I’ve been having a debate with myself.

More like an argument.

I’ve been going around and around in my head for the past week, trying to decide whether or not to actually share some writing with you.

I know, I know. I said that I would be sharing what I’ve actually written in the near future. But I’ve been wondering if I should share this particular piece with anyone.

Here is why.

When I first started saying I wanted to become a writer, I had an idea for a novel. I worked on it for months. Researching. Outlining. And I actually got pretty far writing it. But I needed to take a break. Why?

Well, I won’t go into specifics, but it’s a story centered around some well-known murders in the early 1980’s. It’s a decidedly dark story. After months of living in this world, I really needed to work on some lighter fare. So I put it on a shelf, with a promise to myself that I would revisit it at a time when I am better at writing, and when I’m ready to delve back into the darkness that surrounded it.

What I need from you, is to remember that I wrote this four years ago, and that is a first draft, which I like to lovingly call a “vomit pass.” This is me just getting words on the screen.

So, if you think it’s horrible trash, remember that I’ve improved since then. If you really like it, just think, I’ve improved since then.

What you’ll get today is the first section of a chapter. And for the next few weeks I will post another section of the chapter with each entry.

I really hope you like it.


 

Chapter 4

March 17, 1985

Rosemead, CA

It had been almost ninth months since his first time. Nine months of reliving and relishing that one single moment.

He didn’t even know what had happened to push him over the edge. Her window had been an open invitation. Begging him to enter. All he had wanted to do was find something he could sell. Some small trinket, a ring, a necklace. Maybe two. He needed the money. Coke was getting expensive and he wanted more.

But she had nothing. No jewelry. No trinkets. Nothing worth his time.

He had almost left empty-handed. Angry. An apparition exiting as silently as he had entered.

But she had stirred. Caught his attention. In that moment of anger, he had realized he needed an outlet.

She would become his outlet. And, oh, how he had enjoyed it.

Since then, he had gone to ground, being extra careful to stay out of sight. Silently he wallowed in his one memory.

All this time had passed now, and yet, no one had come looking for him. He had watched the news, read through newspapers. There was no description of a suspect. Nothing gave him any indication that he was being sought after.

Gradually, he began to emerge from his solitude, like an alligator pushing his eyes up through the surface of murky waters. Gliding along ever stealthily, he was now looking for more.

More.

The memory of that first time had grown stale in his mind. He needed something new, something fresh. New memories. Better memories.

This time, he knew what he was looking for. There would be no time wasted looking for trinkets. This time, he was prepared.

As he watched from the shadows, beneath the brim of his AC/DC baseball cap, his hand slipped down to adjust the small object that weighed down the back of his pants. A small caliber gun lay nestled in the small of his back. Waiting, just as he was, for its next moment.

This time he was more prepared. There would be no dinky little knife tonight. He knew what he was after. He wasn’t out looking for some trinket to take. Not tonight. He wanted to take something a bit more substantial.

He wanted to take a life.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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