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Title: In the clearing

by Olivia from Cheshire | in writing, fiction, short stories

It is imperative that you understand what I’m telling you, death is something which physical. Your life does not die with your body, it simply moves on into another dimension. Death is really a turning point in life where your body is left behind forever. However, the end of your life is a very different matter. You’re very much alive physically but emotionally you are numb, cold and lifeless. With nothing left to live for, living becomes a drawn out waiting game with death as the prize. Your heart beats purely to keep your body functioning; it feels nothing because inside you are nothing and no one, simply an empty shell with a meaningless name.

My heart isn’t part of me, it’s just there. I lie here listening to the rhythmic drum of life keeping its steady beat, not once faltering. I feel the cold, damp grass seeping through my thin shirt making the hairs on my arms stand up. As I try to block out the chill my mind begins to drift and I wonder if she is cold too. Quietly I search for her hand; yes she can feel it too. I close my eyes and let the darkness envelop me as I mull over my next move. The longer I think the more complex and intricate the delicate web of lies become. I don’t mind though, you see that’s the beauty of the end of your life, nothing and no one matters to you. There are no real consequences.

Snap! I have you attention now. Shall I give you a few moments to contemplate the potential out comes of the noise? A vengeful ex-partner set on brutally murdering me? A police officer hoping to stop me and be a hero? A desperate gypsy who warns me of great danger that will arrive in the shape of a dark stranger? All of these scenarios would cause a wonderfully sudden twist that would certainly interest me. Alas, it was only a rabbit sitting up to scrutinize me with untrusting eyes. The prey is so deeply absorbed in examining my form that it does not see dangerous flame ravenously circling it. Closer and closer it creeps yet still the rabbit does not stir.

Crack! The rabbit’s neck is quickly and effortlessly broken. The fox quietly holds my gaze for a moment before slinking away from the clearing, taking with it the last scattered remains of the dying day. It is oblivious to the fact that we both share one common interest, killing.

Whilst I reflect on that notion I roll over and look at her. Death suits her well. She is calmer now, much calmer. I feel a smile reach my lips as I turn onto my back and return to the wonderfully problematic question of what to do next.

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A short piece of writing that could be used as the start of a thriller or murder story

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