Post by Linda Rhaldeen on Sept 15, 2005 12:24:14 GMT -5
This is for a writing contest my school is doing, fitting in with the theme "Back to the Beginning" that they chose. This is just a rough draft, and I'm looking for ways to improve it, so if anyone has suggestions, they would be appreciated. The characters don't really have 667 names, but I thought it would be fun to put 667 names in for here. If you didn't get mentioned, you were of the people that got killed. Or the policeman.
The policeman bowed his head in sorrow as he surveyed the scene that lay before him. He had been part of the team that had come over to investigate the old house when neighbors had heard gunshots inside, and they had found a psychopath, shooting up a bunch of people and grinning insanely. Apparently there had been a book club meeting going on in this house, and tonight the host had thought it would be a good idea to kill the club members as they came in.
It was a gruesome scene. Inside, bodies lay sprawled across the floor, many covered in blood. None of them showed any signs of life but one young woman, whose chest moved up in down slightly. She had a nasty-looking wound on her arm, but compared to the others, it was pretty mild. She would probably be able to recover.
As he helped paramedics get her into an ambulance, questions began to fill his mind. Why? Why had this crazed murderer done this, ruined his own life and the lives of so many people? Why didn't anyone try to fight back? And why couldn't the police have gone back to the beginning and stopped this massacre before it had happened? He hoped that someone, possibly the young woman or a possible witness would be able to answer his questions.
There was darkness everywhere in the cramped closet she was trapped inside, enveloping her. She struggled to free herself from the rope that was restraining her, barely noticing when she bumped her head on the close walls or the rope rubbed and cut into her skin. She worked with a rabid fury that was so unlike her easygoing self, and only one thought ran through her mind. She had to get out of here and warn the others. Viciously tearing at the rope with her teeth, she was beginning to make some progress when she heard voices in the room next door and with a sinking feeling in her heart; she knew she was too late. The sound of gunshots rang through the air, and someone cried out in agony and then collapsed on the floor.[/i]
Linda, waking up, groggily shook her head and opened her eyes, then feverishly began to take in her surroundings. To her relief, it was the familiar sight of her bedroom, lit with the dim glow of a nightlight.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Ever since that terrible night several weeks past, she had had an overwhelming fear of the darkness, and of cramped spaces. Thinking back, she remembered how she had, quite by accident, discovered the host's plans to kill them and had scoffed at them at first in disbelief. But before she could tell anyone else, she had been caught. James had tied her hand and foot and stuffed her in that closet, telling her he would deal with her once he had gotten rid of the others. And he had 'gotten rid' of them. She had heard with sickening horror as they walked into the trap, one by one, and been killed. Their cries of agony still haunted her, and probably would for a long time to come. But due to the timely arrival of a police squad, she had managed to escape death. The police hadn't known she was there, though. They had come, taken James, and left, completely oblivious to the prisoner in the closet, and she had struggled for another hour before she finally managed to break loose and get home.
She had decided not to tell the police she had ever been there. She was afraid to tell them, because she felt responsible for her friends' deaths. She was the one that had known about the plan. She could have prevented the deaths of her friends if she'd gone straight to the authorities. And yet, as far as she knew, she had been the only one that survived. And that filled her with an overwhelming guilt, a feeling that was worse than any of her phobias or nightmares. Why? She asked herself. Why couldn't I have saved them? Why can't I go back to the beginning and prevent all this from happening?
He crept of to the door, his friend close behind, listening cautiously, while gunshots rang out in the background. His eyes darted back and forth, and his movement resembled those of a frightened rabbit. His heart beat rapidly within his chest, sounding as loud as a bass drum to his ears, and he fervently hoped the noise wouldn't give him away. He maneuvered himself close to the door, after a slight hesitation, opened it a crack. It creaked noisily, and he froze, wondering if he had been heard. Suddenly another bullet whizzed through the air, hitting his friend, and in a panic he pushed through the door and began running like a deer into the night.
Philip woke up, sweating. This nightmare of his haunted him almost nightly, and the thing that made it the most terrifying was that it was real. He remembered how, two months ago, he had narrowly escaped the bullets and had run away from danger, leaving his friend Annelise behind forever. That night had been the worst night of his life, the night his life had been turned upside down, and for the others, had ended altogether.
Sobbing, he put his face in his hands. Why? He wondered to himself for the millionth time. Why had James, who they had all liked, betrayed them? Why hadn't anyone suspected him? And why, he asked forlornly, had the lives of his friends been destroyed? They were all good people, and hadn't deserved the misfortune they had gotten.
The usual guilt began to invade his mind as he thought of his cowardly actions that night, how he had run out on his friends. He had been too ashamed to go to the police and tell them what happened, because he believed they'd call him a coward. And he was a coward, he knew that now. Why can't I just start over? He thought. Why can't I go back to the beginning and not behave so cowardly this time?
