Fateful Witness

1987, the year of Aretha Franklin, The Simpsons and The Joshua Tree. It was also the year in which everything was supposed to change for Gwendolyn. With hindsight I can see how this may be considered a ludicrous notion. Held prisoner by caviar, debutante balls and high tea, Gwendolyn Adleson had promised herself that by the time she was 16 she would finally get out of this hellhole. She would disappear in the middle of the night, without leaving her parents so much as a note, before she ran as far and as fast as she could away from that dreaded place. She didn't care where she went as long as it was far away. As far away from her parents as humanly possible. Victoria and Christopher Adleson cared about nothing more than money, power and status. Their marriage had even arranged by their parents based purely on social gain without any thought to love, affection or happiness, because of this they tried to actually see each other as little as possible. This meant that they lived in separate wings of their house, living separate unhappy lives with separate, and equally unhappy, friends. Gwendolyn had been handed from nanny to nanny for sixteen years, seeing her parents maybe twice a month. It's such a shame what happened to her, she was never really given a chance, and it was on the day of her sixteenth birthday that she intended to change that. She would leave immediately after her party and never have to see any of these self absorbed, vacuous reptiles again in her entire life. Unfortunately, she didn't get that far. In fact, if I recall correctly, she never actually left her bedroom that night. For it was in that very room that she was attacked. The assailant slipped in the back door and carefully, inaudibly, surveyed his prey. He watched her intently before he snuck up behind her and killed her with one swift stroke. He plunged his dagger soundlessly up through her lungs, the lethal tip just caressing her heart. She collapsed in a silent scream, her mind fading away into the inky abyss of death. She just lay there, an ashen cold beauty even in death. Beads of scarlet lay upon her neck and a look of horror was permanently etched into her features as her limbs stretched gracefully across the soft carpet. Her hair cascaded in frantic waves across her shoulders, spread out in pools of her own blood. T'was a dreadful sight. Positively nauseating. It's a horrid business this murder isn't it? I feel rather sick just talking about it. You see I have something to confess to you, something weighing upon my mind. I haven't been completely honest with you dear reader, one could say I've been downright dishonest. Well, one expects nothing more from a murderer.