True Colours

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!”