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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Mystery · #1303407
A taste of a story never written. A murder mystery. A story of love. Please comment.
The Dream.                                                            

         Febuary the 15th, had never felt this ominus before. Oddly it was a cool, foggy morning of a passing winter. While the world lay in an insensate stupor, the accomplishment of a late night valentine, room number 212 was long awake. Tensions were climaxing.

         A drop of cold sweat oozed of her brow, and fell with a soft thump onto the icy white marbled floor, momentarily breaking the ringing silence. She knew how perfect the plan was, yet all confidence eluded her. Conjuring all her courage, she turned on the faucet with her trembling hand and washed the stains again and again, long after they had disappeared. She knew she was going crazy. She felt most vulnerable now, as every moment passed like a lifetime. She went back into the room and sat on her chair, slowly slumping by the edge, and finally crawling to the floor. She finally began to realize what had happened, and it weighed her down. Her hands reached for her forehead, then she slowly tugged on her hair causing a sweet pain. Any moment now she was expecting to hear a scream, from the corridor on the left. She waited with baited breathe for the sound of confusion and turmoil.
         
         Room number 218 had a much different feel to it. Here the air was calm and easy. All that could be heard was the ruffling of a curtain, as a cool breeze blew in. It seemed as if all that was pending, had come to pass, and moved on.  The heavily carpeted floor, revealed a history of its own. The blood stains had long been dry. As Mr. Murray lay on the edge of his chair, the dagger so deeply thrust into his chest, began to loosen its grip. No one seemed to care.

         Room number 222 spoke of happier times. The auburn walls spread warmth and radiance. On the bed, was neatly kept a black overcoat, a pair of trousers and a polo shirt. On the side table, a silver watch. The outdated radio played Nat King Cole in all its hazyness. In the steamy shower was a young man, of older times. With not a worry on the world, he sang to the music of the autumn leaves. To him the day had just begun. Little did he know, it was all over.

         A floor below, amidst the darkness was a young woman in scarlet...
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