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You left your apartment earlier that morning. Later, you ask yourself why? Was it a premonition? But at the time you just thought it was a wise idea to go in early and drop off your ballistics research assignment paper at Professor Keahi's office before you head off to your first lecture of the day. You remind yourself that there are only thirty minutes to spare. You must not be late again for the class or they will report truancy.
You reach his office door in amidst the quietude of the campus and try to slot the envelope with your assignment as the contents and name as the ink into the creaking mail slot of the door, only to get the envelope jammed in the opening. You didn't want to attempt to pull it out; to find creases littering the surface and the burnished, white sleeve ruined, so you continue to push push push until the envelope disappears and the mail slot lid squeaks shut.
Only to have the door open.
You find it odd because you know that all office doors in the university should be locked because of security. You shrug your shoulders and put your hand on the doorknob as you conclude that it probably slipped Prof's mind to lock his office door and proceed to close it.
But something catches in the corner of your eye as you turn on your heel.
You look through the small crevice of the open door and when your eye focuses on what is occurring inside of the four walls, every action, every movement goes into slow motion. The passage of the light from the morning sun shining through the drawn blinds is slowed and the sounds that you hear become as if you are underwater. Aside from the beat, beat, beat of your heart, no muscle of your body moves.
You are frozen in place. And you can't do anything to stop it.
The pounding of your heart drum inside beat a rhythm to the words of his execution, the cold steel Professor Keahi's judge and jury. The bullets from the pistol entered as if he were nothing; just meat, blood and bones composed into a being, blasting cavities in his back as it burst crimson into the fading morning. His face was caught in the slow motion, frozen as you were, eyes open, mouth slack, as he was staggered backwards. His eyes held yours and in those fractions of seconds that he was there and then gone, the warmth of the ages simply dissipated into the grim-tainted air.
He fell onto the floor in a tangled heap, legs were drawn up, arms outstretched, hands gripped tightly; the faultless crime scene constructed. As the gore pools around the cadaver, time increases itself in speed and the perpetrator with a bird mask on pockets the weapon slips off his gloves and straightens his tailor-made suit. He tugs the chain necklace with a bow and arrow pendant violently off the corpse's neck.
"Cock Robin is dead, Cock Robin is dead."
And when you scream because of the macabre English nursery rhyme that the sparrow sings, you unconsciously become the fly that saw him die.
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why i used second person narrative in this prologue, i have no clue. but hopefully i did it justice (: and if you don't know who 'you' is, she is Isabella.
(note that i will be using first person for the rest of the chapters in this story. just chill.)
hopefully, you all enjoyed the chapter and don't forget to vote, comment and follow! i would love to hear your thoughts :)
