Three
Three
The Conclusion. The Resolution. The End. I lie. I write. I grip her dress in one hand, my pen in the other. The red stained note book rests in my lap. My clothes and hers soaked in blood. Both our bodies resting against the wall, smeared red. My chest rises and falls, breathing heavily. Hers does not.
The Body of the story. The Main Conflict. The Middle.
Paragraph 1: The train travels along the track. Clickity clack. Clickity clack. The girl pulls out a book and begins to read. Why she is a lot like the others. I take note of the title of her novel of choice. I take note of the clothes she is wearing. The brand of her shoes; Adidas. The freckle in the corner of her right earlobe. The freckle slightly to the left of the centre of her bottom lip. The ring tone that sounds from her bag when her mobile telephone rings. I take note of the way the smile spreads across her face, deep dimples forming, as she recognises the name that appears on her caller ID. The way she flips the phone open, places it to her ear. The way the word hello falls from her lips with ease. She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear, returning the novel to her bag and standing, walking towards the nearest train exit.
Paragraph 2: The train continues on. I stand, picking up my briefcase and walking towards the door. At the next station I exit. Two minutes pass. Another train arrives, traveling in the opposite direction and I take this back to my usual station. The office building I work in is only a couple of streets away, so it doesn't take too long to walk there. I sip the cup of coffee I have just bought from a road side café as I walk. Thinking about the day, week and month ahead. I walk up the front steps of the building smiling at others as I pass them. I make polite chit chat with my colleagues in the elevator and say a cheery hello to my secretary as I exit the lift and open the door to my office. The day continues on. Phone calls Paper work. Extremely fascinating, mind boggling things happen.
Paragraph 3: repetition. Down the stairs, down the path, to the bus stop. I take the bus. I come to the train station and step onto the train. She is there, already reading her book, the same book she was reading the day before, but she was now rather close to the end as apposed to barely beginning. Today I take a seat a little further away so as not to raise suspicion (or just because the seats directly across from her were taken). Again, I take note of the clothes she is wearing. Her shoes; striped black and white. I take note of the slight crease in her forehead as she frowns at something happening in her book. The way her eyes slide from side to side, reading at an ever increasing pace. I notice that today she has with her a different bag, a larger backpack. This particular backpack has attached to it, a name and address tag. Even from the slight distance that is between us I manage to read this information and lodge it somewhere in my mind, to remember it later on.
Paragraph 4: Day 5. I rise earlier than usual. The sun is lower in the sky as I walk the familiar path to the bus stop where I catch an earlier bus, therefore, an earlier train. When I reach my destination I sit at an unfamiliar station, a newspaper in front of my face as I read the latest news. And I wait. It shouldn't be too long now. I hear the familiar sounds of a train slowing down, doors opening and people rushing forward. I look below my paper and spy a familiar pair of shoes. Black and white striped. My eyes move to watch the owner of the shoes over the top of my copy of The Australian, her brown hair pulled into a loose pony tail on her head and yet still bouncing around her shoulders. I watch the direction in which she walks, the road she turns down. I remember the name of the coffee shop she walks into, pulling an apron from her bag as she does so, preparing to tie it around her waist as soon as she has put down her bag.
Paragraph 5: The 7th day. Sunday is the day of rest. It is also the day of the week that I like to enjoy a mid-afternoon cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Again I choose the train as my mode of transport and end up at a certain café. I take a seat by the window of the small store, with a good view of the small tables outside and of the counter and its surrounds. It was a perfect location. She walks out from behind the counter, apron around her middle, a tray of drinks resting on her arm. She carries this past me and I take note of the way she breathes steadily, concentrating on not spilling the drinks or allowing the tray to fall to the floor. On her way back through the door she glances at me and smiles. Her Adidas shoes squeak slightly on the floor as she walks away, untying her apron as she leaves my sight. Returning with her bag on her shoulder, she strikes up a small conversation with one of her fellow waitress', discussing the next time she is working. Tuesday: 12 till close.
Paragraph 6: At 5'oclock my work day ends. I walk to the train station and travel in the opposite direction to my house. From then on, I sit on a cold hard metal bench watching people come and go, remaining unnoticed under the cover once again of reading the day's newspaper. As the crowd of people in the surrounding areas of where I sit thins, the sun sinks and darkness sets in. Two people continue to tidy up inside the café. One emerges from the glass front doors, leaving her alone. I had been planning on watching her for a few more days, to observe more, to learn more. But this was an opportunity that I certainly would hate to miss.
