Waking in darkness

He woke, scared and confused in the darkness.  Lying still, trying to figure out what woke him up, he noticed the room was darker than usual.  He waited for his eyes to adjust, but nothing happened at first. Then he forgot about his eyes as his ears tuned in to a low rumbling noise.  A chill ran up his spine as he realized the noise was under him.  Under the bed, right where he lay..

He sat there petrified as the rumbling grew louder, changed to a growl... He couldn't move even when the bedsheet started moving as something started to come out from under the bed.  He tried to scream, to call out... his father lay asleep in the next room and would surely know how to deal with this...

He strained to make some noise, but all that came out was a whisper of sound, so soft he hardly heard it himself... "Dad..."

But even if he didn't hear it, the thing did. It ceased the growling sound and for a moment, a flash between breaths, he thought things would be okay.  But then the sheet started moving again - this time towards him. He fought his frozen limbs. Struggled to get them to move.

As the thing beneath the sheet reached within arms length he wrenched his head away, and finally leapt from the bed just as the thing leapt too...

Last Chapter

This is the final story in the set. The first three can be found by clicking on the 'Fiction' link on the left.

The only thing they have in common is my mood when I wrote them...

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Last Chapter

This was the last chapter in the book. Ricky was determined to make it out alive. When they’d started out he’d been an insignificant character. But then the murders had started. And the characters had started to die, one by one. One or two in each chapter. But he’d made it. And he was determined to survive till the end. AND… he was also determined to be the guy that got the girl.

He frowned. Unless of course she turned out to be the murderess. No one else seemed to have noticed, but he’d had his eye on her right from the start and there were quite a few small indications here and there. Of course, at first his eye had been on her just because she was the most beautiful description around. Long silky hair, soulful eyes, a figure to die for… He sighed and tried not to get too engrossed in his dreams. That was the best way to get murdered around here. Be caught unawares and get a knife in your back.

He wandered out of the house. He’d just got a minor mention so far. The thought started worrying him. Maybe that was a warning. Maybe the next thing he knew he’d be found lying on the ground, dead.

He frowned. That didn’t seem right. How the hell would he know if he was dead?

He found his feet taking him towards the rose garden and brightened up immediately. SHE spent a lot of her time in the rose garden. That would be fun. He hoped the author would write the scene that followed. It was no fun being left untold. He couldn’t experience so many things because the author was trying to cater to a family audience.

If only he’d been a character in a porn book. Now that would be a rich field of experience.

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Damn. Last he’d been walking towards the rose garden and HER. And now here he was back in his room. With her lipstick all over his shirt! A huge smile broke across his face. Apparently he’d finally gotten some action; but why oh why didn’t the author write it? Atleast he’d have had a memory to last him by even if he didn't wind up with her.

He showered and dressed, the smile still on his face. He was so engrossed in his thoughts he hardly heard the Butler knocking on the door. He went and opened the door and found that he was being summoned to a meeting downstairs. He hurried downstairs eagerly. New developments. Who was the new victim?

Downstairs the blue sitting room was full. The inspector had gathered together all the characters and the private investigator was about to launch into the denouement. Ricky shivered with anticipation, apparently he'd made it to the climax. He was standing at the end of the room. Not important enough to join the main characters up in front. But he was still happy just to be there. And then, before he could really start to enjoy himself, he heard the detective say that the Girl was missing. He felt a cold finger run down his spine. He'd been on his way to meet her. He'd woken up with her lipstick all over his shirt. The shirt that was still lying unwashed in the bathroom upstairs. What if this wasn't the climax after all. What if this was an attempt to mislead the readers. What if he was arrested and had to sit out the rest of the book in a prison cell until the real killer was captured... His worry for the Girl receded into the background as he started worrying about himself.

Then an even more horrifying thought struck him. What if he was actually the murderer. What if this book didn't have any scenes from the killers point of view, and the poor chap was going merrily about his life without realising what the author was making him do 'off-stage' so to speak. Ricky broke out into a cold sweat. He mustered up the courage to look directly at the detective and found that the detective was grazing steadily at him.

