The Rifle, chapter 1
There it lay; cold, hard, and black. Only slightly visible, lit by the moonlight through the window. An aroma fills the room. It smells of something - something like a rusted piece of metal in the rain - no that's not it, no it smelled of iron.
I knew what had happened here tonight and I knew who was involved, but still I came. For I had to see this tragic scene for myself. I walked a little further into the room, only to see what I had feared. Spencer's long brown hair lay peacefully on the blood-stained carpet. If she were alive, she'd trow a fit at what a mess this plave was.
Icy-hot, the tears started to fall. Rushing down my cheeks and then sailing down towards Spencer's cold, pale skin. "Why?" I asked myself, "Why didn't I try to stop them? Why did I let them get to her? Why didn't I warn her?" I couldn't bear another moment in her presence.
My guilt swelled as I walked out of the big wooden door. The wind felt like ice as it touched my skin. Every step I took felt heavier, until I got to the point where my feet wouldn't leave the concrete.
Slowly kneeling on the ground, I had thoughts of suicide run through my mind. If I killed myself, then maybe I could live peacefully with her, but no, that's not what she would want. Spencer, who was my fiancée, was shot down in her own house tonight. That's all that I could think about, was that my wife-to-be was dead. The worst part was that the killer was her best friend.
Andrew, who has known Spencer long before I met her, was jealous that she fell in love with me and not him, so he killed her.
Angry and upset, I found the strength to stand back up. "Andrew!" I yelled, "It was his fault she's dead, so now he's going to pay!"
Now sprinting back towards her house, I felt like I had power, tons of it. I slammed through the front door and stopped. Catching my breath, I looked around. There it still lay; cold, hard, and black--the rifle.
I knew what had happened here tonight and I knew who was involved, but still I came. For I had to see this tragic scene for myself. I walked a little further into the room, only to see what I had feared. Spencer's long brown hair lay peacefully on the blood-stained carpet. If she were alive, she'd trow a fit at what a mess this plave was.
Icy-hot, the tears started to fall. Rushing down my cheeks and then sailing down towards Spencer's cold, pale skin. "Why?" I asked myself, "Why didn't I try to stop them? Why did I let them get to her? Why didn't I warn her?" I couldn't bear another moment in her presence.
My guilt swelled as I walked out of the big wooden door. The wind felt like ice as it touched my skin. Every step I took felt heavier, until I got to the point where my feet wouldn't leave the concrete.
Slowly kneeling on the ground, I had thoughts of suicide run through my mind. If I killed myself, then maybe I could live peacefully with her, but no, that's not what she would want. Spencer, who was my fiancée, was shot down in her own house tonight. That's all that I could think about, was that my wife-to-be was dead. The worst part was that the killer was her best friend.
Andrew, who has known Spencer long before I met her, was jealous that she fell in love with me and not him, so he killed her.
Angry and upset, I found the strength to stand back up. "Andrew!" I yelled, "It was his fault she's dead, so now he's going to pay!"
Now sprinting back towards her house, I felt like I had power, tons of it. I slammed through the front door and stopped. Catching my breath, I looked around. There it still lay; cold, hard, and black--the rifle.
