George McGregor was a 21 year old muscular ex-soldier with short russet hair and clear blue eyes that were as cold as ice at times like this, stood as he was at the edge of his best friend’s grave. Joey Smith had been killed by a landmine when he was out on patrol in Afghanistan. Mind you, George had tried to save him, but it was too late. George had been injured as well; he was deaf in his right ear, and still suffered from spasms in his arm on the same side.
The funeral passed slowly, as such things often do, and mournfully, yet George did not shed a single tear, for he was (or had been, at any rate) a soldier, and he had a reputation to think of. His fiancée, on the other hand, wept shamelessly along with one of her oldest friends and Joe’s girlfriend, Tracey Jones. Then after the funeral a grand party was thrown at the house of Joey’s father’s, from which Tracey and Sarah Cassidy (George’s betrothed) excused themselves early, and set off back to Sarah’s house. However George stayed behind, as being in a room with all three people at once was rather awkward indeed, if you know what I mean.
The fog hung low over the roads when George left for home, reaching out crooked fingers menacingly. It smothered the fallen leaves that lay, in an array of different colours (amber, auburn, bronze), scattered across the concrete path. It turned the world in to a haze of perplexing greys, and it blocked the view of the rolling sea.
George loved to bask in the calming presence of the sea. He adulated the gentle sound; not silent, which reminded him of death and simply brought his nightmares to life; neither noisy, which reminded him of spitting gunfire and the tremendous boom of bombs. Also it reminded him of home, and of the comfort and safety that comes with it.
When he arrived back at the house, he discovered Tracey sat patiently in the too neatly organized living room. Almost immediately, George excused himself, and ambled slowly down to the shop in the frosty wind. He took the longest route, which wound through soaring trees. As he rambled he pondered deeply; apple juice or orange? His favourite was apple, but Sarah had a predilection for orange. In the end he settled for cranberry, quite why he was unsure himself as neither one really liked that particular juice.
On his return, George was greeted angrily by a perturbed Sarah.
“Is it true?” She yelled at him. “Is it?”
“Is what true?” He answered, quite innocently, after a moment’s hesitation. So she told him, and he listened, then he tried to explain, but she simply threw herself on to the floor and wrapped her arms around her. Distraught, Sarah wept sorrowfully, while George paced around, frustrated.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen!” He bellowed, glaring at her as she snivelled, crouched low on the rug. “It just did, and I’m so sorry.”
Sarah glanced up. “The point is, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did. And… well I’m never going to be able to marry you, so, you may as well leave.” George’s face turned an alarming shade of scarlet.
“I’ll be right back.” His voice was tight, strangled. He disappeared in to the kitchen where he pulled on his gloves and drew out a knife. Distracted, he didn't perceive the slightly ajar, oscillating door. Then he walked calmly back in to the living room, drew back the blade, and stabbed it viciously in to the back of her neck.
Seeing what he had done, he rushed back to the kitchen frantically, pulled off his gloves laying them back on the side, and cleaned the knife, carefully placing it back in the nondescript block. He then stumbled back to Sarah, who lay lifeless, crumpled on the floor. Cradling her in his arms, he cried penitently for his first love.
In the confusion, Tracey slipped out through the front door and drove away, a cruel smirk tugging at her lips.
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