I'm A Writer!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Credits are from tumblr and Pinterest :D

***

"I'm a writer." Bree muttered as she saved pictures on how different bullets create different wounds, and how the enter and exit hole differ. There was a really useful infographic on how you can tell the trajectory of a bullet from the bloodstains.

"I'm a writer." Bree gritted her teeth tightly as she read information on decomposing corpses, and what do they look like varying on long they've been dead. "Hmm, after the three days the skin bursts open on many places all over the body. Neat."

"I'M A WRITER!" Bree yelled at her laptop screen as she read "Murdering People- What You Need to Know", a guide to murder and hiding bodies and concealing hints.

"If you murder someone, bury the victim 6-10 feet underneath a dead dog. Body-sniffing hounds will the dig up the dead dog and the police will think it's a false positive." Bree read under her breath, eyes glued to the screen. It was 3 AM and what was she doing reading about ways to murder?

Oh, right. She wanted to write a murder mystery novel.

Bree rubbed her eyes. Inspiration struck at the strangest of times, and for Bree it came at exactly 2:19 in the morning. She had sat up bolt upright in bed, before opening her laptop and searching rapidly.

She was getting tired now, as she moved the cursor around aimlessly, and her eyes began to droop.

"Let's call it a day," she muttered, hand stifling a yawn. "Or night. Or whatever."

Bree closed her laptop, set it on her desk sleepily, and fell back on her bed, blonde hair messily sprawling out. She fell asleep almost a few seconds after she hit her pillow.

Next day, when Bree came back from school, she found her mother staring strangely at her.

"I'm back," Bree called as she put away her keys. She dumped her backpack on the floor, while thinking of something which had happened that day (a certain boy named Conner Bailey tripped over when she saw him, resulting in his lunch splattering all over the floor).

"Bree," her mother said in an unusually stern voice. Bree looked up at her, while retying her ponytail. "Uh, Mom?"

Mrs. Campbell had a glint in her eyes. "What's that in your laptop search history?" she asked, voice firm and slightly accusing.

Ah, crap.

Bree couldn't do anything as she remained glued to the floor. The stare of her mother was intimidating, really.

"Bullet wounds," Mrs. Campbell listed with a terrifying glare. Bree gulped nervously. "Stab wounds. Blood stains. Where to hit in a fight. How to get away with murder. How to bury a body."

"Actually-" Bree started to say, but Mrs. Campbell cut her off.

"Crime scene science. Decomposition of bodies. Outsmarting police." Mrs. Campbell continued, and Bree felt the atmosphere darken with every word. "No offense Bree, but what are you doing?"

"I'm searching for references to aid me in writing," Bree said brightly, hoping her mother would stop asking questions.

Mrs. Campbell narrowed her eyes. "Writing what?"

"Murder mystery novels."

"Is that for school?" Mrs. Campbell asked suspiciously.

"Well uh..." Bree looked around, trying to see whether she can make a quick getaway. "It's like a hobby. Because I want to write about murder mysteries." she finished.