Kill to Write – 1

Posted: July 6, 2012 in English, Kill to Write
This is a product of a challenge given to us by Padre, our leader in Literati. The challenge was to come with with a story in English with this opening paragraph:
For the past 25 years of my life, I’ve only written two short stories. It’s not for lack of imagination, though. My head is always bursting with ideas to write about. My failure – if you can call it that – can be more attributed to damage control. And conscience. It always boils down to conscience. You see, I do not like writing for the simple fact that if I begin to write, I will have to kill.
So here is the story. I do not know if I made justice or not. The only thing I know is that there’s pretty much of a blood loss. Epistaxis!

Part 1

For the past 25 years of my life, I’ve only written two short stories. It’s not for lack of imagination, though. My head is always bursting with ideas to write about. My failure – if you can call it that – can be more attributed to damage control. And conscience. It always boils down to conscience. You see, I do not like writing for the simple fact that if I begin to write, I will have to kill.

She was stricken by what she just read. Her heart sank. Her legs were wobbling and were about to collapse anytime. Sweat started to form on her forehead and in her body. The cool breeze of air coming from the open window that made the curtain dance was not helping. She took a deep breath. She tightly closed her eyes and opened them. She was staring on a pile of books in a hanging cabinet but her mind was not on them.

She’s in her husband’s private office. She was to clean the room. She moved the cabinets and swept and floor. At one point, she stumbled on some magazines. They were carefully hidden under a cabinet that when you move the cabinet, they will not pop out but rather move with the cabinet. However, if you will raise the cabinet and then push it, the magazines will be plainly seen. She did not give any attention to them, until she needed to dust the floor and needed to move the magazines. A small book fell. It had black covers. It was a journal. The journal piqued her curiosity. She ran across the name of the owner. She smiled. It’s her husband’s. Her husband was hiding something from her. Maybe about his night life, the girls he had before they got married and other escapades. But she was dreaded by the confession. Her husbands needed to kill to write and that he had written two short stories. He must had killed twice!

She again turned to the very first page of the journal. Her mind was still in disbelief and was hoping that she misread the name of the owner of the journal. Her eyes scanned the letters:

This journal belongs toSAM WILSON MARQUEZ

The name was in block capital letters. Her fingers were running in every letter of the name. “God!” she whispered. She sloppily yanked herself on the floor. “This is not happening. There must be some mistake.” And tears were starting to build in her eyes until one by one, they fell.

In her blurry eyes, she turned to the next page and continued reading the rest of the writing not noticing the sound of a car parking in their garage.

I discovered this psychological problem the very first time I started to write. My ideas were there, my plot was concrete and my characters were dressed up. But when I started to write I cannot put my thoughts into writing. The ideas won’t turn into symbols. I thought I might just too excited. And so I left my pen and went for a drink.

It was late night when I came back home and thought of starting my story. I took my pen and started writing. I had just written ten words when I thought my ideas were messed up. I must be really born not to write.

I went to sleep.

The same thing happened the following day, until one time, I ended up in a bar. I might have taken more than 4 glasses when my vision started to get blurry. I was groggy, and I thought a lady came to me. We had some chat, I can’t remember what we talked until we ended up in my bed.

When I woke up in the morning, my head was hurting bad. And I saw bloods in my hands. I got so scared I washed my hand and soaped them thoroughly. I was looking for the girl but I found her not. When I went to my table, my story was complete, with all the settings I wanted. I was happy although a little bit confused how it came to be.

The idea of killing the girl did not sink in until I went to the same bar and search for the girl. I thought she might be the reason I was able to finish my story, and she deserved at least a glass of drink as my gratitude. However, they said that there was not a girl with my description who worked with them.

I was so scared. I thought I killed the girl.

For many days and weeks I…

“Honey, where are you?”

Sophia was surprised from where she was sitting to hear her husband. She did not notice him coming back home, nor did she hear the car’s engine. She lost track of the time. She looked at her wristwatch. It was passed five in the afternoon.

She hastily pushed herself up and unconsciously put the journal on the table. Her husband must not know what she had discovered. She took a deep breath and collected herself. She needed to act normal. She dusted her apron covering her yellow shirt and her tight shorts, touched her hair in pony tail before she came out of the room.

“I’m here,” she bellowed when she was out of the room. She was trying to relax although her demeanor was showing otherwise, but not so obvious. For the three years she was living with him, her discovery was something; and there was something in her heart that cries to run for her life.

Sam was on his usual long sleeve folded up to his elbows, paired with black pants. He was comely as usual with his dark straight hair moved to one side. His lips were red, even if occasionally he would smoke. He had a muscled jaw and his nose was not flat nor high-bridged but fitted very well for his face. His square shoulders and his bulging chest were shown by his fit long sleeve. But those descriptions had never the same effect on Sophia. She only now sees a person who killed twice.

“Hey, honey,”coyly he said while unbuttoning his long sleeve when he moved towards Sophia, “missed me?” He moved his lips to hers and gave her a kiss. His hands untying her apron.

She always looked like a goddess. Even with some hair dropping on her face, she looked perfect. Red tiny lips, high bridged nose and seductive gray eyes. Her breasts were like flowers full grown, always looking majestically, unbending. Her legs were long and perfect -not too big nor thin. And she was sexy like a cola bottle. She was wearing a short and tight short. Titillating as usual.

Sophia did not respond to Sam’s kiss which did not passed Sam’s.

“How was your day? Is there any problem, honey?”

“I’m just tired,” the automatic response and she moved to the couch.

“You seem to be cleaning the whole day,” he noticed.

“Yes, and I just like to lie down and sleep. The whole work zapped my energy, damn.”

“Just relax. Lie down, I’ll prepare dinner then. I’ll just change but be prepared tonight.” There was a smile on Sam’s face.

Sam went to their room and changed. He came down latter and prepared dinner.

Sam moved his hand and placed them on Sophia’s body. Sophia had her back on Sam. They were on their bed. It was passed 10 in the evening. He moved his foot and rested them on his wife’s legs. But Sophia took Sam’s hand off her body and pushed his legs away. There was silence. An awkward situation. This never happened before.

“You seem tensed,” Sam offered. “Anything bothering you, or is there any problems?”

“Nothing,” Sophia answered. It’s just that I’ve read you killed a girl and I am afraid. I am afraid that when you will learn about it, you will kill me. I am afraid that when I close my eyes, I wont be opening them again. I am afraid to sleep. I think, I don’t actually know you at all. I am afraid of you. Those were the words that she wanted to say but instead her mouth opened,”I was just too tired working the house the whole day. I just need enough rest.”


No words came out from each of them until it was unbearable for Sam. Sam stepped out of their room and headed to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. He sat and finished the bottle. He decided for another one and another one. He was halfway the third bottle when he thought of hitting the bed. With the third bottle in his hand, he walked through the sala and passed his private office when he turned around and decided to finish the last one in his office.

He opened the light. The room was still a mess. He saw some crumpled paper in one side along with the stick broom. She’s not done here yet, she thought, she must be very tired. He went straight to his table and yanked his self on the chair. He placed his beer on the table and his hands were lazily touching the papers and books on his table when he noticed his journal.

His eyes went straight to the cabinet where his journal was supposed to be resting in peace. The cabinet was moved.

“God,” his heart’s beats was on his ears. The effect of the beer had departed and suddenly he was all alert. He felt cold. “She knew!” he whispered.

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