I was the first one home, mum and dad having gone out shopping for the day. I screamed. What else could I do? The iron, the blood, my brother. I stepped backwards, pressing my back against the wall, terrified that the murderer was still in the house. It did not occur to me that it could be Hannah.
Grabbing my phone, I dashed out of the house and ran which ever way I was facing, my heart beating so loud that it drowned everything else out. I called Hannah.
"Hannah, Leon's dead!" I gasped between breaths. All I could hear was a deranged giggle, so I repeated myself thinking she had not heard me. She hung up on me.
Then I called the police and told them what was going on. Three police cars and an ambulance blared down the street, calling neighbours too nosy for their own good out of their houses, clutching cups of tea and thick jumpers. One car came for me and took me back to the police station. Silence was not usually a part of my life, but I was completely still for the whole ride. Every time I closed my eyes to blink, the image of my dead brother burned into my memory. The iron, the blood, my brother.
A police woman shoved a blanket round my shoulders and guided me inside. Did she think she was being kind giving me warmth? I did not want that blanket. I wanted to be cold, to feel pain. To be thrown into an ice bath would have been a welcome release, physical pain was much easier to deal with than emotional pain.
Two men came with small square notebooks and pens. I did not hear their voices, i did not see their lips moving, I only saw what could not escape my mind.
The iron, the blood, my brother.