Panic stricken he muttered an excuse to the footman standing next to him and edged out of the room. He found himself hurrying upstairs, for the first time feeling like the helpless pawn that he was. He muttered angrily to himself, there was no point trying to flee. Only the killer would flee. He'd take that shirt and go down and talk to that detective. He'd tell him everything he'd observed and offer to help. A smile crept over his face. Maybe he'd become a major character now. If he actually did a real good job of it he might even be promoted to sidekick to the famous detective. He'd noticed that this detective was still working alone. Well it was only the second book of the series. It was the right time for introduction of a sidekick. He rushed to the bathroom and picked up the shirt from the laundry basket. As he straightened up he looked into the mirror in front of him just in time to see the knife come swooping down.

His last emotion was annoyance. Now he'd never know who the killer was...

3 points of view

This is the third of a set of four stories I wrote over the past year and a half.

The first two are already up. They aren't connected so you don't need to read the other two, but if you want to, just click on the 'Fiction' label to the left.

Cheers!

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Three Points of View

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He walked slowly across the room. A man who looked twice as old as he actually was. He passed a mirror on the wall and grimaced as he saw his reflection. No wonder people shrank from him. Hollow cheeks, eyes too big for his face, he looked like a skeleton with skin stretched over his frame.

Maybe that’s why she’d killed herself. Tired of being married to a sick man. Tired of watching him die every day. In front of her eyes.

But the cops were so sure she’d been murdered... He shook his head angrily in disbelief. Murdered. Who’d want to murder her? It was ridiculous. He’d seen his fair share of murders when he’d been a young detective all those years ago. Greed, revenge, love. Those were the emotions that powered murders. And all three were absent here. Lydia had been penniless when they’d gotten married. Sure she’d get his money when he died but here he was. Alive and well. Ok, so maybe he wasn’t well, but he still was a long way from the grave.

Revenge? She was 23. Who could she have hurt so badly? Who could have been so angry at her to want to kill her?

That left love. He grimaced. That was probably on the cop’s minds from the moment they’d seen the body and met him. They were probably convinced she’d had a lover who’d killed her. Of course they wouldn’t tell him that. But that’s what they were thinking. He was sure of it. They’d paw through her personal diary and scheduler. Looking for evidence of an affair.

Lucky he’d found her diary and letters last night. Full of her love for him. Full of her sorrow at the lingering illness that would part them one day. He’d burnt them. The diary and every last letter. All her thoughts that she’d never intended to share with the world.

He smiled wistfully. If he’d ever doubted her love, reading the diary would have made him feel ashamed of himself. As it was, it had made him cry. A bitter reminder of all he’d had and all he’d lost.

He sat in his favourite chair and stared out the window.

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Detective Johnson looked across the room at the man in the easy chair looking out the window. A very poor actor. Trying to pretend he was grieving for his wife. Well they’d nail him. He was the only person with access to the apartment. None of the locks had been forced. Nothing was out of place. No unexpected fingerprints had been found. The poor fool had probably found out that she was planning to leave him. That must have been the last straw. Lucky the kid had blurted it out. Funny thing. A man with a 16 year old son marrying a woman of 23. The kid had been glad for his father’s sake until he found out that she was having an affair. He was so worried they’d think his dad did it; he’d gone out of his way to convince them that his father didn’t even know about the affair, not realizing that they themselves hadn’t known anything about it.

Funny the way things worked out. The kid had been trying to save his dad but had actually provided the missing link. The motive. Of course they’d look for a diary or something but he didn’t expect to find anything. She wrote regularly in her diary. That much he’d learnt from her friends and family. That was probably how the old man had found out. But he knew how these things worked. He’d probably burnt the dairy.

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The boy sat and watched the detective. What was he looking at? The boy couldn’t see. What was he thinking? The boy didn’t know.

Lydia was dead. He could hardly believe it. Lydia the bitch was dead. She’d taken his father away from him. His father would never have been as harsh as he’d become if it wasn’t for her. They’d refused to send him to the National academy of Drama. Said he’d be a terrible actor. And now they’d planned to send him away to military school. To instill some discipline into his life! Yeah right.

