She saw him. She saw him get killed. She saw the life drain out of his eyes. She heard his screams of pain.

She heard the footsteps of the murderer as they ran away. She felt a tingly sensation course through her. She felt a tight knot form in her chest.

She witnessed it all.

But no one believed her. Not a soul.

She knew it had happened. Her eyes couldn’t have betrayed her. She wasn't dreaming nor was she hallucinating. The rasping of the man’s final breaths and the crimson blood were all too vivid for it to be a figment of her imagination. She was there. She was watching. She was witnessing.

She had approached the body, hands trembling. The man lay in a pool of his own blood beneath her feet, his body peppered with bullet wounds. His glassy eyes were rolled back, showing only the bloodshot sclera of his eyes.

Her fingers were numb as she had dialed the police. Her breath was shaky, and her voice was uncertain. She told the officer on the phone what had happened.

"May I ask what your name is?" The officer had questioned.

She responded softly. A moment went by. Her eyes widened as the officer started to laugh.

"Nice try. Don't joke that much. We all know murders are implausible." The officer had drawled before ending the call.

The phone fell out of her hand and landed with a thud on the ground. What was the officer talking about? She clutched her heart with both of her hands and fell to her knees. What is going on? Her head was spinning. The ground around her started to spin as well. The lifeless body was still in front of her, her clothes and hands now soaked with blood.

No. Something was wrong. Something was missing. Why did the officer hang up so abruptly? Why was the officer so ignorant? She stood up and started to walk away from the body. She needed help. She needed to ask someone else. As she turned around she saw a young man walking by. Her feet dragged her towards him.

"Please help! Please help me!" Her cries were loud, and she collapsed onto her knees. The man immediately turned his head.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyebrows cocked in annoyance.

"Please! There has been a murder. Someone has been killed! I saw it all!" She begged, her voice desperate and cracking.

The man's eyes lingered over her for a moment. He scoffed. "This isn't funny. Joking about death is despicable." He shook his head as he walked away.

“Please!” she called out weakly, grasping for the man’s hand. But it was out of reach, and her hand fell to her side.

Tears streamed down her face. They tasted like salt and regret. Stop. Stop it. Stop crying. She kept scolding herself as she slowly stood up. Stop being weak. Make them believe you. They must believe you. She hurried back to the scene of the crime. The knot in her chest tightened even harder each time she saw those lifeless eyes. It was as if they were chiding her, tormenting her. She grabbed her phone from the ground, making sure it was still functional.

She wanted to call the police. She should call the police. But what if she got in trouble. What if they didn’t believe her again. She shut her eyes as pain filled her body. Her words had failed her once again. Her mouth refused to open. Refused to fight back. How weak she was.

She crumbled to the floor in tears. After all, that was what she was best at. Crying. All she could do was cry. She couldn't even stand up for herself. Couldn't even prove something. And she hated herself for being so useless.

Her mind was swirling with thoughts. She couldn't swallow nor could she speak, her throat was dry and hoarse. She still knew she wasn't dreaming. This is real. She is real. It had to be real. But why didn't anyone believe her? Why was she never given a chance? Her breathing started to slow down. Her tears lessened.

What if it is a dream? But in my dreams, who am I? Where am I? Her reality felt distorted and warped, nothing seemed real yet nothing seemed fake. She reached up, trying to grasp something, trying to find something tangible to provide her some certainty.

Maybe she was nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe she was as thin as air. No, thinner than air. As unreachable as the heavens, as unbelievable as the gaping chasm of hell. No. No, she had to stop. No, she knew this was real. She couldn't push the truth away. She still had to face the truth, truth is something no one can evade.

What was wrong with these people? Were they just merely stupid? Or oblivious? Or did they just not care? Why did they not believe her? What had she done to make them so against the thought of murder? She had so many questions but no answers. But there was only one way to elucidate these questions.

Slowly, she dialed the police again with trembling, frail, bloodied fingers. They picked up.

“Hello? I’d like to report a murder,” She begins once more, telling her story.

“Alright. What’s your name, miss?” The officer asks. But before she can respond, the man cuts her off with a chuckle. “Just kidding. We don’t need your name for a prank.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but the call ended. Slowly, she pushed herself up, wobbling a bit. She took a moment to stabilize herself, then inhaled sharply. Her eyes were closed and her face was pointed towards the blue, blue sky. Her eyes slowly opened after a brief pause, glimmering under warm rays of sunlight.

“My name,” she began quietly, swaying gently with the wind. “Is Elora Bathory.” She giggled, then disappeared into the shadows of an alleyway.

She twirled a gun in her hands.