Jesse showed up at one of my parties. It was the middle of winter, and I was throwing a good number of parties. Jesse was blonde, with waist-length, gorgeous, wavy hair, and big blue eyes. She was quirky, and upbeat, and smiled a lot. Her personality was dynamic. She always had a clever comeback. She had dimples, and cute clothing, and more energy than the rest of us combined. And she never drank or did drugs… so I couldn’t figure out what she wanted to do with a bunch of laid back musicians like us.
One night, there were whispers that Jesse was a murderess. I believed it right away, but most people didn’t. There was something off about her; something cold in her eyes. Everyone else was in shock. It couldn’t be true. Etc. Just when I was about to find a way to get rid of her, the cops showed up. She was playing her guitar in the corner of the room, singing in her high pitched, sweet voice. They announced that she was being arrested for murder. She smiled, and laughed, and said the cops had come too late. We all gasped because we weren’t sure if all of us were there, alive. She was charming and sweet, and the cops did not cuff her, but talked with her for a minute, indulging in her clever comments and sweet bouncy voice. Suddenly, in a swift movement, she tossed the guitar, pulled what looked like silver metal bracelets from her socks, and cuffed both cops at once- one with each hand. She grabbed one of their guns, and then tied the other two handcuffs together and shot one of the cops. The other was cuffed to him.
Everyone ran. The room was chaotic. Most people left the party, but somehow a few people ended up in a room with her- Liza, and three others. It was a big house, with attic rooms- and this was sort of like that- slanted ceilings, closets. We closed the door. There were six of us. “We have to stick together,” someone said.
Jesse was sitting on one side of the bed, with her guitar, singing tunes about murders, body parts, fingers she cut off, the looks on her victims faces. “If I stop killing, I have nothing to write songs about,” she explained between songs. “I do it for the music.” She had conversations with us. None of us were armed, and she had a gun in her back, under her shirt (I saw her put the cop’s gun there) and who knew what else. I had a bad feeling about it and I thought we should try to run out.. but it seemed that a drastic move like that might startle her. We were lined up on one end of the bed, watching her play. I wondered whether everyone was staying out of fear, or staying because her music was so mesmerizing. After a few minutes, I forgot my urgency to leave, and watched her. Just when I felt myself relaxing into enchantment, I tensed. She was a murderess and this was her trap. I would not be trapped. I looked around at my friends, and every one of them was watching her with a stupefied look, forgetting everything outside her passionate songs.
She then stopped playing and set the guitar aside, and had conversations with us. “What are you into? Oh, thats interesting.. I used to collect those.” Etc. Then Liza said she was into photography, and she loved the feeling she got when she committed to a frame and pressed the button. Jesse smiled. “You could do that with any finger. People always limit themselves to the forefinger.” She reached across the table and sliced Liza’s right forefinger off with a pocket knife.
Liza yelled “Owwww!” and was obviously in a lot of pain, but she didn’t make too much of a scene. She kept her cool.
I stood up. “I’m not losing any of my fingers,” I said. “I’d rather die.” I darted towards the door. “Follow me or sit there and let her cut you up,” I called. I ran down the hall, and as I ran, I heard footsteps behind me. They had followed. Even Liza. I heard her voice.
We reached outside, and it was snowy. I searched for a runway to fly away and figured I would fly somewhere and get help, but the ground was snowy and there was no runway. Every time I tried to run, I slipped. Meanwhile this murderess was still inside my house. I could not leave her there. People kept showing up and going into the house from the back, and I tried to stop everyone, but it was a constant flow of guests. We had to find a way to stop Jesse.
Someone found a phone or something, I guess, because the cops came again. This time we all gathered in another large room. Jesse was playing guitar again. A male cop sat across the room from her, on the floor, staring at her. “I’m glad I got this case,” he said, doe-eyed. “I have always wanted to arrest you. I’m in love with you.”
Jesse beamed. “Let me play you a song.”
“This is your last song before I arrest you,” the cop said, weakly.
She played one of her lighter songs, which had some lyrics about murder, and others about life and death. The cop watched her, mesmerized. As she sang, a girl from the party who I didn’t recognize crept up behind her with a gun. She pointed the gun at Jesse’s back. Her hand shook. She was frightened, but determined to end this saga, and like the rest of us, she knew the cop would not be successful at stopping Jesse. But she didn’t have the gall to push the trigger. Her gun looked plastic; it had plastic coating and green inside. But I knew it was real. It was meant to look like a fake gun so people would think its carriers were bluffing. That was why Jesse was not concerned.
As soon as Jesse finished her song, without a breath, she grabbed the gun from under her shirt in the back, and shot the cop. He fell forward, smiling a little because he had died at the hands of the woman he loved. But that was the last person Jesse ever killed. The girl behind her shot her in the back, and then shot her a bunch more times, shooting until the entire load of ammunition was buried in Jesse’s back. Jesse fell over and died, and the girl cried. The rest of us comforted her and finally breathed, allowed our stiff muscles to thaw out, and tried to decide how to continue the party. Without Jesse, it wouldn’t be the same.