Motive Hunt

Reads: 1300  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 8

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is for garavagliat's horror challenge. It's about Carlos Monroe, a mentally ill man who murdered a young woman who looked a lot like his wife. His wife died of cancer some time before the killing. We see the story from different perspective's and learn the reasons behind it.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Mis Taken

Submitted: February 05, 2010

Reads: 319

Comments: 2

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Submitted: February 05, 2010



Chapter One- Mis Taken

The most horrific of murders are the ones without motive.

That’s what they thought. They thought I was a sadistic psychopathic mentalist who in a random moment of spontaneity murdered a stranger. But if only they dug a little deeper the information would slowly build up, unquestionably stare right back at them. A flashing neon sign symbolising their stupidity. They knew nothing about my motive. I was only trying to right a wrong. Could they not see the regret in my eyes? I lived and breathed regret. I was mistaken.

It was simple, easy as exhaling. She looked so much like her I was sure it truly was her. I thought to myself, you’re dead, you died. You shouldn’t be alive, you were taken. It’s time for the next now, you can’t hang about. You’ll spoil it. I lunged at her with a certain, precise movement swift like an arrow. The sharp edge of the knife cleanly swiped across her neck, slicing open her throat. Her blood gushed out, a dark river of warmth running down my arms. It felt like velvet liquid, silk smooth. I looked at the face of the young woman. It wasn’t her. There was nothing that could be done about it after that. I couldn’t simply leave her lifeless corpse in the middle of the road, like a child’s dropped dolly. I didn’t even think about her blood. The artificial light of the lamppost was reflected in the blackness of the slowly cooling pool she lay in. It wasn’t for the reasons you would think that I moved her. It wasn’t to get rid of evidence; I left the blood, the blade, fingerprints. It felt morbidly wrong to leave her where she could be found, crowded around like a museum display cabinet, people pushing against the crime tape. Flashing lights of police vehicles, press cameras. Gasps of disbelief, disgust but they don’t leave. They stay where they are and keep on looking.

I could only move her so far before I simply stood next to her and waited. I waited to be found. Follow the trail of breadcrumbs; follow the trail of spilled life. We would be found. We were found. Fluorescent sleeves tried to coax me away before more appeared pulling me into the vehicle. I didn’t want her to be stared at. I protested but my words fell on unhearing ears. The owners of them thought me mentally disturbed. Perhaps I am. I think to myself she might have been one of the next ones. I kept a lock of her hair. They haven’t found it yet. Though they will soon begin to wonder why I hold my clenched fist tightly to my chest.

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