He fished out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes along with a cheque book.
Whilst he scribbled in a scrawl manner, the bathroom door swung open. She stepped into the room, only with a white towel to shroud her nakedness.
"Here," he handed her the cheque, "I'll call you if I need you."
"Sure," she examined the digits on the cheque, playing with her wet silken hair.
Before leaving, he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.
"Oh, I forgot. You prefer Dunhill," he opened the room door.
As he was about to leave the room, she said, "Yes, Dunhill cigars."
He stopped at the entrance, turned around to face her and spitted out venomously with a sneer, "Cigars for a prostitute... an odd match." And the door slammed shut.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
People, usually men, eye her oddly. She can't help but notice a scant of lust in all of their eyes. Shrugs, puts out a nonchalant posture, she continued walking home.
She lived alone in an apartment, right in the middle of the City Square.
From her bedroom window, she could see the inhabitants of the Big Apple rushing to work.
From her bedroom window, she could see the vista of the setting sun.
From her bedroom window, she could see callow teenagers blowing kisses to her.
From her bedroom window, she could see gory car accidents.
From her bedroom window, she could see him, who stayed in the room directly opposite hers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Neighbours stood outside her apartment door, trying hard to peer into the messy house.
Police were searching her house, from the ceiling to the floor.
After an hour of investigation, the police left. But the yellow banners still remained.
A little boy pulled sleeve of an old woman beside him and asked, "What does the yellow banner say?"
"It says 'Crime scene, do not cross', dear," the old woman replied.
"What's a crime scene, granny?"
"A crime scene is the place where bad things happen, dear. Come on, let's go home."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Gory case, detective. Very gory," an officer shook his head in disgust as he looked at the pictures taken of the victim in the crime scene.
The detective nodded solemnly, "Yes, Bruce. Never seen something like that before, might gimme nightmares."
Suddenly the door of the detective's office swung open and another officer stood there, gasping for breath, "Good news, sir. We found the killer."
The detective jumped from his seat, "That was fast. Rick, continue on the lab report. Bruce and I will do the questioning."
"Yes, sir."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The suspect was a handsome looking man, in his mid twenties.
When the detective and Bruce sat down opposite him, the suspect said, "I know I'm the only suspect you've got."
"Gerald Randall, right?" Bruce ignored his statement.
"I know who did it," Gerald said calmly.
The detective and Bruce raised their eyebrows, "Who?"
Gerald chuckled, still calm, "Why, me... and you, detective."
"Better watch your mouth or I'll--" the detective raised his fist but Bruce stopped him.
Gerald continued, "You see, Carrie stayed directly opposite my block. I watched her rising from her bed, combing her hair and sometimes... fooled around with many men.
"Of course, she watched me too, every evening. She thought I didn't notice but... haha, I do. I always knew. Even on the day before the murder took place, she was watching me."
"Your motive was to stop her from stalking you?" Bruce inquired, the detective remained silent.
"Haha... not that, sir. I actually liked it. My motive was to cease her sufferings. She was suffering, so much. Blood was pouring out like a crimson waterfall from both her elbows, someone chopped her hands off.
"She was still breathing, although she was almost decapitated. She was crying too. Tears mixed with blood, it diluted the scarlet of her blood. I went in and found her looking at me, with the same longing way she used to watch me."
Gerald sighed, "But this time there was another message in her eyes, she asked me to kill her."
Bruce asked, "According to what you've just said, someone else attempted to kill her but failed. Do you know who that person is?"
As if he couldn't hear, he changed the topic, "Can you spare me a cigarette, detective?" he smiled at him amusingly.
Frustrated, he threw a packet of cigarettes on the table. Gerald took one out and lighted it. He closed his eyes and blew the smoke out, "Marlboro... you have taste, detective."
"Stop playing games. I'm not the one who killed her," the detective stood up abruptly, pulling Gerald's collar.
Gerald didn't speak, but looked at the detective with contempt.