She felt herself pushed to one side, and a second later, there was the explosion of a gun and Daniel clutched his chest, which had begun to spout blood. He gave a moan and collapsed, and she kneeled down at his side to help him. A second gunshot went off, and her arm exploded in pain, knocking her down on top of him. She tried to get up off of Daniel, but she was feeling dizzy with pain. More bullets whistled through the air above her, and she heard more people cry out in pain before she lost consciousness.
Louise shook her head and tried to clear her mind of the terrible images fill it, but it was too late. Though it had been four months, she clearly saw in her mind's eye as Daniel was shot in the chest over and over again, and broke down in sobbing, as she had so many times before. She was sad for the deaths of so many of her friends, of course, but Daniel's death was by far the worst one for her to handle. They had been engaged, just weeks away from the marriage they had been anticipating for so long, when they had been so cruelly separated.
She thought back to those days afterward in the hospital while her arm had been recovering. One of the police had kept asking her some questions he had over and over again, but she didn't know the answers to them herself. She had refused to answer him, because she had been afraid to voice her thoughts out loud. In her mind, she believed that she had killed Daniel. Though James had been the one that had actually shot him, Louise felt responsible. That bullet her been meant for her, and it filed her with guilt. Why? She wondered. Why have I been allowed to live when so many others have died? Why did the deadly bullet have to hit Daniel instead of me? Why couldn't I have saved him? Why can't I go back to the beginning and stop him from pushing me out of the way?
He saw them come in, one by one, their faces filled with slight irritation at the absence of light and the rudeness of not being welcomed in by the host. Those expressions quickly changed to confusion, then disbelief and panic as they made their way into the house and into the path of the gun. He smile at their resemblances to deer caught in the headlights, then pulled the trigger. Over and over again he shot the gun, watching as they collapsed in agony, one by one.
James sat in his jail cell and relived those moments in time with a smile. He did not regret the murders he had committed in the slightest. He had committed so many murders that he had begun to think of it as a sort of rare and valuable collection. What he regretted most was that the police had caught him. No good criminal got caught.
Of course, now that he thought about it, he had to admit that shooting up people in his own house had not been the best idea. But he had been too focused on the artistic aspect of the crime to realize it at the time. He had to admit, though, that he had definitely put on a spectacular performance. The club members had not suspected anything when he had joined their club, and they had not been in the least bit frightened when he invited them to a club meeting at his house. He even suspected that many had come to trust and admire him, something he'd never been able to do before.
He wasn't quite sure why he liked killing people so much, but he was a straightforward man and never asked many questions, especially not to himself. He thought of it as just another hobby, like a hobby for building model airplanes or a hobby for collecting stamps. And like other hobbies, he got better every time. Learn from your mistakes was his motto, and he had used that motto many times.
And he was eager to get started on a new project. He had spent six months in prison, perfecting an escape plan involving the deaths of several guards, and once he had pulled it off he could start a new life. Lure people into his next trap. Go back to the beginning.
The policeman bowed his head in sorrow as he surveyed the scene that lay before him. He had been part of the team that had come over to investigate the old house when neighbors had heard gunshots inside, and they had found a psychopath, shooting up a bunch of people and grinning insanely. Apparently there had been a book club meeting going on in this house, and tonight the host had thought it would be a good idea to kill the club members as they came in.
It was a gruesome scene. Inside, bodies lay sprawled across the floor, many covered in blood. None of them showed any signs of life but one young woman, whose chest moved up in down slightly. She had a nasty-looking wound on her arm, but compared to the others, it was pretty mild. She would probably be able to recover.
As he helped paramedics get her into an ambulance, questions began to fill his mind. Why? Why had this crazed murderer done this, ruined his own life and the lives of so many people? Why didn't anyone try to fight back? And why couldn't the police have gone back to the beginning and stopped this massacre before it had happened? He hoped that someone, possibly the young woman or a possible witness would be able to answer his questions.
There was darkness everywhere in the cramped closet she was trapped inside, enveloping her. She struggled to free herself from the rope that was restraining her, barely noticing when she bumped her head on the close walls or the rope rubbed and cut into her skin. She worked with a rabid fury that was so unlike her easygoing self, and only one thought ran through her mind. She had to get out of here and warn the others. Viciously tearing at the rope with her teeth, she was beginning to make some progress when she heard voices in the room next door and with a sinking feeling in her heart; she knew she was too late. The sound of gunshots rang through the air, and someone cried out in agony and then collapsed on the floor.[/i]
Linda, waking up, groggily shook her head and opened her eyes, then feverishly began to take in her surroundings. To her relief, it was the familiar sight of her bedroom, lit with the dim glow of a nightlight.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Ever since that terrible night several weeks past, she had had an overwhelming fear of the darkness, and of cramped spaces. Thinking back, she remembered how she had, quite by accident, discovered the host's plans to kill them and had scoffed at them at first in disbelief. But before she could tell anyone else, she had been caught. James had tied her hand and foot and stuffed her in that closet, telling her he would deal with her once he had gotten rid of the others. And he had 'gotten rid' of them. She had heard with sickening horror as they walked into the trap, one by one, and been killed. Their cries of agony still haunted her, and probably would for a long time to come. But due to the timely arrival of a police squad, she had managed to escape death. The police hadn't known she was there, though. They had come, taken James, and left, completely oblivious to the prisoner in the closet, and she had struggled for another hour before she finally managed to break loose and get home.
