The Early Death of Paula Bowden.
Un.
Arron Simon.
The Stranger.
I didn’t know Paula Bowden, not personally. The first time I’d ever seen her was on that cold February morning. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, and her lips were blue with cold, but I could still appreciate her beauty. Her green eyes were piercing, staring into space, and through space. Her small white hands held her small brown leather satchel, and her fingernails were completely clean.
On impulse, I picked her up, and carried her into the sunlight. At first, she looked so peaceful, so much so that she could be sleeping, in some trance that caused her eyes to be wide open, and her body to be limp, but no escaped those bee-stung lips. There was no heartbeat in her chest, and there wasn’t any pulse on her wrist. Paula Bowden was dead when I found her.
When the police arrived, all they saw was a strange man in his twenties, desperately searching for a pulse. They saw that I’d moved her from the crime scene, and that my bare hands were contaminating the evidence.
They thought I did it. It made sense. My DNA was on her body, and I’d been seen in the park prior, and following her early death. The police did a background check, heard about my violent childhood in a catholic school, and heard about my ‘history of beating women’. I’d never beaten another woman in my life after Beth… but Beth was gone.
Paula Bowden was also gone. Gone with the wind, and gone too soon, but nonetheless, gone, Disappeared, Vanished, Lost…
Sometimes, in the dead of night, I heard Beth singing in my ear, an eerie song of loss and tragedy. Soon, I began to hear the silent laughter of Paula Bowden filling my ears with innocent noise.
It would be a lie if I said that I didn’t think about Paula Bowden after discovering her. She contaminated my thoughts with her golden hair and her bee-stung lips. It made me wonder who would want to kill her… was it a random attack by a schizophrenic man in his twenties? Or was it the girl’s mother who drove her to her early death? Did the local preacher play a part in the death of Paula Bowden?
I often thought the things in the privacy of my mind, pondering on them occasionally when I was lonely. Who would kill the girl with the cold hands and the piecing green eyes?
Who would do such a thing?
The Stranger.
I didn’t know Paula Bowden, not personally. The first time I’d ever seen her was on that cold February morning. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, and her lips were blue with cold, but I could still appreciate her beauty. Her green eyes were piercing, staring into space, and through space. Her small white hands held her small brown leather satchel, and her fingernails were completely clean.
On impulse, I picked her up, and carried her into the sunlight. At first, she looked so peaceful, so much so that she could be sleeping, in some trance that caused her eyes to be wide open, and her body to be limp, but no escaped those bee-stung lips. There was no heartbeat in her chest, and there wasn’t any pulse on her wrist. Paula Bowden was dead when I found her.
When the police arrived, all they saw was a strange man in his twenties, desperately searching for a pulse. They saw that I’d moved her from the crime scene, and that my bare hands were contaminating the evidence.
They thought I did it. It made sense. My DNA was on her body, and I’d been seen in the park prior, and following her early death. The police did a background check, heard about my violent childhood in a catholic school, and heard about my ‘history of beating women’. I’d never beaten another woman in my life after Beth… but Beth was gone.
Paula Bowden was also gone. Gone with the wind, and gone too soon, but nonetheless, gone, Disappeared, Vanished, Lost…
Sometimes, in the dead of night, I heard Beth singing in my ear, an eerie song of loss and tragedy. Soon, I began to hear the silent laughter of Paula Bowden filling my ears with innocent noise.
It would be a lie if I said that I didn’t think about Paula Bowden after discovering her. She contaminated my thoughts with her golden hair and her bee-stung lips. It made me wonder who would want to kill her… was it a random attack by a schizophrenic man in his twenties? Or was it the girl’s mother who drove her to her early death? Did the local preacher play a part in the death of Paula Bowden?
I often thought the things in the privacy of my mind, pondering on them occasionally when I was lonely. Who would kill the girl with the cold hands and the piecing green eyes?
Who would do such a thing?
♠ ♠ ♠
New story. A bit unusual.Comments are appreciated.