Let's Meet Again

A QUICK GLANCE

My eyes deliberately dived into tear waves. I suffocated because of my immensely sore nose. My face fell haggard and pale at a single thought of the event which occurred today. Overhearing the whimpers echoing into my skull made me shiver with pain, displeasure gripped me cruelly. The aisels of peace were stuffed with those terrorizing memories - I was done with living now. I sniffled aggressively, inhaling all the affliction which left me numb. I screamed until I felt my throat would bleed. My voice went raspy because of the stinginess into my throat - but I yelled misrably until I fainted.

A sudden demise of someone you love would make you feel like I do, nevertheless.

I opened my eyes laying on the hospital bed which had never been comfortable. I was coated with a white blanket. I recalled those monstrous memories again. My brain flustered with a thousand splendid thoughts and some of them covered my eyes like crystal dews.

It wasn't even my fault.
I remember texting my friend and laughing incredible nonchant laughters, until uncle Thomas called me.
He had a quavering voice which immediately starled me, the terror into his voice went into my ear drums awfully. He is my father's colleague.

"Yes, uncle?"
"He died."
I paused as my mind riffled through a million hes I've ever known.
"Who?"
"Your father. Mr Jones."
I pulled the receiver away from my ears and slammed my phone on the ground. A gignatic outbursts of emotions grazed my body.

Its been a mouth since he died and I still miss him more than anyone can ever do. Sometimes, while sitting by the fire with knees drawn to my chest, I feel him. His voice, the glorious sight stored in his eyes, everything was memorable. He was shot by an anonymous personality, there are several possibilities of culprits but no one is certain.

He was a detective by profession, in the middle of a thrilling murder mystery before he died.

During a spring afternoon, when the crickets sang out loud and the windows reflected sunlight, I drenched myself into his thoughts again. I watched the apple green maple tree looking as gorgeous as a fresh apple. The sky sparkled with bright colours - and the clouds were in a steady motion. Birds settled within the bushes of the leaves and created bustels. They fed their little ones very joyfully that they made happiness bubble into my chest.

I thought about the words he scribbled on his rusty notebook. Every mere clue he collected and discussed with his colleagues made the case sharper. Every corner could have been exposed to him, yet.

I pressed my lips and imagined him addressing me as a detective. I felt a monstrous kick within which made my mind shuffle through some thoughts.

I would solve the case he died while solving. I would solve the case which killed him, Cristina Jones aka me, the daughter of Henry Jones will take the lead of the investigation.

Enough melodramatic weeps, I shall make him awestruck. I shall make his ashes vaporize in peace.

Drop back to reality, how can a responsible daughter leave her father's last case incomplete? Whether legally or illegally, I made my mind to uncover the deep secrets of the cursed family.

Plans started to get sketched into my head. As I drifted back to motion abruptly and rushed to his room, I gripped his personal documents.

His room was gorgeous and classic. Graceful textures covered the walls and chandeliers lighted up the ceiling. We aren't that poor, after all, we live in a excessively posh area.

But living in these graceful areas is worse. I remember my childhood when we visited the rural area we belonged to, during vacations. The people were very sociable, but here, cherishing is something too far. People don't even know each other. They are busy in their Lamborghinis lined up in garages.

Really, I am not exaggerating even a little.

I scrutinized father's documents, he named the mystery as ' ' the unfortunate skulls ' '
He often gave personal names to his mysteries. The second last mystery he solved as called The voices.
His names seemed like the title of horror movies.

He often named his cases with peculiarity, but that one name instantly gave me a lump into the throat. There was something bizzare with the family the case belonged to, something bizzare with this case even. I felt blood pumping into my head and I felt sick and unhealthy. What is wrong with this case or I am stereotyping?

What is it?