The body fell to the ground, the warmth of life stolen by death's cold embrace, blood rushing out of her open wounds and tainting the once pristine ground with the humor of one taken too soon. Her chest lay still, no flickers of life or her usual innocence remaining in her bosom, a surefire sign that she was dead. Tuesday, 18 September 1992, Rosemary Dawson was viciously killed.
Cries and screams of innocence awakened the silence as the dawn crept into the early morning hours. It was early hours of the morning as a group of high school teens stood in the center of the field around the flames that lit up the night sky; the music was playing loud; Jessica Silverton, sixteen, had never seen anything like this, Jessica grew up in Johannesburg, people would say you "its where you live a fast life." Unlike other teenagers who had the opportunity to mingle with friends after school, she was raised in a Christian household where her parents never allowed her even to own a cell phone.
After school, she would complete her homework; would tidy up the house.
Jessica would turn seventeen tomorrow, and her friends planned something special for her, but she needed to sneak out of the house and meet her friends further up the road.
The clock strikes 8 pm, and Jessica sits at the dining table; Mr. Harold Silverton is a policeman based behind the desk doing administrative work; how he had wished just someday, he would win the lotto and pursue his career as a Writer; he had a good writing skill when it came to descriptive and creative writing, he would knock at five in the afternoon, had his dinner help his wife, Mrs. Silverton.
For the past three months, Mr. Harold Silverton has struggled with writer's block. A writer, any writer or author, knows to overcome writer's block is to change it more to none fiction and push yourself; no matter how shitty it may sound, you push yourself.
Harold Silverton sat at his desk with his blue pen in his hand and his sheet of paper, the only word he dotted down was Title; he had been sitting like to is for the past three hours; Mr. Silverton earned two hundred dollars on his book, it was better than nothing, that paycheck changed his status from a writer to an Author.
Mr. Harold Silverton, age 47, wanted to be a cop for as long as he could remember, but after being on desk duty ever since he joined the police, he was lacking something; his life was dull, and he felt it had no purpose, seeing people come to go out the next day, bribery, corruption, Harry Silverton needed something different.
So he chose to write about what he wanted; he had written a detailed Homicide book, which was so intense, it made him feel as if he was the character.
Tonight was different; Harold wanted to live, breathe and eat like his character.
Staring at chapter fifty-Two, Harold leaned forward closely, inspecting the other chapter; he still believed in old fashion writing, and the 200 dollars he had gotten for the unfinished book was from a janitor at a local church; Harold knew his book had good marketing protection if he could get it marketed through the proper channels. However, that's where he lacked the experience.
Harold stretched out, yawning; the house was quiet. Mrs. Silver was asleep; Harold heard something by the door as it squeaked open.
It was the door in the back; he was well aware of where the sound came from as the sound was loud from the rusted hinges and gave off a squeaking sound.
Harold kept his firearm close, and he walked over to the kitchen; there was no one except for an open window and white net, but something was missing.
He had this feeling; his eyes then wandered to the set of knives that is when he noticed one of the sets of knives was missing; Harold looked down at the white ceramic tiles noticing what appeared to be footprints, "Listen to asshole, do you know who you are dealing with, I can become your worst nightmare if you, not the coward you are."
There was silence; Harold felt a chill wavering, sending goosebumps.
"It has to be my imagination." He thought to himself; he had pushed closed the door and locked it. The light outside had flickered off and on three times before staying off.
He placed his revolver in his pants and returned to the table. Carrying a candle, he knew he would find the lighter at the top of the glass cabinet, where he would open his hand and find the lighter; the glass cabinet consisted of pictures of the entire family neatly framed with a selectively engraved with their names.
Harold stood still for a moment and stared at the picture of Jessica, she had grown up so fast, and he felt proud as a parent that he could still control her - At least thats what he thought- thinking she was tight asleep, the lighter on top of the cabinet was not there. Someone had moved it, but who? And why? Since no one spoke, he had placed the candle in its holder; Harold remembered a backup lighter in the drawer.
After searching for the lighter, he finally found one in the cabinet divider towards the left side, which was stacked between the thick yellow pages phonebook backdating to 1991; he lit the candle and sat writing a book 279 pages book about a serial killer, he had always enjoyed reading books for James Patterson, he drafted his first words -Karalee, 17 years old walking down the Passage- he looked up at the window when he heard a hissing sound, the top window was open.
"What the hell is happening?" He had questioned; he stood up, unlatching the hook of the front door; as he opened it, he kept a firm grip on his firearm; the neighbor's lights were on, and on the front porch, Karalee Jefferson sat smoking her cigarette, blonde teenage girl, light blue eyes dressed with black leather pants and a leather Jacket with silver custom spikes in it, to match her boots.
His book was based on her, and even though she was an underage teen, his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw her, she was quiet, and he would do things to her he wouldn't think of doing to his wife.
Karalee had noticed Mr. Harold was over-friendly with her. He would address her like she was a friend and touch her where friends dont touch her; when confronting this, he playfully said. "No, you are like a daughter to me." With him being a cop, she decided not to talk about it and distance herself from him."
Mr. Miller had noticed she was acting different and she was different but pretended not to notice by continuing to talk to her; two weeks ago, he had added her on Facebook, and she had seen the request but chose not to accept it. But not bumping into him was impossible; they were neighbors; Karalee hated staring at her as if he was undressing her with his eyes.
Sitting on the front Porch, he glanced over at her and decided to walk up to Karalee, leaving the front door open; Mrs. Miller, who had woken up, heard the front door opening and stood behind the blinds looking down at her husband, the man she had loved, the man who she trusted the man who she married, was outside walking up to there neighbors daughter.
She had noticed the change in his behavior; he was less talkative and became aggressive whenever she asked him if he had feelings for Karalee.
Karalee saw Mr. Miller walking up to her, and as much as she wanted to stand up and walk away, she could not as any teenager; she felt guilty even when doing the right thing.
The Jeffersons had financial difficulties since her dad had gotten into an accident; he could not walk, and he got around by using his wheelchair. As for Mrs. Jefferson, the strain the stress of not having money for food started getting to her; her ten-year-old brother Mark got bullied at school for not having fancy clothes, and being able to go on an excursion made Mrs. Jefferson feel like she was depriving her kids of alot of things in life.
Mrs. Jefferson had no source of income; they relied on money from the government and coupons to buy in and odds. Mrs. Jefferson sat nights awake unable to sleep, trying to figure out where they would get food the next day.
The Millers helped them with groceries, and because they were kind enough to help Karalee's family, she felt obliged to be kind to the Millers; her kindness made Mr. Harold get the wrong impression. As he approached Karalee, she looked up at the blinds where Mrs. Miller stood.
Mr. Harold Miller stopped, turned around, looked at the window, and saw his wife. He turned around and leaned over, making it as if he was picking up something; Karalee felt relieved when he returned and closed the door.