Grafitti Wall

Graffiti Wall

Grace rummaged through the glove compartment frantically searching for a napkin or tissue—something to clean her hands. As she attempted to clean her hands, the fibers from the tissue she had found were sticking to the blood on her hands. The blood had begun to dry. How long had the blood been on her hands, she wondered. She needed to wash her hands. It was so cold outside. She remembered her gloves in her purse.

“I’ll just slip on my gloves and go through the side door,” she thought. She knew her parents would be in the living room watching television, so she could not go through the front door. She could not let them see her like this. They would not understand. Her parents would ask so many questions that Grace could not answer. Grace did not understand herself what had just happened.

Grace could not get the horrible image from her mind--Mr. Gershwin lying on the floor in a pool of blood in front of his desk. Mark Gershwin was the principal of Hibriten High School in a small town in North Carolina where Grace and her twin sister, Hillary were seniors. Hillary had a greater connection to Gershwin than the fact that he was her principal. She was sleeping with him. Hillary had confided in Grace about the affair over a week ago and now the principal was dead.

Gershwin was barely breathing when Grace found him, a gurgling sound coming from his bloody mouth. At first, she thought he was unconscious until she said his name, and he opened his eyes.

“Hillary” he whispered. Before she could tell him that she was Grace, he began coughing and gasping for breath. He seemed to be struggling to say something. His eyes were glazed, and he seemed confused. Did he know he was dying and was he trying desperately to name the person who did this to him?

“Mr. Gershwin? What happened,” Grace asked trying not to panic.

“Hillary,” he whispered again.

Desperately grabbing at her shirt collar, Gershwin pulled Grace to him.

“Not safe,” he whispered. “Not safe.” Then his body went limp.

“Who did this to you?” she asked, knowing that he would never answer. He was not breathing. His eyes were open and fixed on her face. Grace felt for a pulse but could find none. Mr. Gershwin was dead.

Grace’s mind was racing. She pulled herself up and reached for the telephone on his desk. Before she could pick the receiver up, she heard something fall in the adjacent office. It could be the person who killed Mr. Gershwin, she thought. She heard more movement. She held her breath as the doorknob began to turn. With all the strength she could find within herself, Grace picked up pushed over an overstuffed armchair against the door and locked it. She then ran from the office, through the reception area and out the door into the parking lot.

At first, Grace didn’t see her car, momentarily forgetting that she parked it on the side of the building near the gym exit. Jumping into her car, she turned the key in the ignition causing the engine to squeal. She had left her car running because she had only planned to run to her locker after volleyball practice, grab her books and leave.

Shifting the car in drive, Grace sped off across the parking lot and into the long driveway connecting the parking lot to the main highway. She sped through a red traffic light and turned right heading toward her home. Only after she realized that no one was following her did she slow down to the speed limit.

Her house was less than five miles from the school, so she was in her driveway in less than a minute. Grace turned the ignition off and only then was she able to process what had just happened. She felt something sticky on her hands and turned on the interior light to see better. She panicked as she realized that her hands were covered in blood—Mr. Gershwin’s blood. She opened her glove compartment searching for something to clean her hands. She found a wad of tissue and began to wipe the blood, but it would not come off. She was so intent on cleaning her hands that she did not see headlights in her rear mirror until the car engine was silent and the car was parked behind her.

“Oh God”, she thought, “Did the killer follow me here? Is he going to kill me here in my own driveway?

Grace slumped down in the seat trying to hide from the driver of the car hoping he would not notice that she was still in the car. If this was indeed the killer and he followed her here, then he knew that this was her car and that she was probably still in it.

She could hear the car door open behind her, then the sound of footsteps in the gravel slowly coming toward her car. She held her breath as if her life depended on it. After what seemed an eternity, someone hit the window causing her to jump.

“Grace? What are you doing sitting out here in the cold? Did you lose something? Like your mind perhaps?”

The door began to open as Grace was engulfed in darkness. She was losing consciousness.

“Grace. Are you okay? Oh my God, is that blood?”