I’m much more of a spring person myself. The birds feeding their chicks, daffodils, the suns rays, the early morning dew on a freshly cut lawn and the renewed life in nature. Beautiful. I closed my eyes and focused on this wonderful image within my mind. I opened my eyes to the face of Mr. Winter. Or so I imagined. In fact it was the rather arrogant and pretentious Mr. Harne glaring at me through the wintry mist that surrounded us both.
My heart beat raised, although I did not know why. Was it the image of spring remaining in a frozen world? Was it the fear that enveloped the dark alley in which I was passing? Was it the rugged charms of Mr. Harne? I did not know, but there was an immense feeling of feel and passion paralysing and choking me simultaneously.
I would have liked to have said something quick – whited like, “Well… what’s a nice man like you doing in a place like this then?” but as I have already explained, my body was prohibiting me from doing so.
What came next could not have surprised me more. No knife, no gun, no predicted slap. Just a kiss. A long, warm, can I say ‘spring like’ kiss? All my anxieties and emotions drained out of me like water flowing down a canyon. Then, as instantly as it had begun the separation was complete and Logan Harne had disappeared.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” That’s what my mother had always told me. I only wish she had been right. Logan was very definitely in my mind, more like occupying my mind. His face, his attitude, the undeniable sense that he was bad.
I phoned Bruce that evening. Not to confess my sins, but to seek comfort. I was sharply rebuffed. Bruce had a meeting and had to work late with the firm’s partners. Bruce is a lawyer, a brilliant one. He has occupied a lot of press attention recently thanks to an extremely complex case he’d won.
I thought he sounded worried, distant; but Bruce and I had always been fairly ‘detached’. Even though we were engaged, we did not live together.
I slept long, but dreamt little. Logan’s face and that adrenaline rush I felt when I saw him blanketed my mind.
The following morning police were pounding at my door. Bruce was dead. I felt wintry cold as a pain like no other stabbed at my heart from all directions. Dead? The police said that they were sorry. They couldn’t have been as sorry as I was. Ever.
The killer was still out there. Continuing with his normal mediocre life whilst Bruce was gone, forever. The police had no idea who had done this, but they did have one clue. Bruce had skin under his fingernails, so the murderer would have big, deep tears in the flesh. There was no partners meeting, or extra work. Bruce had lied. He had lied the last time I ever spoke to him.
I saw Logan again about one week later. Spring had returned to my life and the wintry darkness dissolved from my heart. He was in my favourite bar. It was almost as if he was in my mind, seeing my thoughts, seizing my places and possessions.
He was drunk. I had an opportunity to know him, like he appears to know me, but he’s too intoxicated to understand. At that precise moment he collapsed onto the floor and I rushed to his aid. Out of his pocket I uncovered an envelope, printed on which was his name and address. I knew the area well and resolved to return him home.
Once we were inside his house I rested Logan on the couch. I went into the kitchen in an attempt to find coffee. In the kitchen drawer I discovered a book. It was covered in a coarse, natural paper and as I turned the cover over I saw him starring back at me once more. There were endless pages of Bruce. All my pain and terror returned to me as pictures and articles built up. On the final page of Logan’s book I found an obituary.
“Wonderful man…brutally killed…tragic.” This couldn’t be pure coincidence.
I was filled with rage as I stormed my way towards Logan. Anger and indignation flowed through my body as a fuel for my sheer detestation and distress. I was frantic and was adamant in my determination to search for the final piece of this cryptic puzzle. I slapped him ruthlessly across the face, instantaneously sobering my foe. I tore off his shirt, and there, as I had suspected I discovered three deep cuts down his chest.
It was him. He was the loathsome creature that killed Bruce. My manic behaviour took control and my logic was numb.
An overwhelming slap threw me onto my back in disgrace. My insides screaming with horror and repulsion, whilst power and terror pumped through my veins.
“How could you do this to me? What have I ever done to deserve your twisted friendship?”
As I bowed my head down towards hell, I saw a gun under the armchair.
I no longer sensed fear. Not from him or anyone else. Quickly I reached under the bed, brought it up, and aimed it at the putrid scars my lover had marked Logan with
He attempted to throw a fist towards me, but just toppled forward, as I released all the pain and churning inside of me. I pulled the trigger back.
Then it was over. This twisted love had jumped me with the same fear and ecstasy as if a robber to a helpless child. But I was caged within these thoughts. My trembling hand raised the gun to my head and history repeated itself.
After my short-lived rage and torture, the world was as good as gone. Some people are scared of death, but for me… life was as terrifying as any hell could be.
Victoria Anderson. 10P Page
