Elliot Monologue

Yasmine Matta Annie Aubé-Rodriguez EAC4U-AA March 20th, 2024 Shattered As blood that is not my own soaks my skin, I hear the unforgettable sound of the person in front of me’s death filling the room. While a bullet's entry point permeates her frontal lobe, pieces of her skull fall to the ground and at my feet, mixing in with the rocks and cement beneath me, forcefully knocking me out of my trance and reminding me of the horrible sight in front of me. A sight so vile and gruesome that it would send me into pure isolation, alone with my thoughts involuntarily memorizing the way her blood pooled out of her limp body, how the color in her eyes drained as they were replaced with the shine of the moonlight above, and how I will never earn that part

‘‘Time of death is around 9:00 to 11:30 pm,’’ he explains as he pompously strode back and forth. The anxiety within me could not contain it, making me close my eyes while focusing on my breathing as Elliot showed photographs of the victim's injuries. Hearing my tonsils pulsating out of the side of my throat, I felt my body no longer being able to support itself, ultimately making me feel like I was disintegrating into the air itself. Keeping my mouth slanted open, my eyes drooping without blinking. I couldn’t seem to puzzle the uncanny feeling, one that I recall far too well, ‘‘This is the woman that died. I watched her give up the ghost within her.’’ I think to myself in pure discontent while my heart begins to sting. My eyes shifted to the pencil constricted in my hand, and before I could even acknowledge my existence, color was draining from my face, and red possessed my eyes. At the same time, he continued to show pictures of the dead woman. The familiar feeling of heaviness still lingers within my soul, ‘‘The victim’s death was beautifully crafted and purely reckless. The murderer, previously having no affiliation with the victim, is speculated to have followed the victim for weeks, admiring her, and she had no idea’’ Elliot speaks fascinatingly, shifting my previous anxiety and worry to pure anger with indignation filling my veins, awarding me with adrenaline and fire coating every inch

I am a shaman. Not one soul acknowledged my existence, and they continued tapping away at their computers. Anxiety unremembered, I look around in hysteria, begging anyone to acknowledge me, ‘‘Does anyone hear me?’’ Words spew out of my mouth like lava, my wrath and fury only rising as I feel faint. My legs falter, my eyes become heavy, and my heart pounds vigorously. The familiar feeling of betrayal washes over me. Black steadily takes over my vision while slowly spacing out as my breath unhurried from the sudden relaxation, ‘‘I’m gonna pass out’’ are the last words I remember as I wake, nausea and a heavy heart evident. I ease into wakefulness as the memories from confronting my killer slip away, as well as my sanity, ‘‘What is even happening to me? I was just at a conference?’’ I think in complete defeat and confusion. as I stood up, immediately being met with a mirror in front of me, showing the woman I saw get murdered, injuries still present, eyes still dead, colorless face still patent. Memories rush through my mind for a split second, reminding me that I am the woman who died in the alley all those years ago. I have been stalking and hating Elliot Dupont for what he did to me. I am stuck on earth, left with unresolved resentment filling my body, and I will never be the same again. As the mirror reflects the face of my demise, trapped in a cycle of vengeance and despair, I lightly touch my headshot wound. I feel a cluster of betrayal bolt through the frame of my