A sudden light shone brightly as a red sports car drove slowly up to the old house. The tyres squeaked and the wheels turned fiercely on the unsteady gravel path before reaching its destination. The was no movement as the woman got out of the car, only the bouncing rain and rustling trees made the place seem normal. Real. Small, short movements by the watcher were hardly noticed.
The Gucci shoes moved quickly towards the tall, wooden door. She stood under the archway and battled with the Elle umbrella which was bought only hours before. Finally she put it down and turned her back, searching franticly for the keys, glancing repeatedly behind her. She paused and mutted to herself. Finally retrieving her keys from her bag. As a loud gunshot was fired, the birds rose from the trees in panic, squawking loudly, but the only one was there to hear was a cold blooded killer. The bullet ripped into her body and drained the heart of feeling, of soul, of life. The blood, which her body was expelling, fell faster than the rain itself. It had seized her life and
Erica Gateley 10.5
tore it from her. Leaving a corpse. It fell slowly; slipping down the blood covered door, to the stone paving. Cold and alone.
A stirring sound, the movement of a man as he stood and stretched his stiff bones, reaching towards the rain. He turned slowly and bent down to gather his things. A black tin, which he first took from his leather bag. He searched, scouring the ground around him looking for something. He picked up a small cigarette but and placed it into the black tin, before placing it back into the bag. He reached into the bag again. This time he pulled out a piece of black cloth. He reached for his rifle, covering it with the cloth and as he did this he started whistling to himself. The Auld-langs-ayne. This was what the pierced blue lips were filling the empty air with. Then he took out a pair of pliers and a torch. He moved down the hill swiftly and silently towards the woman, turning on his torch and gripping his pliers. Still he was whistling. When he reached the body he shone the light onto her back, into the bullet hole. As he carefully inserted the pliers into her warm, soft flesh. He caught sight of her face. Her eyes were piercing; her expression was in deep pain, shock and anger. Her mouth was frozen in mid scream. As he tutted to himself and moved the blonde hair from the hole with his finger, he extracted the bullet. Smiling to himself as he left the body and headed back up the hill to his possessions. He placed the warm, blood-covered bullet into the black tin before picking up his gun and bag. He walked with a bounce in his step as he walked into an opening in the woods and got into a rusty, old jeep. As the lights shone on this tragic event, the music on the radio blasted out into the eerie air. The Auld-langs-ayne.
