Kool-Aid
     It always fascinated me, how murdering someone might affect someone’s mental stability, especially on a Monday.  This morbid thought crossed my mind and lingered there as I waited for my taxi.  The sounds of an airport just waking up to rush hour droned on behind me as a mustard-colored cab pulled up to the curb.  Out of habit, I started bringing my luggage around the back, but the trunk wasn’t popped.  Before I could ask why, the driver rushed to my aid and clumsily grabbed my two suitcases.  I took one look at her and could immediately sense just how nervous she was.  I noticed some red Kool-Aid stains on her white blouse, probably a result from being too frazzled.  In the dimly lit terminal, they resembled bloodstains.
     Instead of throwing my belongings in the trunk, she placed them on the backseat with a little more force than I appreciated.  I didn’t bother making a comment though; since the recent murder of my parents, I seldom found anything important anymore.
     “Where to?” she inquired.
     There was an edge in her voice, as if she were about to go off the edge herself, though what caused her anxiety I could not pinpoint.  It certainly wasn’t me.  In my tattered jeans and faded Arctic Monkeys t-shirt, I hardly offered anyone a reason to be nervous.  As I swung open the passenger door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window’s reflection; I looked as worn-out as my jeans, and the dark circles under my eyes had no place on my youthful 18 year-old face, but there they were as proof of my sleep deprivation.
     I gave her my aunt’s address to which her eyebrows raised in interest, eyes widening with surprise – or was it fear?  I didn’t give her reaction much thought, as my aunt’s reputation preceded her as a millionaire who withdrew from the bustling city life into the secluded, tranquil forest.  There, in her ridiculously large mansion, was where I was to spend my remaining childhood, or what is left of it.  Jane – as that’s what was printed on her nametag – even blanched a little at the address given.
     “That place is lovely, so I’ve heard,” she started.  “Although I’ve never been there myself,” her voice shaking quite noticeably.  “Never ever!” she uttered with a nervous laugh.  Maybe she was a new driver, and this was her way of letting me know that the drive could turn out to be a long one with a high probability of getting lost once or twice.
     Despite her earlier statements, Jane seemed to know exactly where she was going, though she had a tendency to furtively glance in her rearview mirror for no reason that I could see was plausible.  The road was one-laned each side, littered with dips and bumps, and seemed completely abandoned, save for the family of deer that crossed earlier in front of us.  After every bump we drove over, something would thud from the trunk, followed with a wince from Jane.  I decided that if a corpse should ever make a sound when in a trunk of a car on a rough road, it’d be the dull thud Jane’s trunk kept producing.  Maybe that’s why Jane was so jumpy; she had murdered someone and now the victim was in the trunk.
     This in itself was an outrageous notion.  Jane could never commit the crime, being nervous as she was.  She was too small and too fragile to harm anyone.  I immediately effaced this idea from my head, blaming my situation for my apparent obsession with murder for my morbid train of thoughts.
     When we finally pulled up to my aunt’s mansion, the first thing I noticed was how the front doors were slightly ajar; maybe my aunt really was excited in being my guardian that she was waiting to greet me.  Immediately I stopped myself and short down that thought.  If that was so, she would have been at the airport to get me, not nervous Jane.
     The trees surrounding the property gave way to an unnecessarily large front lawn, but other than that, we were truly secluded.  I could understand why my aunt was seen as a recluse by city folk.  With just trees in every direction I cast my gaze, it was easy for me to deduce that if someone were in danger here, no one would know.  Help was miles away, and the gentle breeze blowing through was too weak to carry a scream to someone’s ears.
     By the time I pulled my wallet out to pay, Jane had set my luggage out near the doors.  Beads of sweat were running down her face, and I knew it couldn’t be the weather; it was too chilly for that.  Maybe my luggage was too much for her feeble arms.
     “No payment needed,” she said.  “It’s on me.”
     Before, her voice was heavy with anxiety, but now it was something else, something close to pity.  Was I such a sad thing to look at?
     As she climbed back into the sorry-looking cab, she glanced at me one last time; since I had seen guilt on my parents’ murder’s face as the jury handed out the verdict, it was easy to see on Jane’s face, though why she seemed so guilty I’ll never know.
     “I’m sorry,” she told me as she drove away, her voice quavering with remorse, leaving me alone in the middle of nowhere wondering why she apologized.  Whatever was in her trunk faintly thudded again as I turned towards the mansion with my few belongings in tow.
     “Hello?” I shouted as loudly as I dared into the open doors.
     No answer.  It was deathly silent.  As I contemplated whether or not to enter, I noticed how messy the house was from the outside looking in.  Furniture out of place, coupled with some household décor on the floor, it seemed as if my aunt had just been wrestling with someone.  She must have had a glass of Kool-Aid or cranberry juice when she decided to have some fun.  My dark sense of humor decided that, in the dimly lit foyer, the spilled drink resembled blood.