WRITERS CRAFT FIRST SUBMISSION.
TASK: Answer specified question’s about yourself in a creative fashion.
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“St. Lawrence Notre Dame… Catholic Secondary School” my voice shook.as I spoke.
“And that is the same school that Joanna Russell attended, correct?” The officer walked the perimeter of the table and approached my seat.
I nodded.
His head blocked the single light fixture that was hanging from the ceiling. I didn’t have to squint anymore but it only gave me a more clear view of the greasy mop that sat on his head.
“So,” he started, as if I already knew what he was going to ask, “Who did you call on the night of Saturday, February 4th at approximately 9:45 pm?” his eyes shot down to my hands as they dropped from the table. I wasn’t prepared for this. I recited the number in my head before slowly repeating the digits out loud, “905-***-****”
The officer cut me off and I knew exactly why.
“It’s Joanna’s house number.” my voice faded as I spoke. “But I didn’t even get to talk to her. It was… her mom who answered. Shauna?” I wasn’t sure of my own words. I looked up at the officer and he didn’t seem to believe it any more than I did.
“How long was she down there before you did it?” his voice stern and eyes wide.
“Do what?” I asked, crossing my arm’s in a sad attempt to give normal teenage attitude. Since when was I so interested in being normal? Joanna was normal, in a sense. A book worm and an artist. Her words were soft and could snatch your breath away. I wouldn’t say I was jealous. Show-off’s need to be taught a lesson, that’s all.
“Do you not know what you did?!”
I stared straight ahead; even the movement in the corner of my eye wouldn’t cause a blink. He leaned over the table, finally catching my eye’s as he slid stack of papers in front of me. I didn’t need to look at them to know what it was. Instead I looked away, my eyes dancing along the yellowish walls to the sound of my racing heart.
The officer could tell my eyes were on a never ending path to the papers in front of me. His hand brushed across them, spreading the pages along the table as if they were floating over water. Each one began with “To: Joannarussell@hotmail.ca” and you can guess who’s address was listed after the “From”. As he began read the first one out loud, I shrunk in my seat. I guess you could say I was “busted”
“You gained her trust…” he muttered. “And then…” I couldn’t tell if he was disgusted or judging me like everyone else. “You got close to her…” It’s true. She thought I was her best friend; she didn’t have anyone else so it wasn’t hard. She would tell me about how her father abuse’s her mother sometimes and how she loves’s every novel by Ellen Hopkins. She loved strawberries and would never eat at McDonalds. I had even gone out to buy “Heartbeat” by Sharon Creech, a book she would never quit talking about. I had probably read it over a hundred time’s since then.
“You kidnapped this girl.”
As his voice quivered just the slightest bit, it had dawned on me. I wasn’t purely interested in bringing Joanna down.
“You murdered her.”
I was obsessed.
