Tuesday, April 24, 2012

From the memoirs of Kyle Reeves

Hey, I know I've been abandoning this blog lately.
That's cause I'm trying to focus on a short story for a contest, that I'm writing.
And so, I had a cool idea. When I just tonight booted up my old computer, I found my last year's commission.
It's not good, but hey, it's something, right?
So here it goes:


xxx


I got out of my bed, intending to find out the cause of the eery noises that woke me up.  As I walked into the parlour, I was mesmerized by the reflection of shattered pieces of glass in the bright moonlight. The window glass was broken and a stone big as a fist was lying the middle of the room. I ran to the window, hoping I would see the perpetrator, yet the only thing that was revealed to me by the flickery light of the street lamp was a beautiful woman body on the pavement beneath my window.  Little brooks of crimson blood were running down her white dress and her smile was twisted into a grotesque grimace. I have recognized her in an instant.
Terrible fear seized me and I felt hot sweat on my back.  My mind was clouded by anger and rage. I took the stone and smashed the cupboard. I stepped on a sharp piece of glass and cut my foot, however I did not feel any pain at all.  I was breathing fast and steam was coming out of my mouth. The blood was slowly dripping out of my foot, but I had even more pressing concern at the time. That beauteous damsel was my Zoe.
I am certain that those, who will read these memoirs of mine, know all details of this unfortunate event. Therefore I will not describe these notorious facts profoundly. I tumbled down the stairs and quailed beside her body. I began screaming, partly for help and partly just because of the misery I felt.
As you presumably know, Zoe was the daughter of Jack – the local chief of police. Thereby I was not surprised by his early arrival. He was shocked and dismayed when he saw that dreadful spectacle.
 I remember only one more thing from that fateful night: The hate in Jack’s eyes as he looked to me.
From his point of view the course of events was straightforward. My feelings for Zoe were well-known to him and my lovelorn was a perfect motive. But I l loved her even after the break up. I would never hurt her.
I was nothing but a perfect scapegoat. I have always been a troublemaker, had problems with alcohol, was kicked out of university. Everyone in town now thinks I’m a madman, an infatuate. The only thing I can do now is to wait for the rope to tie around my neck.
The only person that was not completely against me was the priest. I was never a believer and I have sinned, but he was not like the others. I could open to him and he would not reject me. So now, since that terrible event, I spend all of my days with him. I finally got the psychology magazine to publish one of my articles, so I have some money left. I do not think I am going to work anymore ever. The trial is tomorrow and I do not even have a lawyer. But I try to be calm. I listen to the priest’s peaceful, solemn voice and at this time, his words seem to be only thing that is solid in my life. He is wise and he says: “Our deeds have traveled far. What we have been is what we are.” And I feel bleak, but I am not scared: I accept what must come.
At such times a question comes to mind: Shouldn’t I have lived my life differently? This would not happen to a better person, I keep telling myself. People cannot see inside me, they know me from the stories. And that is not who I am.  And I will pay the highest price for this fatality.
I am now sitting in my window, staring down at the pavement. It looks like nothing ever happened there. The whisky tastes even sourer than ever before and these are the last lines of my writings:
I could not bear the shame of being convicted of killing my dear and I fear of the public execution. The life taught me, that everything that matters is a story we leave behind. The stories keep us alive, when there is nothing else left. That is why I have to do, what I am going to do. I hope this reminiscence of mine will bring attention to the death of my dearest Zoe, and that her killer will be brought to justice. Tomorrow, people will find me in the same place as I found her, on that fateful night.
I will never know, who killed poor Zoe, and why. That troubles me most. I ask you, my reader, find that miscreant and cleanse my name.


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