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ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Full Of It
By Vanessa Riverton
PROLOGUE : THE CAPTURE OF A KILLER
I guess one of the reasons that lead me to my current disposition in life was that I have never been able to overcome my detachment from everyone and everything I have ever had contact with. My inability to overcome that was not due to my 'fear' but because I did not see the point in addressing the issue. I was and am perfectly content in knowing that I don't have to know how it feels to go through the other crap my 'friends' and 'family' have gone through.
Right now I am standing in the bedroom of my former lover. I say former not because we broke up, but because as of eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds ago, she stopped breathing. I'd rather not call her my dead lover on account of that would make me sound like a necrophilia aficionado, and aside from me not being a cadaver fucking enthusiast I think most would agree it's just unacceptable in modern society to even be associated due to a lazy slip of the tongue.
Right now, the fact she is dead is not the thing that's bugging me, it's the unsightly stains in the bedroom.
Red is staining the carpets, the bed and the delightful chaise lounge I had bought in Bordeaux last summer. And now it was all covered in blood.
I'm not a squeamish person, but the sight of blood over my private belongings most certainly would send a shiver up my spine. I would clean this all up, but at the moment I have others things to worry about.
I could hear the sirens and they sounded pretty close; Detective Prince must either be getting fitter or her intense hatred for me has escalated so high that she can break the laws of physics in order to try and arrest me. Oh well, there really is no chance of me escaping, I could try the back doors but as much as I hate to admit it, the police here aren't that stupid, they would have it covered this time. And when you live in a 40 storey building apartment complex, the chances of jumping out of the fire escape and landing without a scratch, or God forbid ungracefully, are ridiculously small.
I can stand here and wait, or I could try and walk out of the building, I did always like the idea of a chase. I can't help but sigh. Today is technically Monday. Well it's 1:14am on a Monday, and I was so busy yesterday I did not have the chance to have my usual drink to relax before I went to bed. No time quite like the present I guess.
One of my most treasured possessions is the antique bar I had bought while in South America, when I was in Venezuela promoting a native idol's CD. It was dark mahogany and was dated back to 1869. It even had secret compartments, which really did come in handy for me as I had to hide any valuable purchases in this bar, as my 'friends' felt it was their duty to empty my liquor cabinet every time they visited me.
As of this moment, I have decided to pour out a 1908 Pernod absinthe, into my Le Feé glass, with the absinthe spoon placed above it, and three sugar cubes neatly lined on the spoon. Two on the base, one on top. I still had my decanter with water and ice there I had planned to have this two hours earlier but was rudely interrupted and began to slowly pour the cool liquid slowly over the spoon, dissolving the sugar slowly and creating a seemingly silver swirling vortex in the green liquid below. Almost mesmerising, but soon the sugar had dissolved and the water was gone, and in its place was my drink. I stirred it for a few seconds before bringing the glass to my lips, but I paused, allowing myself to breathe in the intoxicating fragrance. My God, I do love this drink. I slowly tilt the glass towards my lips, and the first few precious drops had barely made it into my mouth when there was that banging at the door.
Looking to the clock, I figure I had at least five more minutes till the fools made their appearance. I take the long-awaited sip from my glass and instantly my senses are revitalised. The coolness of the drink stings my throat but awakens me, the sweetness of the drink causes my tongue to rejoice and the bitter aftertaste brought back the sting I so desperately needed.
"This is the police. We are responding to a report that there were screams coming from this apartment. Open the door, ma'am. Open the door."
Ah, Detective Prince, you did come with them. Well, once you heard the address, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you decided to bombard me with your presence. Walking slowly over to the front door that was currently being pounded on by the police, I took a deep sigh, regretfully placing my absinthe on the table in the hallway. I decide to clear my throat before speaking; it's always appropriate to sound your best I think.
"Okay, officers. I'm opening the door." I can even imagine the look on our dear Detective's face.
Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to relish in the expression upon the detective's face, for as soon as my door was opened, I was tackled mercilessly to the floor, knocking my head into the table in the hallway viciously, and forcing my glass of green glee to fall to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
I'm thrown onto my front and some fragments of the glass are piercing my skin, I can feel the sharp stinging sensation on my cheek that is currently being forced into my mahogany flooring.
I can't see her face, but I can hear her voice. It's the same as it always is to me; filled with utter disdain.
"You killed her. You " She stops herself, gathering her professionalism; God, I can just imagine those salty tears streaming down her face as she looked into the living room and saw the body of Victoria Louwrens my former lover.
"You are under arrest."
After an incredibly boring rendition of the Miranda Rights, I am forced to my feet and brought face to face with the detective I had grown to know personally over the past year.
Dark russet coloured eyes pierce into my own jade ones.
She's given me my rights, right now she's looking at me, trying not to let her anger get the better of her. But her eyes are asking me one question...
Why did I kill the only woman I ever loved?
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