Well she’d gotten what she deserved. Now all he had to do was wait and watch. Anytime now the warrant would be issued against his old man. Based on his testimony. He would be shocked and horrified. He would run and hug his father and swear that he believed in his innocence. He would swear to do everything he could to free him.

He sat and prepared for the part of a lifetime.

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A story in time...

This is one of three short stories I wrote back when the electricity used to go out regularly at work. Now that we've shifted to a new office there's no chance of that happening.

Maybe that's a good thing. If they were pieces of paper, each would be more crumpled than the previous one. I could try and smooth them out but that wouldn't be any fun.

Disclaimer: I know two girls called 'Rowena'. This story has nothing to do with either of them. In fact after writing it I wanted to change the name, but somehow nothing else fits.

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Rowena walked slowly home. There was no reason to hurry. Everything had been planned; everything anticipated. She stopped at the store at the corner from her flat and bought some crabs. Crabs were easy to make. Just boil them and they’re done. She knew John loved crabs. He’d complain about how long it took to eat them but… today he’d have a lot of time. The whole process of cracking the shell and removing the crab meat would probably soothe him.

Her thoughts continued to wander as she climbed up the stairs of her building. For once she didn’t think longingly of the other flat they’d considered buying on the outskirts of town. That had been on the 1st floor but John had pointed out that their 5th floor flat was quite a bit cheaper and closer to his workplace too. That would help them save quite a bit on fuel each month. And as for the stairs, he’d assured her that they’d adjust in less than a month.

It was almost a year now, and while he’d indeed adjusted in less than a month, Rowena still wasn’t sure if she’d ever adjust. Sure there were days when she’d run up and down but they were few and far between. Most days she dreaded the long slow climb.

As she reached her flat she shook her head in annoyance. She’d been determined to let nothing spoil her walk home. The last thing she needed to think about was all of John’s assurances and promises in their first few months of marriage. It wasn’t his fault. He was just a man. So full of good intentions that it left no room for understanding.

She washed the crabs and put them to boil with some seasoning. Soon they’d be done. All done.

She had a long slow bath. She’d been very fond of long hot water baths before marriage, but somehow she’d lost the habit in the months since. That wasn’t John’s fault. Was it? No. Not really. True he kept explaining that they would have to tighten their budget. True she often felt like a failure. But she couldn’t hold him responsible for the ways she’d punished herself, could she?

She shook her head again. Here she went again. Thinking about John. He was starting to take over her mind. Maybe love did that to you. For she did love him. So very much.

She dried herself and wore her best dress. With her very best underwear. Today of all days it wouldn’t do to wear something old and worn.

She laid the table, placing the dishes and cutlery with care. Everything had to be perfect. John would come in late as usual. Tired out from a busy day at work. He was so considerate. He wouldn’t even come into the bedroom because he knew she was a light sleeper. He’d eat his dinner, have a bath and read for a bit until finally he’d switch off all the lights and creep slowly into the bedroom where he’d crawl into bed silently so that she wouldn’t be disturbed. Well today she definitely wouldn’t be disturbed. She smiled at the thought.

The crabs were ready. She kept them in kitchen so they’d stay hot. Then she looked about the flat. Her home. She’d cleaned up earlier but she still went about re-checking everything. Everything had to be perfect.

Finally it was time for bed. She placed the bucket she’s bought by the left side of the bed and switched off the lights. Then she crawled in between the sheets as carefully as she could. She didn’t want to mess them up. There was still a little light coming in from the building next door. She didn’t mind. She knew that by the time John came home everything in the room would be pitch dark.

Then finally when everything was in place she looked around once more. She tried to think of anything she might have left undone. Nothing came to mind. So finally, happily, she placed her left arm over the bucket and carefully slit her wrist. It stung a bit, but the pain was much less than the pain she’d imagined. She threw the blade into the little dustbin that stood on her bed-side table and lay back. John wouldn’t be home for another four hours. By then everything would be over. Perfect.

Last Resort - Inside my head...

Voltaire said it best, "To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth".

Ever since I first came across that quote, I've been impatient with people who worry about 'speaking ill of the dead'. I'm not suggesting that one should go around exposing a dead person's secrets. All I'm against is the 'hushing up' that families do to protect themselves, all in the name of the dead.

