Murder Scene

Piece of work, one scene told from three different points of view: 1st, 3rd person limited, and 2nd person.

A woman is dead because of me, because of what I am. I bow my head in shame and regret. How could I let it get this bad? I remember watching her leave the office, hurrying over the taxi cab parked at the curb, speeding off down 42nd Avenue. Her red hair glistened in the sunlight and made my heart race, pounding in my chest like a caged animal waiting to be released. Although her skin was soft and mesmerizing, it was her eyes that truly drove me wild. Their cold, gray hue sent me reeling after her, where I found her exiting the cab at her apartment building, though I only could guess that at the time. It was no problem at all to get past the security, simply telling them I was her brother ready to deliver a birthday surprise. I tend to rely heavily on people’s ability to believe anything I say; I can be very convincing if necessary. After I was inside and satisfied, I find myself back at square one: wondering if it the hunger will ever end. Heaving a sigh I get up out of the chair and prepare the body for removal.

Detective Sandra Marquez strolls down the hallway with confidence, having newly acquired her detective shield after solving the murder of playboy Mark Harris, who was killed by his now imprisoned ex-girlfriend. Marquez was the only one not fooled by the girl’s crying act, and it paid off in full. Fresh on the case of a new murder, she is ready to do it again. Reaching the room, she turns in to examine the scene. The room is empty of a body, and blood, and any sign of violence or struggle. The only evidence of a murder is the eerie display on the bed in the master room. Neatly made and clean, it seems like the victim was an organized person. Sandra shakes her head, feeling as if it’s always the good ones who get it bad. On the pillows, a single photo is displayed, along with a letter written in red ink. Scanning over the letter, Marquez hands it off to her forensics investigator for examination, while she takes a look at the photo. A woman is shown bound and gagged, slightly bruised which brings beating to mind, and stabbed once in the chest. The forensics team calls her over, and gives back the letter with chilling news. The ink is blood, seemingly blood from the missing victim. What kind of a person does this?

You cannot continue these foolish attempts to deny your very own vain of existence. It is no mistake or curse that you are who you are; you have a gift. Each time, as your hands close around their throats, the blood pumps through your body and you’re intoxicated from the adrenaline. Blind from the drunken stupor, you plunge the knives into their hearts and feel their lives ebb away into darkness, consumed by your hunger. Yet, your shame is painful and unnecessary, because none of it is your fault. You had no choice about whom you could be, your path was laid out before you could pick which to take. But never should you shun the instincts you feel whenever the urge hits you. Accept your uniqueness and embrace it to the fullest. Your work tonight was impeccable; no one will understand the capacity of your actions. The job is never done, rest now.


Copyright 2009 Liam Feldstein