7:36
By J. L. Young
I awoke to my roommate’s alarm. Having no classes today, I put my pillow over my ears in the hope that I may continue to sleep. Alas, it pulled me from my bed. I checked her bed. She wasn’t there. I tapped her phone to end the incessant, savage, aural onslaught and climbed back into my bed.

After a brief pause, I rolled my eyes, climbed from the warm mattress, and stuffed my feet into a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. The hallway was empty. This was a bit unusual, given most of the women living in this dorm had classes today.

My investigation continued in the shower. It was empty. The floor is dry. ‘What was going on?’ I thought. A friend’s room was down the hall. I knocked on the bland blonde wood door. After a moment, I knocked again. I tried another. Alas, it seemed I was the only one in the world.

The elevator didn’t work. I took the stairs to the common area on the first floor. During the morning, it was usually bustling with students having breakfast and conversing about various topics. I took a cursory glance at the clock built into one of the ornate pillars. It read ‘7:36.’ Sunlight was bright, beaming through the glass on the east doors. It was indeed morning.

I went to the coffee station, poured myself a cup, sat sipping it, and waited for any sign of the others. I believe an hour passed, so I stood up and looked at the clock. ‘7:36’ “Peculiar,” I uttered under my breath. A thought came to mind, ‘Maybe someone is playing a prank on me.’

“Yeah, it has to be a prank,” I chuckled. “Good one, you got me,” I called out. Suddenly, I felt ridiculous talking to myself.

I tried the elevator again. And again, it didn’t work. Thoughtlessly, I pushed the button over and over. Nothing. Exasperated, I climbed the stairs to my floor and returned to my room. With my eyes closed, I sighed, “What the hell is going on?”

My eyes opened. Blood dripped and pooled beside my bed. I looked up from it to see the sheets my parents got me soaked through. Tentatively, I pulled back the sheet. A woman, eyes barely open, staring. A deep slit across the throat. It was hard to tell who she was from the blood covering her face.
I stumbled back from the fright and fell against my roommate’s desk. Usually, the slightest bump would send her lamp crashing to the floor. I climbed to my feet and looked again at the woman on my bed. That’s when the door opened.

Two people in suits stepped in. Each with blue gloves over their hands. In my shock, I couldn’t speak. One pulled back the sheet as the other took notes. “The deceased’s name is Sutton Ross.”
I snapped to my feet. “That’s not me! I’m right here!

The suited man continued, “Looks like a knife to the throat, cutting through the trachea and into the esophagus. Someone really wanted her dead.”

The other person replied, “Yeah, they made up for their lack of anatomical knowledge by nearly decapitating her. CSI said the time of death was 7:36 a.m. Almost three hours ago.”

“We need to question the roommate.”

The other agreed with a nod.