"SHE KILLED HERSELF, SHE'S THE ONE TO BLAME!!" the detective shouted. Bruce held him and kicked the door open, "Guys, grab hold of the detective!"
The detective shouted inhuman screams as he planted his fingernails in his scalp. Gerald continued smoking, smiling.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He hit her head with a vase when she was smoking the cigar.
She fell on the floor and moaned, "Bastard..."
"You asked for it... I didn't want to do this... you forced me!" he shouted, pacing in hurried steps around the room. "You go around sleeping with other men, what am I?!"
"Why do you care..." she tried to get up and he stabbed her hand down to the floor with a kitchen knife.
"Trying to get up? You're a lowly prostitute, STAY DOWN!!"
Silently, she took the pain, bit by bit. But she still tried to stand up.
He laughed with ferocity, "We'll see if you can stand up without hands..." he proceeded to cut her hands from below the elbow.
Tears of pain burst out, but she refused to moan or scream. She was a proud woman.
He threw her bloody hands on her bed, "Tell me you love me," he said in a gentle tone.
She kept quiet.
"Since you don't wanna talk, why not I help you get rid of that voice box that you REFUSED TO USE?!"
"You're a son of a bitch, filthy police--"
"I don't want to hear anything else from you just tell me that you love me! Say YOU LOVE ME!! SAY IT!!"
"I hate you..." she added salt to his bleeding wound, he cursed her, with tears.
"If you refuse to say you love me... I refuse to let you tell anyone you love them!!" the knife sank into her neck. Rage was so puissant it gave him the strength to cut through her bones......
Gerald witnessed the whole scenario, but he did nothing to help. Instead, he waited till the killer left.
The door was left opened. The vase was missing and so was the knife.
Her eyes watched him as he toyed with her long bronze hair, taking in the scent of her hair. He didn't mind the putridness. Smoking her cigar, he took her life.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The day the detective was sentenced to death, Gerald's throat was slit in his own room.
No weapons were found. The only evidence the police found was a cheque, with the fingerprints of both the detective and Carrie.
Whilst he scribbled in a scrawl manner, the bathroom door swung open. She stepped into the room, only with a white towel to shroud her nakedness.
"Here," he handed her the cheque, "I'll call you if I need you."
"Sure," she examined the digits on the cheque, playing with her wet silken hair.
Before leaving, he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.
"Oh, I forgot. You prefer Dunhill," he opened the room door.
As he was about to leave the room, she said, "Yes, Dunhill cigars."
He stopped at the entrance, turned around to face her and spitted out venomously with a sneer, "Cigars for a prostitute... an odd match." And the door slammed shut.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
People, usually men, eye her oddly. She can't help but notice a scant of lust in all of their eyes. Shrugs, puts out a nonchalant posture, she continued walking home.
She lived alone in an apartment, right in the middle of the City Square.
From her bedroom window, she could see the inhabitants of the Big Apple rushing to work.
From her bedroom window, she could see the vista of the setting sun.
From her bedroom window, she could see callow teenagers blowing kisses to her.
From her bedroom window, she could see gory car accidents.
From her bedroom window, she could see him, who stayed in the room directly opposite hers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Neighbours stood outside her apartment door, trying hard to peer into the messy house.
Police were searching her house, from the ceiling to the floor.
After an hour of investigation, the police left. But the yellow banners still remained.
A little boy pulled sleeve of an old woman beside him and asked, "What does the yellow banner say?"
"It says 'Crime scene, do not cross', dear," the old woman replied.
"What's a crime scene, granny?"
"A crime scene is the place where bad things happen, dear. Come on, let's go home."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Gory case, detective. Very gory," an officer shook his head in disgust as he looked at the pictures taken of the victim in the crime scene.
The detective nodded solemnly, "Yes, Bruce. Never seen something like that before, might gimme nightmares."
Suddenly the door of the detective's office swung open and another officer stood there, gasping for breath, "Good news, sir. We found the killer."
The detective jumped from his seat, "That was fast. Rick, continue on the lab report. Bruce and I will do the questioning."
