Trenton Stevens (he/him)
Ms. Frommlet’s 3rd Period
September 3, 2020
Murder at Cedar Park
It was one of those chilly days in November. When all the sky sends down are torrents large enough to raise the ocean by a meter each, even when it was cold enough to be snowing. I turned on the stove and placed the kettle over the flame. I picked up the book I was reading and pulled out the bookmark before finding the line I had left off on. I resumed reading and waited for the sharp whistle signaling the water was hot. I poured a cup of tea and continued reading, while I waited for the police to come for the body in the master bathroom’s bathtub. It just so happened to be my small community’s part- time billionaire, and full-time whore. Just then, the doorbell rang and I set down the book on the open page, for later reading. I opened the door and put on my warmest face for the police-woman that stood on the front porch. I showed her the bathroom and answered her questions.
“No, I do not know why she is in my house.”
“I found her there when I came home from Fred Meyer’s.”
“The neighbor was cleaning out his pig pen, hasn’t done that for as long as I can remember. He does have a key, so he could have easily gotten in.”
“Her jewelry is missing!?”
“No, I don’t mind if you take a look around. Just mind the full-length mirror, it’s a family heirloom.”
I walked out of the bathroom and back downstairs where I took a sip of tea, realized I forgot to put honey in it and walked around the bar into the kitchen where I did so. I took another sip, which went down easier. I picked up my book and walked over to the couch where I continued reading while the officer poked around upstairs.
Eventually, she came down the stairs. She said she would look around downstairs, but so far no incriminating evidence had been found (at this, she gave me two thumbs up). I put my head back down and focused on the words. Harry just figured out he was a wizard!
The police officer eventually left, saying that someone would be by shortly to clean up the dead body, and some more people would do a thorough investigation. She recommended that I stay at a hotel or a relative’s house just until this whole shebang was over.
“When will I be able to return?”
She said they would contact me. Taking her advice, I went upstairs to pack up. Except for one small detail, I wasn’t coming back. No one in their right mind would want to live in a house where someone was murdered. Earlier this morning, I had posted the house. I loaded all that I could into my sedan and took off down the twisty private road. I drove into the city and booked a room for a few nights so I could figure out where I was going. Obviously away from the murder, who would want to live in a house where a brutal murder took place? But where would I go? I took a globe out of one of the bags of stuff and spun it. I put my finger down and pulled it back to reveal: Europe. I pulled out my laptop and booked the cheapest flight I could find. Then, I went out to buy the largest suitcase I could find. I stuffed the suitcase until the stitched seams seemed to not be able to take any more and got some shut eye before my flight early in the morning.
At three o’clock in the morning, I rolled over and turned off the alarm clock before jumping into my clothes and vacating the room. I sprinted through bag check and TSA, and all that other good stuff. Stopped for some coffee, then sprinted towards my gate. I plopped into my seat in economy and read until we reached Atlanta, then sprinted to my next flight, for France. From there, I rented a car and drove all the way down through Italy and pulled into Vatican City. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Later that day, I got a call from someone. The police said that they found fake jewels in my ex-neighbor’s pig pen. With my DNA on them. I dropped my phone into a fountain, and got to work writing a confession.
You see, I murdered that lady, for she was my real mother and never bothered to share that information with me. I stole her jewels, because she kept all that wealth to herself.
I woke up at two AM to a rapping at the door. I silently slipped out of the sheets and over to the door. Looking through the peephole, I saw a man who didn’t look like a door to door salesman. So, I slinked back into the far-reaches of the room and hoped he would disappear if I was quiet enough.
Big mistake, two seconds later he was breaking down the door and had a gun on the pillows I had stuffed in the bed. I grabbed the most important suitcase and made a break through the busted door. I hoped the man was satisfied by the bottle of ketchup in the pillow, until I heard two gunshots echo down the hallway. I took the next left, hoping to maybe lose him with a few turns, but reached a dead end. Since I was only on the second story, I ran straight out the large window encompassing the wall. I landed in a tree. Or, more accurately put, a few branches loosely connected, which is what it felt like when I fell through the tree. Let me make this clear, jumping out of a window isn’t as fun as they make it sound. It hurts, a lot. You have to persist, lest you get shot, which would probably hurt a lot, too. I rolled into the thick shrubbery some like to call a hedge and screamed in pain, inside my head.
When I heard a car drive away, I rolled out of the bushes, breathing a sigh of relief. This was like the third mistake I made that night. It turns out, the man after me was still in the parking lot unlocking his car. He turned and looked straight at me. I used whatever drive I had left to propel myself away from the situation. I decided to try the method of taking a bunch of random turns again. This wasn’t working as well as I had hoped, so I slunk into an all-night pizzeria and locked myself in the bathroom. The bathroom smelled so bad, it could probably be counted as a mistake I made as well.
The final mistake I made was walking out of the bathroom, where I was shot in the foot. The rest is history, I was hauled away, sentenced to prison. Strangely enough, no one ever found the jewels. I don’t plan on revealing their location, anyways.
Note: I do not plan on murdering people, I just started writing and ended up here. However, I do like reading, tea, and often go to Fred Meyer’s, which I mentioned in the beginning of this story.