Suspect wrote a story in memory of a girl who died tragically and unnecessarily. Twice in the past I've been sure that I was going to drown. They say there are three stages to drowning. Fear, Anger and Acceptance. I don't know if that's true but I've felt both the fear and the anger. Death is something I think about a lot and after reading the story I wanted to know what I would be thinking in her place.

This is my version. There's anger and fear but I found I couldn't follow her thoughts right till the actual act. It's entirely fictional. But written exactly as the thoughts unfolded in my mind.

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I wonder if this is it. Is this the whole deal. This is it??? What the hell is life supposed to be for?

I wonder if they’d feel sorry when I’m gone. Will they wish they’d noticed me. Damn them all. Everyone’s so involved in their own stupid lives. They think I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be fine. I have 2 parents. I’m being educated. I have a home. I have enough food. Of course I must be fine.

I’ll show them. I’ll make them sorry. All of them. I’ll do it when they’re due back in an hour or so. Mom will come back first. She’ll call out. I won’t answer. I’ll be swaying in the breeze. Ha! That’s funny. She’ll get annoyed. I must be lazing around. Ignoring her while she calls. She’ll show me. Ungrateful me. I don’t appreciate all my blessings. What a child I am. Never thankful, never showing them that I understand how much they give me everyday.

She’ll climb up. Cursing on each step. Anger giving her the energy to climb, where she never would otherwise. Where’s that girl. If she’s awake and just pretending she can’t hear me… Ungrateful wretch.

She’ll push my door open. That’s why I’ll have shut it. So that she doesn’t see me from the stairs. She’ll push the door open… and then what? I can’t see further than that. She’ll try and cut me down I suppose. Quietly. By herself. So that incase it’s not too late, no one comes to know. She won’t be able to. I’ll be too heavy. Not like the pretty, delicate girl she would have wanted. My neck will be stretched. Like a chicken. The bones will have snapped. I hope they snap. If they don’t snap, it’ll be s..l..o..w.

I don’t feel so good. I don’t want to think about that. Much better to think about mother finding me. Will she cry? Just one pure cry of grief. Without wondering what people will say. Without hating me for doing it. Will you cry mummy? Will you hold my cold feet and cry all over them as I hang there. Or will you run out of the room. Reluctant to look at my dead body. Reluctant to face a girl who was so so weak. Despising me.

No. Surely you’ll cry. Please cry for me mummy. Please please. Please think of how much you loved me though I was never as good as others. Though I made you ashamed of me. Though I failed. If I don’t do this then I’ll disappoint you again. I can’t bear to see the way you don’t look at me. The way you both avoid me. Pretending, hoping that you could close your eyes and make me disappear. Dad says he can’t face anyone. That they ask how I did. And that he has to look away as he answers. He seems to think I wanted this to happen. That I was playing the fool. I wasn’t mummy. I swear. Will you believe me when I’m dead? If I write it in my last letter to you? I’m just stupid. I’m just not smart enough. I’m just. not. good. enough.
I’m not like both of you. Mummy will you forgive me for not being as smart as you and dad. I tried. I really did.

It’s not fair of you to punish me for not being as good as you hoped. It’s not fair. I bet you’ve often wished I wasn’t your daughter. That you had no daughter. Definitely not one like me.

Well you’re getting your wish aren’t you. Satisfied now?

Dad will reach home. Mom will hear the door opening downstairs. She’ll run out of the room and shriek. Tell him to come up fast. Look what She’s done. She’s… shes…

He’ll come up. Running. Feeling cold. What has She done. Everything ruined. Feeling faint with horror.

He’ll enter the room. And that will show him. He’ll know that it’s all his fault. Her fault too, but she’s too stupid to know that. Or maybe she’s just too weak to admit it.

Or maybe they’ll just blame me. Maybe they’ll be all smug and sanctimonious. We gave her everything… how could she do this to us… Yeah. That will be their line. But even if people say I was mad some of the mud will stick to them too.

Yes. Some of the mud will stick to them too. I’ll do it. Damn them all.


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The simpler choice...

I'm finding it tough to write posts these days without getting too personal, so I thought I'd write a bit of fiction to keep the cobwebs away from my blog. Enjoy. Or not.

