Split

Chapter 1: The Writer

Chapter 1: “The Writer”

Crash.

She turned around swiftly, her eyes searching for the source of the noise. She walked towards the kitchen with tentative steps, thinking that the noise originated from there. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest as she took deep breaths.

Probably a cat got through the window or something. Nothing to worry about, she told herself.

She peeked inside the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for a broken glass vase on the tiled floor. Heaving a sigh of relief, she bent down to pick up the broken shards of green glass. Darn the neighbour’s cat. I have to complain to him next time -

Someone grabbed her hair from behind and pulled her to her feet. She was about to scream, but a gloved hand with a cloth covered her mouth. She thrashed around, trying to claw at her attacker’s face or bite his hand, but her weak efforts were in vain. She suddenly felt dizzy, and her eyes were drooping heavily. Her strength was weakening. Dimly, she realised that the cloth had been dipped in chloroform. 

The girl’s body became limp in the man’s arms. He carried her to a bedroom, and placed her on the bed. Then, he took scissors and a blade out of the pocket of his coat, and started shaving off the girl’s hair.

His eyes were glazed in concentration, as he expertly cut the girl’s flaming red hair. He handled her with great care, like a fragile flower. He had a black Venetian mask covering half of his face, and his thin lips were set in a cold smile.

The man was done in five minutes and pocketed his possessions. He took out an ornamental dagger from his pocket and kissed it, whispering words under his breath. After giving the girl one last smile, even though she was unconscious and couldn’t see it, the man drove the knife through her chest.

From the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw the girl’s fingers twitch but other than that, he saw no other signs of life. Blood oozed out, staining the girl’s nightdress and the bed.

The man stroked the girl’s forehead and left a black rose on her chest beside the knife. Then, he quietly stepped out of the apartment, his cloak billowing after him.

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Hmm…what to do…what would he do? What would I do? What would anyone do?

Wait, why am I asking all that in my head?

There, I’m talking to myself again.

Well, it’s not exactly talking, I’m just thinking.

Or more like, asking questions.

To myself.

This is almost the equivalent of talking to oneself.

Gah, I’m pathetic!

James sighed, putting his pen down on the table. He ruffled his dark hair, making it messier than before. He glanced at the notepad before him, pushing his square-rimmed glasses further up his long nose.

The man stroked the girl’s forehead, and left a black rose on her chest beside the knife.

“Gosh, that is so cliché,” he said to himself, as he took up his pen again and started editing that sentence.

“I am never going to get this book finished,” he said, as he put his pen down once more and covered his face in his hands.

He gave another sigh before getting up from his chair and walking over to the small kitchen in his apartment. He started fixing himself a cup of coffee.

His kitchen was in a mess. Dirty dishes cluttered the sink and the tiles were falling off from the walls. James meant to clean but every time, something got in his way. Like last Friday, he wanted to wash the dishes but he had an inspiration streak and wrote for hours, leaving his chores abandoned. And then the other time, when he wanted to take out the trash, he had to write some new idea down and instead, ended up writing fifty pages of a story. And so on.

James had to finish writing the book. This book would determine his future. Ever since high-school, he wanted to be a writer. He posted regularly in newspapers and magazines but he was never successful in fulfilling his dream. Every writer wants to see their book published and so did James. And he was determined to become successful this time.

He walked back to his room and plonked down on to the chair. He picked up his pen and hovered near the paper, thinking.

Then, he quietly stepped out of the apartment, his cloak billowing after him.

James didn’t know what to write next. He groaned. Bloody writer’s block! Gah!

He had a good plot. He had awesome characters but the problem was, he just didn’t know how to put it all in words. He even had the exact words of the ending in his head and a dramatic scene which was supposed to go in the middle, but he just couldn’t get there. A part of him wanted to skip right to the middle but he knew that that would make a sloppy story.

James knew that being a writer would be tough but he did not want to give up. He had to try. No matter how hard it would be for him, he would at least be able to say that he tried.

His eyes suddenly became wide. That’s it!

He picked up his pen and started scribbling furiously.

I never wanted to be a murderer. I never wanted to take the lives of others. But the problem was…I had to…

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Author's Note: Confused? No worries, all will be answered in the next chapter. Till then, leave a comment about what you thought of this one! =)