The Twisted Case of Mr. Winter
BY MYRIAM BEN ALI
Hello Dear Reader,
were there. I could not see anything from that angle save
the semi-closed red-tinted shades of the window. I feared
entering just to receive another beating, but I could not
remain in doubt all the night through, so I slowly pushed
the door open, hoping it would not screech.
This is a brief account of a rather chaotic time in
my life. It is a vexing situation and I do not expect anyone
to comprehend this, people have never understood, and
many of which will think me insane after reading this entry. But, anyhow, here is the most complex and terrorific
resolution of a case I have ever stumbled upon;
My heart stopped at the terrorific sight my eyes
beheld. Glistening with the moonlight, the once white
walls were now painted with drips of sparkly red, the once
tan floor was now soggy and stained mahogany brown,
and my once iron-willed mother was now cold and lifeless
on the floor. I held my shaky hands to my mouth as I
backed away, then running downstairs towards the livingroom to call the police. I had always known my parents
were violent, but I never imagined they would turn it
against each other, and in such a heinous manner. At that
moment all I speculated was that my father had ruthlessly
murdered my mother. Knowing this attitude and actions
towards me, it seemed highly probable that he could reach
the malicious act of murder in the first degree.
It felt as if great invisible hands were choking me
on the spot. It was black. Lightless and monotonous. I
could not see nor hear nor sense a single thing. I arose
from my bed with caution, attempting to feel my way
through my bedroom with my hands and the mental visualization of how it was organized earlier that night. The
floor squeaked and the door screeched as I exited my
room, eerily bonding with the silence. I tip-toed through
the hall, planning on heading to my library and art room,
the haven I went to when I experienced a nightmare. On
my way to the art hall, though, I happened to notice a
strange thing about the silence - my father had always
snored. The soundlessness emitting from my parents quarters could only mean they had left, with me, a child of
merely 6 years in age, alone, in the midst of the cold night,
once again. But halt for a minute, that co [