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Mary woke up and scrambled out of bed. It was Ryan's 8th birthday and she wanted to be the first to wish him. She was almost 6 years older than him and loved him almost as a mother would. His real mom was a pale shadow in their lives. When her dad had first introduced her to them, she'd been 9. Terrified that her papa would love the little boy more. Terrified that she'd have no one left to love her. Looking back from her vantage point she wanted to laugh at herself. Her father wasn't capable of loving anyone. But Ryan had turned out to be the most precious thing in her life. Smart, funny and loving, he'd turned to her almost from the start. His mother had seemed totally apathetic about it. As if it didn't bother her that her only child was more interested in spending time with his new step-sister than his own mother. She was a tiny woman. Mary was already taller than her and twice as strong. Things had worked out. They usually did.

Mary had taken charge over Ryan the way she would one of her dolls. She learnt to feed him, bathe him and put him to bed every night with a new story she would make up just for him. His mother had receded into the role of cook, house keeper and babysitter for the time Mary had to spend in school. Her father was a vague presence about the house. They were quiet when he was around. Life was simpler that way. When they crossed paths he seemed to feel polite conversation was a must. He'd ask Mary about school and pretend to be interested in her answers. Mary was polite to him. Things were simpler that way.

But today was different. She woke up Ryan with a kiss and helped him dress. Today was a very important day. She'd heard Them talking almost a week ago. His mom. Her dad. Talking about how maybe they should live apart for some time. How they shouldn't rush the divorce. Then she heard Her say, "I won't move out until after Ryan's birthday. Let's pretend everything is ok till then". Mary had gone to bed that night wondering what she could do to stop them. Not that she cared about the divorce of course. But she would not leave Ryan. Maybe she and her dad could keep Ryan, or maybe she could go with him and his mom.
The next day when her dad was at work she asked Her about it. The only reply she got was a lecture about listening at doors. Then suddenly She'd said, "I'm sorry Mary. What you're suggesting isn't possible dear. But don't worry, you'll see Ryan very often. We won't be moving far away."

So Mary had retired that night once again wrestling with the problem. She even prayed to her dead mother asking her for help. And when she woke up she knew it hadn't been in vain. Now she knew what she had to do. Now all she had to decide was which one she should kill. Her dad? Or Ryan's mom? There were points loaded in favour of both of them. His mom had been the one to suggest waiting until Ryan's birthday was over. That gave her one point. It had been surprisingly thoughtful of her. But then She didn't work. So if she killed her dad they'd have to find an alternate source of income. Score one point for dad as the bread winner. Well She did cook, clean and watch Ryan when she wasn't around. That would have been a point for her but dad could easily pay someone to do those things. The score remained tied. But then She would be easier to fool than dad. Score one for Her again.

And so Mary went on, giving a point first to one, then to the other. Until today. Today they were still even and her time was running out. It had to be tonight. She had to decide fast. In desperation she asked Ryan, "Ryan, who do you love more? Dad or mom?" Ryan was busy trying to tie his shoelaces and didn't answer immediately. She wanted to shake him. This was life and death! Finally he turned and said, "well, dad said he'd buy me a new bicycle for my birthday, so if he has, I guess I love him more today".

Mary relaxed. She'd seen the bike. Had helped hide it behind the sofa. Now she knew who it had to be. She'd even decided how to do it. After dinner dad would drop some of Ryan's friends off. Ryan's mom would be a bit 'high' and very affectionate the way she always was after a party. It would be a simple matter to lure her into the balcony. To show her the spot where the railing had come loose. To get underneath her n tip her over. She was such a tiny thing. She'd just have to see that she kept Her glass well stocked all night. That way if she passed out there would be no need to play act. Yeah, it would be simpler that way.

Her dad would tell the cops about the divorce. She would tell the cops she'd seen Her crying secretly. The cops would have to decide whether it was an accident or suicide. Mary sincerely hoped it would be declared an accident. She didn't want Ryan to grow up believing his mom had committed suicide. That wouldn't be good for him.

Oh well, things would work out. They usually did.

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Read Suspect's version here.

Really... go read it now.