Formula for Murder

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a piece I recently began to develop. I am looking for any and all constructive criticism!
Adrian Alabaster is trapped inside his own mind and repressed aggression towards his abusive, alcoholic father; George Alabaster. In the events leading up to George's murder readers bear witness to the abuse and psychological trauma that drives Adrian over the edge. The novel begins with a vague description of the murder then travels inside of Adrian's world from childhood to his thirteenth birthday where all he wishes is for his father to drop dead!

Submitted: July 14, 2017

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Submitted: July 14, 2017

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The first time I touched a gun I was seven, and it was cold. The instrument felt dangerous and definitive like it was meant to finish something. Then, at twelve I shot my first gun. It was deafening. The sound pierced into the core of your eardrum, and left a mild vibration. It startled the morning crows, and sent them flying off in the distance. Despite this and his dire wishes, I never cared for guns, or what people did with them. People themselves are much more terrifying. A gun isn’t dangerous until you pair it with man. Man has no power until you partner him with malice. It was not until I was thirteen, and I had drawn blood with a gun that I understood this. The way the trigger clicked, and the gun jolted aback made it real. I’ll always remember the way his blood seeped into those pristine sheets of snow. The way his lifeless body went crashing into the ice. It was always there in the back of my mind growing up; what life would be like without him. It was in the back of my mind when I pulled the trigger, and it’s still in the back of my mind, now, as I sit here being judged and analyzed by you.

Snow is like mother’s fine, ivory china. It resembles the polished sets in its regality. That December, the snowflakes swirled delicately through the gale, and powdered the layers of lofty Evergreen trees. It reinvented the town. The fields surrounding frozen ponds, the chimneys atop bakery roofs, and the old house on Barley Street were all coated with a fresh layer of snow. The elegance of the sleet beautified every corner of the town, except the old house on Barley Street.

One early spring morning, the crash of mother’s china case stirred attention to father’s raging fists. The case was obliterated, but his fist’s continued pounding on the shards of glass until they were grinded into dust. That morning snow resembled china in its fragility. Snowflakes melt by the warmth of my fingers, and ivory china crumbles at George Alabaster’s hands.



© Copyright 2017 Martha Strider. All rights reserved.

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