She had decided not to tell the police she had ever been there. She was afraid to tell them, because she felt responsible for her friends' deaths. She was the one that had known about the plan. She could have prevented the deaths of her friends if she'd gone straight to the authorities. And yet, as far as she knew, she had been the only one that survived. And that filled her with an overwhelming guilt, a feeling that was worse than any of her phobias or nightmares. Why? She asked herself. Why couldn't I have saved them? Why can't I go back to the beginning and prevent all this from happening?
He crept of to the door, his friend close behind, listening cautiously, while gunshots rang out in the background. His eyes darted back and forth, and his movement resembled those of a frightened rabbit. His heart beat rapidly within his chest, sounding as loud as a bass drum to his ears, and he fervently hoped the noise wouldn't give him away. He maneuvered himself close to the door, after a slight hesitation, opened it a crack. It creaked noisily, and he froze, wondering if he had been heard. Suddenly another bullet whizzed through the air, hitting his friend, and in a panic he pushed through the door and began running like a deer into the night.
Philip woke up, sweating. This nightmare of his haunted him almost nightly, and the thing that made it the most terrifying was that it was real. He remembered how, two months ago, he had narrowly escaped the bullets and had run away from danger, leaving his friend Annelise behind forever. That night had been the worst night of his life, the night his life had been turned upside down, and for the others, had ended altogether.
Sobbing, he put his face in his hands. Why? He wondered to himself for the millionth time. Why had James, who they had all liked, betrayed them? Why hadn't anyone suspected him? And why, he asked forlornly, had the lives of his friends been destroyed? They were all good people, and hadn't deserved the misfortune they had gotten.
The usual guilt began to invade his mind as he thought of his cowardly actions that night, how he had run out on his friends. He had been too ashamed to go to the police and tell them what happened, because he believed they'd call him a coward. And he was a coward, he knew that now. Why can't I just start over? He thought. Why can't I go back to the beginning and not behave so cowardly this time?
She felt herself pushed to one side, and a second later, there was the explosion of a gun and Daniel clutched his chest, which had begun to spout blood. He gave a moan and collapsed, and she kneeled down at his side to help him. A second gunshot went off, and her arm exploded in pain, knocking her down on top of him. She tried to get up off of Daniel, but she was feeling dizzy with pain. More bullets whistled through the air above her, and she heard more people cry out in pain before she lost consciousness.
Louise shook her head and tried to clear her mind of the terrible images fill it, but it was too late. Though it had been four months, she clearly saw in her mind's eye as Daniel was shot in the chest over and over again, and broke down in sobbing, as she had so many times before. She was sad for the deaths of so many of her friends, of course, but Daniel's death was by far the worst one for her to handle. They had been engaged, just weeks away from the marriage they had been anticipating for so long, when they had been so cruelly separated.
She thought back to those days afterward in the hospital while her arm had been recovering. One of the police had kept asking her some questions he had over and over again, but she didn't know the answers to them herself. She had refused to answer him, because she had been afraid to voice her thoughts out loud. In her mind, she believed that she had killed Daniel. Though James had been the one that had actually shot him, Louise felt responsible. That bullet her been meant for her, and it filed her with guilt. Why? She wondered. Why have I been allowed to live when so many others have died? Why did the deadly bullet have to hit Daniel instead of me? Why couldn't I have saved him? Why can't I go back to the beginning and stop him from pushing me out of the way?
He saw them come in, one by one, their faces filled with slight irritation at the absence of light and the rudeness of not being welcomed in by the host. Those expressions quickly changed to confusion, then disbelief and panic as they made their way into the house and into the path of the gun. He smile at their resemblances to deer caught in the headlights, then pulled the trigger. Over and over again he shot the gun, watching as they collapsed in agony, one by one.
James sat in his jail cell and relived those moments in time with a smile. He did not regret the murders he had committed in the slightest. He had committed so many murders that he had begun to think of it as a sort of rare and valuable collection. What he regretted most was that the police had caught him. No good criminal got caught.
Of course, now that he thought about it, he had to admit that shooting up people in his own house had not been the best idea. But he had been too focused on the artistic aspect of the crime to realize it at the time. He had to admit, though, that he had definitely put on a spectacular performance. The club members had not suspected anything when he had joined their club, and they had not been in the least bit frightened when he invited them to a club meeting at his house. He even suspected that many had come to trust and admire him, something he'd never been able to do before.
He wasn't quite sure why he liked killing people so much, but he was a straightforward man and never asked many questions, especially not to himself. He thought of it as just another hobby, like a hobby for building model airplanes or a hobby for collecting stamps. And like other hobbies, he got better every time. Learn from your mistakes was his motto, and he had used that motto many times.
And he was eager to get started on a new project. He had spent six months in prison, perfecting an escape plan involving the deaths of several guards, and once he had pulled it off he could start a new life. Lure people into his next trap. Go back to the beginning.