Climax: I make my way across the road as she heads towards the bins to dispose of the day's rubbish. She appears frightened. The first words are exchanged between us. Just a friendly hello. Followed by a good night. A hurried step. A rush to close the door in my face. I am too quick for her and raise my arm, holding the door open and stepping inside after her. My attempt at a casual conversation fails as she tells me that the shop is closed and asks kindly if I could please step outside so she can continue cleaning. I politely refuse. She excuses herself for just a second and steps into the back room where I cannot see her and I am sure she cannot see me.
I take this as an opportunity to remove myself from the room and I stand in the shadows of the male's bathroom, knowing she will have to come in to switch off the light before she leaves. Watching her through the vent of the brightly painted door I see her cautiously gazing around the main room of the coffee shop, desperate to know where I am, hoping I have left. After examining all corners of the room, all the places I could be hiding she seems satisfied and begins to believe that I have gone. With a frightened look in her eyes, she locks the front door, in an attempt to make sure I cannot return. With the door comfortably locked behind her she makes her way to the bathrooms, just as I knew she would. I lose sight of her for a few moments as she tidies the ladies and switches off the lights. Now more comfortable with her surroundings than she was a few minutes ago, she opens the door of the men's room boldly, unaware that I am waiting for her. She allows the door to swing closed. Three sounds break the silence. A gunshot. Her body falls. Skin slapping against tiles, sliding down the wall. Blood drips to the floor.
The Introduction. The Setting. The Beginning. The sun blazes. 1, 2, 3, down the stairs. Down the garden path. My tattered notebook in one hand, briefcase in the other. I walk briskly to the end of my street and around the corner to the bus stop. The bus is there in a matter of minutes and I take a seat next to a student from the catholic school a few towns over. The bus pulls into the train station. 20 long strides. I step onto the train. I sit down. There is a girl opposite me. Soft brown hair glistening in the morning sun. Bright blue eyes red with fatigue. A lot like the others. I smile a small and discreet smile at her which she returns. A lot like the others.
The Body of the story. The Main Conflict. The Middle.
Paragraph 1: The train travels along the track. Clickity clack. Clickity clack. The girl pulls out a book and begins to read. Why she is a lot like the others. I take note of the title of her novel of choice. I take note of the clothes she is wearing. The brand of her shoes; Adidas. The freckle in the corner of her right earlobe. The freckle slightly to the left of the centre of her bottom lip. The ring tone that sounds from her bag when her mobile telephone rings. I take note of the way the smile spreads across her face, deep dimples forming, as she recognises the name that appears on her caller ID. The way she flips the phone open, places it to her ear. The way the word hello falls from her lips with ease. She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear, returning the novel to her bag and standing, walking towards the nearest train exit.
Paragraph 2: The train continues on. I stand, picking up my briefcase and walking towards the door. At the next station I exit. Two minutes pass. Another train arrives, traveling in the opposite direction and I take this back to my usual station. The office building I work in is only a couple of streets away, so it doesn't take too long to walk there. I sip the cup of coffee I have just bought from a road side café as I walk. Thinking about the day, week and month ahead. I walk up the front steps of the building smiling at others as I pass them. I make polite chit chat with my colleagues in the elevator and say a cheery hello to my secretary as I exit the lift and open the door to my office. The day continues on. Phone calls Paper work. Extremely fascinating, mind boggling things happen.
Paragraph 3: repetition. Down the stairs, down the path, to the bus stop. I take the bus. I come to the train station and step onto the train. She is there, already reading her book, the same book she was reading the day before, but she was now rather close to the end as apposed to barely beginning. Today I take a seat a little further away so as not to raise suspicion (or just because the seats directly across from her were taken). Again, I take note of the clothes she is wearing. Her shoes; striped black and white. I take note of the slight crease in her forehead as she frowns at something happening in her book. The way her eyes slide from side to side, reading at an ever increasing pace. I notice that today she has with her a different bag, a larger backpack. This particular backpack has attached to it, a name and address tag. Even from the slight distance that is between us I manage to read this information and lodge it somewhere in my mind, to remember it later on.
