I was one of the last people to see him alive. It was than that I learned, Death can mark a person maybe even more than living can. It is the big question mark at the end of the sentence of our lives. But sometimes, sometimes I find myself wondering, why does the sentence exist at all?
Maybe it’s not scientifically proven, but I’ve found that you can learn the outline of person just by hearing their name. Their name will not reveal the deep down, honest to goodness scary stuff, but maybe the type of music they listen to or the name of their first pet can be revealed by the marker that their parents so generously bestowed upon them. My name is Winnie Lane Stevens. It’s short and sweet and pretty much forgettable. My name was not the only thing I inherited from my ever generous parents however, I did receive my mother’s dishwater blonde hair and short stature as well as my father’s penchant for running away.
I do not like trouble, or maybe I do. Maybe I just like giving up more than I like that spike of epinephrine that reminds you your heart is still beating. Maybe I am a little melodramatic. Or maybe I am just a liar.
Michael Raymond Culver. Friendly enough man while he was alive. He owned Frannie’s, the only grocery store within a three mile radius of the wonderfully tiny town of West Riverbank. And just two days ago he died of what was pronounced to be a stroke. But no one saw what I saw.
Police are human. I understand that and so does Mrs. Culver. If I were to paint a picture of the ideal grieving widow, she would be it. Long dark hair pulled tightly back into a bun, a modest black dress and glasses that hid slightly red eyes. It was a look that echoed a schoolboy’s teacher fantasy. So I got it, but I was not happy.
Let us go back to my name for a moment, selfish I know, but I do have a point. Winnie Lane Stevens. If someone were to create a profile of me, I know exactly what would be written, I am a lot of things, but I would never call myself delusional. No, the profile would start with a brief overview of my pyshical description. I am 17, about 5 foot 4 and 125 pounds, short and skinny with the physique of a twelve year old boy. That dishwater blonde hair I so generously inherited from my mother is cut to my shoulder with straight across bangs that cover flat grey eyes. After my arresting physical description, the profiler would most likely move onto some of my academic traits. I am a senior at West Riverbank High school with relatively decent grades and enough academic achievements to make most mothers proud but not enough to truly be commendable. The profiler would realize at this point that I am a completely average human. Maybe.
No my psychological aspects would never allow me to qualify as normal. Or maybe that is normal. At this point my profiler would be having an existential crisis. You see I am a pathological liar. I lie to others, I lie to myself, I lie to God. But sometimes I tell the truth. Now do you see the issue?