as an officer
carefully placed the weapon into a cardboard box and as I watched I thought to
myself, “Damn, I’m going to miss my saw-back knife!”