"Yes, sir."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The suspect was a handsome looking man, in his mid twenties.
When the detective and Bruce sat down opposite him, the suspect said, "I know I'm the only suspect you've got."
"Gerald Randall, right?" Bruce ignored his statement.
"I know who did it," Gerald said calmly.
The detective and Bruce raised their eyebrows, "Who?"
Gerald chuckled, still calm, "Why, me... and you, detective."
"Better watch your mouth or I'll--" the detective raised his fist but Bruce stopped him.
Gerald continued, "You see, Carrie stayed directly opposite my block. I watched her rising from her bed, combing her hair and sometimes... fooled around with many men.
"Of course, she watched me too, every evening. She thought I didn't notice but... haha, I do. I always knew. Even on the day before the murder took place, she was watching me."
"Your motive was to stop her from stalking you?" Bruce inquired, the detective remained silent.
"Haha... not that, sir. I actually liked it. My motive was to cease her sufferings. She was suffering, so much. Blood was pouring out like a crimson waterfall from both her elbows, someone chopped her hands off.
"She was still breathing, although she was almost decapitated. She was crying too. Tears mixed with blood, it diluted the scarlet of her blood. I went in and found her looking at me, with the same longing way she used to watch me."
Gerald sighed, "But this time there was another message in her eyes, she asked me to kill her."
Bruce asked, "According to what you've just said, someone else attempted to kill her but failed. Do you know who that person is?"
As if he couldn't hear, he changed the topic, "Can you spare me a cigarette, detective?" he smiled at him amusingly.
Frustrated, he threw a packet of cigarettes on the table. Gerald took one out and lighted it. He closed his eyes and blew the smoke out, "Marlboro... you have taste, detective."
"Stop playing games. I'm not the one who killed her," the detective stood up abruptly, pulling Gerald's collar.
Gerald didn't speak, but looked at the detective with contempt.
"SHE KILLED HERSELF, SHE'S THE ONE TO BLAME!!" the detective shouted. Bruce held him and kicked the door open, "Guys, grab hold of the detective!"
The detective shouted inhuman screams as he planted his fingernails in his scalp. Gerald continued smoking, smiling.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He hit her head with a vase when she was smoking the cigar.
She fell on the floor and moaned, "Bastard..."
"You asked for it... I didn't want to do this... you forced me!" he shouted, pacing in hurried steps around the room. "You go around sleeping with other men, what am I?!"
"Why do you care..." she tried to get up and he stabbed her hand down to the floor with a kitchen knife.
"Trying to get up? You're a lowly prostitute, STAY DOWN!!"
Silently, she took the pain, bit by bit. But she still tried to stand up.
He laughed with ferocity, "We'll see if you can stand up without hands..." he proceeded to cut her hands from below the elbow.
Tears of pain burst out, but she refused to moan or scream. She was a proud woman.
He threw her bloody hands on her bed, "Tell me you love me," he said in a gentle tone.
She kept quiet.
"Since you don't wanna talk, why not I help you get rid of that voice box that you REFUSED TO USE?!"
"You're a son of a bitch, filthy police--"
"I don't want to hear anything else from you just tell me that you love me! Say YOU LOVE ME!! SAY IT!!"
"I hate you..." she added salt to his bleeding wound, he cursed her, with tears.
"If you refuse to say you love me... I refuse to let you tell anyone you love them!!" the knife sank into her neck. Rage was so puissant it gave him the strength to cut through her bones......
Gerald witnessed the whole scenario, but he did nothing to help. Instead, he waited till the killer left.
The door was left opened. The vase was missing and so was the knife.
Her eyes watched him as he toyed with her long bronze hair, taking in the scent of her hair. He didn't mind the putridness. Smoking her cigar, he took her life.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The day the detective was sentenced to death, Gerald's throat was slit in his own room.
No weapons were found. The only evidence the police found was a cheque, with the fingerprints of both the detective and Carrie.
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