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Creative Writing Coursework

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Creative Writing Coursework It was a cold, crisp winter's night in New York, and I was slumped unconscious on a toilet in Doc's Diner; my arms slashed, and blood dripping steadily from a small, rusty knife in my hand. A bald old man meandered unsteadily into the toilet room, and began to wash his hands in the only working sink. Suddenly, three frosty blasts of air pulsed harshly through the open window, and I stirred; my knife hand trembling, I wobbled my way out of the cubicle, unnoticed to the preoccupied man, and drew up my arm. Seconds later, the man lay on the floor, my hand thrusting the blade into his chest time after time after time. What could only be seconds later, blood still spilling from the deceased man's wounds; I opened my eyes and stared in sheer horror at my crime, stuttering 'what have I done?' I rushed to the sink and furiously tried to erase the blood from my arms and jumper. When done, I pulled down my sleeves, and zipped up my coats to hide any blood, and threw the knife out of the window into the night. I managed to compose myself, and assertively stepped through the door into the diner. I needed to get out before anyone else entered the loo, so I headed for the door. ...read more.


'It's me Vin, I need help, I've done something terrible.' Vincent was the only way of getting it off my chest. He was my brother, and the only friend I had left. He would understand, he left when I was 10 to become a priest, and now worked in a small parish near Central Park. 'Meet my near Mum's grave in half an hour, I'll be there, I will help you,' he assured me, and the line went dead. I picked up my coat, and hurried out of the apartment. It was 8am, and I walked into the cemetery with a small bunch of flowers in my hand. My boots crunching gently through the thick snow, I could hear children playing in the park, and their parents shouting after them. My one desire was to have someone, all I had was the long arm of guilt wrapped tightly around by chest, and the knowing that one day I would be behind bars. Staring at the sad, grey grave of Victoria Vincent, and brushing away snow and soil, I placed the bright flowers down by the stone, which read, 'beloved mother and wife, the best anyone could ask for.' If only they hadn't gone out that night, if only he hadn't crashed into the petrol station, if only Dad hadn't left for Europe, maybe none of this would have happened. ...read more.


Walking towards the child were two police officers. They were chatting, but would surely have pictures of me by now. I was never good at decision-making, but something made my mind up for me. I saw the wrinkled face of that innocent man in the toilets, and rushed, like a leaping lion, towards the child, shouting 'Watch out!' I careered into him, and pushed him over the holes to safety, my body cushioning the blow beneath him. The officers rushed over, and immediately recognised me. On of them, with a penetrating glare said 'I'll deal with you later, and rushed the child back to the on running mother. The other picked me up, fastened me in handcuffs, and marched me towards the car park. Going past the sights of New York, The Empire State, Flat Iron and many more, I saw my life coming to an end, gradually fading into nothingness, insignificant. As we rounded the last corner to the station, a great juggernaut came charging towards the police car, and in an instant, smashed into the front. I was thrown what seemed like miles, through the windscreen and onto the bonnet. My face bloodied and battered, I looked up to the cab of the lorry. Clambering out of the drivers seat was the victim of my knife. He knelt down by my dying body, and in my last seconds, scooped up a finger of blood and whispered in my ear, 'there's nothing quite like revenge now, is there?' ?? ?? ?? ?? ...read more.

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