Dormouse [2]

Author's Notes / Warnings (README):

DORMOUSE

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She’s sixteen years old when she scores her first kill.

In her defence, she’s only a few months short of seventeen. Not that it matters now.

As of right now, she’s pacing around in her living room, trampling a hole into the carpet. “He deserved it,” she says to her teddy bear, the only one who listens to her these days. “It was his own fault. He’s the one who attacked me.”

Bear, of course, doesn’t answer. She doesn’t expect him to.

“They won’t get me,” she reassures him. “I have the worst possible alibi, but other than that, I’m the most unlikely suspect around. I can’t run ten metres without collapsing, how was I supposed to murder someone? Actually, how did I do that even?”

Silence.

“And I removed any evidence I could. So they can’t trace it back to me. Do you think I should’ve called the police? Told them that he attacked me and that I accidentally killed him in self-defence?”

No answer.

“Yes, yes, I know. Wouldn’t have been believable.”

She collapses into the armchair and groans loudly. There is no way she is going to find her way out of this. They’re going to track her down and then she’s got no excuse for hiding it all. Fuck. Oh so much fuck. And what’s her mother going to say when she’s arrested for homicide? Actually, she can imagine it quite well. But you’re a genius! You’ve wasted it! After all we’ve done for you, you just throw it away! All your chances you’re throwing away! And lots of crying, of course. And maybe biting, because it’s quite clear where she has inherited her strangeness.

Yeah. No help from there, apparently.

“I guess I’m a criminal now,” she says to Bear. “I mean, I was a little bit before, but now I’m an actual criminal. Murderer and all.”

She finds it actually quite concerning that she’s taking it rather easily. She figures she should be panicking around, but instead she’s just worried about whether or not she cleaned all the evidence.

And she remembers the feeling when she was standing over the dead body. Not the feeling of fear or shock what would have been normal, but... pride. She had been fucking proud. It had lasted only a few moments before she realised she ought to get the hell out of there.

“I’m a killer,” she says weakly. “And I don’t even mind.”

It’s a disturbing thought. But she has to admit to herself that it’s also a rather nice thought.

Miski pole minu süü. Mina ainult julgustan.
Nii et sina uuendad ja mina torgin takka, diil? Okei.

Mina uuendan ja sina torgid, mulle sobib. Aga ma torgin sind siis vastu ka.
*kaalub kas panna uus osa üles täna või homme*

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The police, as she finds out, are rather... inept. She should be relieved, but instead it makes her frown. She’s a newbie – she probably left behind a ton of evidence! How can these guys be so damn blind?

Stupid detectives.

It’s also quite amusing how confused they are. She is the best suspect they have, with her shoddy alibi (home alone on a Saturday night, really) and psychological diagnosis, but she’s also the worst suspect they have. How does a sixteen-year-old girl with no physical strength manage to kill a twentysomething man twice her size? And motive? What motive? There’s nothing.

She has to give them points for questioning her at all, considering that she actually had quite recently met the guy and he apparently hadn’t boasted about his “new girlfriend” too much (yet). She withdraws many, many points for them thinking that when a teenage girl is left alone on a weekend, she would never willingly sit home and read books instead of going out with her friends. Talk about stereotypes, really.

So when they talk to her mother and she confirms that her little girl doesn’t anyway go out, sometimes she doesn’t even leave the flat for weeks, silly girl needs some friends, it just makes it all funnier.

Two months pass, and the case is growing colder. She knows they won’t officially close it anytime soon, but she’s good. She has somehow escaped.

Actually, she’s far more concerned about school that is trampling towards her at full speed. She doesn’t like it. She can’t stand sitting down from eight in the morning to two or three or sometimes even four in the evening and study, study, study. She wants to learn about quantum physics and astrology and space and the science of deduction and how to build robots, not to memorize the lives and deaths of British royalty and what’s the difference between a frog and a toad. She wants to read half the library and draw charts and sit up all night with a telescope and pretend to be alien and grow her own TARDIS, not stick one fact after another in her head and repeat them dutifully to get her 100% in every test.

She finds the whole education system utterly fucked up.

But she goes anyway, because the last time she tried to just avoid it, she ended up failing a year and turning into the family’s black sheep. She was expected to go to university and become famous, not to fail classes because they were so utterly boring. So yes, she goes.


The first of September is… not what she expected. It’s a cold, windy Saturday in a park nearby her new school, she doesn’t know anybody (nor does she want to), the teachers look worn out and sleepy, and eventually it starts to rain. It’s not what she expected – she feared a catastrophe, but this is perfect.

She doesn’t want to tell people her name, so when they ask she jokingly says it’s Dormouse. They laugh and actually take to calling her Dormouse. It’s not too far from the truth anyway, for she sleeps like a sloth. She does wonder though, would they still call her Dormouse, this sweet little animal, if they ever find out what she’s done?

(Then again, Dormouse is a pretty damn good villain name, at least in her head.)

This thing is auhsum. Please continue soon.

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