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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