Paragraph 4: Day 5. I rise earlier than usual. The sun is lower in the sky as I walk the familiar path to the bus stop where I catch an earlier bus, therefore, an earlier train. When I reach my destination I sit at an unfamiliar station, a newspaper in front of my face as I read the latest news. And I wait. It shouldn't be too long now. I hear the familiar sounds of a train slowing down, doors opening and people rushing forward. I look below my paper and spy a familiar pair of shoes. Black and white striped. My eyes move to watch the owner of the shoes over the top of my copy of The Australian, her brown hair pulled into a loose pony tail on her head and yet still bouncing around her shoulders. I watch the direction in which she walks, the road she turns down. I remember the name of the coffee shop she walks into, pulling an apron from her bag as she does so, preparing to tie it around her waist as soon as she has put down her bag.
Paragraph 5: The 7th day. Sunday is the day of rest. It is also the day of the week that I like to enjoy a mid-afternoon cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Again I choose the train as my mode of transport and end up at a certain café. I take a seat by the window of the small store, with a good view of the small tables outside and of the counter and its surrounds. It was a perfect location. She walks out from behind the counter, apron around her middle, a tray of drinks resting on her arm. She carries this past me and I take note of the way she breathes steadily, concentrating on not spilling the drinks or allowing the tray to fall to the floor. On her way back through the door she glances at me and smiles. Her Adidas shoes squeak slightly on the floor as she walks away, untying her apron as she leaves my sight. Returning with her bag on her shoulder, she strikes up a small conversation with one of her fellow waitress', discussing the next time she is working. Tuesday: 12 till close.
Paragraph 6: At 5'oclock my work day ends. I walk to the train station and travel in the opposite direction to my house. From then on, I sit on a cold hard metal bench watching people come and go, remaining unnoticed under the cover once again of reading the day's newspaper. As the crowd of people in the surrounding areas of where I sit thins, the sun sinks and darkness sets in. Two people continue to tidy up inside the café. One emerges from the glass front doors, leaving her alone. I had been planning on watching her for a few more days, to observe more, to learn more. But this was an opportunity that I certainly would hate to miss.
Climax: I make my way across the road as she heads towards the bins to dispose of the day's rubbish. She appears frightened. The first words are exchanged between us. Just a friendly hello. Followed by a good night. A hurried step. A rush to close the door in my face. I am too quick for her and raise my arm, holding the door open and stepping inside after her. My attempt at a casual conversation fails as she tells me that the shop is closed and asks kindly if I could please step outside so she can continue cleaning. I politely refuse. She excuses herself for just a second and steps into the back room where I cannot see her and I am sure she cannot see me.
I take this as an opportunity to remove myself from the room and I stand in the shadows of the male's bathroom, knowing she will have to come in to switch off the light before she leaves. Watching her through the vent of the brightly painted door I see her cautiously gazing around the main room of the coffee shop, desperate to know where I am, hoping I have left. After examining all corners of the room, all the places I could be hiding she seems satisfied and begins to believe that I have gone. With a frightened look in her eyes, she locks the front door, in an attempt to make sure I cannot return. With the door comfortably locked behind her she makes her way to the bathrooms, just as I knew she would. I lose sight of her for a few moments as she tidies the ladies and switches off the lights. Now more comfortable with her surroundings than she was a few minutes ago, she opens the door of the men's room boldly, unaware that I am waiting for her. She allows the door to swing closed. Three sounds break the silence. A gunshot. Her body falls. Skin slapping against tiles, sliding down the wall. Blood drips to the floor.
The Introduction. The Setting. The Beginning. The sun blazes. 1, 2, 3, down the stairs. Down the garden path. My tattered notebook in one hand, briefcase in the other. I walk briskly to the end of my street and around the corner to the bus stop. The bus is there in a matter of minutes and I take a seat next to a student from the catholic school a few towns over. The bus pulls into the train station. 20 long strides. I step onto the train. I sit down. There is a girl opposite me. Soft brown hair glistening in the morning sun. Bright blue eyes red with fatigue. A lot like the others. I smile a small and discreet smile at her which she returns. A lot like the others.
♠ ♠ ♠
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