Death waits for no one, but what if you were invited to a murder before it was committed?
Carliene Westing is a serious person. Naturally, when a crimson letter pops at her doorstep and a childhood friend calls with an exact date of her demise, Carl...
If someone told me It's impossible to love a killer I'd point them in direction Of my toxic affection Cause I suffer from affliction Of an abject conviction And it will be my downfall
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She was dead. As dead as they come. Motionless and strange with that unnatural quiet. Her skin glowed ashen and grey. Not milky. Rather gaunt and cadaverous. But maybe that was due to the heavy makeup. No, it didn't make her resemble a porcelain doll if I was to be honest. And I was rather honest. Lying was such a weak thing to do, after all.
I tugged the sweater tighter around my shoulders. My attire hardly enough to keep the winter wind at bay. But it wasn't the cold that really cut to the bone this time. It was the image already embedded in my mind.
Tiny little rivers of red sneaked their ways down the white cobblestones. Like cherry ribbons against pale skin, the sticky liquid had poured out of the poor girl's body. I didn't have the mind to dive my hands into that substance to check for warmth. I didn't need to. The picture was quite macabre to embrace with one sense: sight. Touch I'd have rather reserved for pleasure.
I noticed a delicate curve of the girl's slightly open lips. I swallowed hard. A bashful smile? I doubted. Her muscles already stiffened and contracted. However, with eyelids left slightly ajar, about to flutter open, she seemed to be napping. Ready to get up and, well, be aliveat any second.
But she was dead. Dead as a doornail. And at that point, I knew exactly how she kicked the bucket.
I tried to stop her. Not save her; I laid no claim to the power of redemption. But by the time I got to her, it was already too late.
Come to think of it, that was how I usually found them. Too late. Already at rest. I was picking up pebbles, trying to get to Him, but for once this body wasn't one of His.
My fists folded as on a voiceless command—the memory—and the paper I was still holding crumpled. The envelope I had found lying on my doorstep. A reminder of normalcy that hardly mattered now.
You know those moments when two cars crash and you see the devastation caused, pain inflicted, and yet you still can't look away?
That's what it feels like when the Grim Reaper brushes past you.
I couldn't avert my eyes. Glued, as if they were. The entire universe revolved around this one spot, one place, in this instant in time. The rest was nothing. Sheer decoration. Irrelevant. Translucent. Banished to the corner of my eye.
And it didn't matter I had seen bodies before. Living people demand attention. The dead command it. Nothing mattered but that poor girl.
Well, maybe except for the other dead woman.
First of all, she was not supposed to be here, protruding from behind the orange-ish trash container. I did not expect to see her there. Nor any other place in particular. God, I did not expect to see any other dead body. One was typically more than enough.
