Chapter 1: “The Writer”

Crash.

She turned around swiftly, her eyes searching for the source of the noise. She walked towards the kitchen with tentative steps, thinking that the noise originated from there. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest and she took deep breaths.

Probably a cat got through the window or something. Nothing to worry about, she told herself.

She peeked inside the kitchen, and saw a broken glass vase on the tiled floor. Seeing no one else in the room, she heaved a sigh of relief, and bent down to pick up the broken pieces.

A hand grabbed her hair from behind and pulled her to her feet. She was about to scream, when a gloved hand covered her mouth. She thrashed around, trying to inflict damage on her attacker, but he was too strong. She tried to claw at his face, or bite his hand, but her weak efforts were in vain. She suddenly felt dizzy, and her eyes were drooping heavily. Her strength was weakening.

The girl’s body became limp in the man’s arms. He carried her to a bedroom, and placed her on the bed. Then, he took scissors and a blade out of the pocket of his coat, and started shaving off the girl’s hair.

His eyes were glazed in concentration, as he expertly cut the girl’s flaming red hair. He handled her with great care, like a fragile flower. He had a black mask covering half of his face, and his thin lips were set in a cold smile.

The man was done in three minutes, and pocketed his possessions. He took out an ornamental dagger from his pocket, and kissed it, whispering words under his breath. After giving the girl one last smile, even though she was unconscious and couldn’t see it, the man dove the knife through her chest.

From the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw the girl’s fingers twitch, but other than that, he saw no other signs of life. Blood oozed out, staining the girl’s nightdress, and the bed.

The man stroked the girl’s forehead, and left a black rose on her chest beside the knife. Then, he quietly stepped out of the apartment, his cloak billowing after him.

---

Hmm…what to do…what would he do?...what would I do?...what would anyone do?

Wait, why am I asking all that in my head?

There, I’m talking to myself again.

Well, it’s not exactly talking, I’m just thinking.

Or more like, asking questions.

To myself.

This is almost the equivalent of talking to oneself.

Gah, I’m pathetic!

James sighed, putting his pen down on the table. He ruffled his dark hair, making it messier than before. He glanced at the notepad before him, pushing his square-rimmed glasses further up his long nose.

The man stroked the girl’s forehead, and left a black rose on her chest beside the knife.

“Gosh, that is so cliché,” he said to himself, as he took up his pen again and started editing that sentence.

“I am never going to get this book finished,” he said, as he put his pen down once more, and took his face in his hands.

He gave another sigh before getting up from his chair and walking over to the small kitchen in his apartment. He started fixing himself a cup of coffee.

His kitchen was in a mess. Dirty dishes cluttered the sink, and the tiles were falling off from the walls. James meant to clean, but every time, something got in his way. Like last Friday, he wanted to wash the dishes, but he had an inspiration streak, and wrote for hours, leaving his chores abandoned. And then the other time, when he wanted to take out the trash, he had to write some new idea down, and instead, ended up writing fifty pages of a story. And so on.

James had to finish writing the book. This book would determine his future. Ever since school, he wanted to be a writer. He posted regularly in newspapers ad magazines, but he was never successful in fulfilling his dream. Every writer wants to see their book published, and so did James. And he was determined to become successful this time.

He walked back to his room and plinked down on to the chair. He picked up his pen and hovered near the paper, thinking.

Then, he quietly stepped out of the apartment, his cloak billowing after him.


James didn’t know what to write next. He groaned. Bloody writer’s block! Gah!

He had a good plot. He had awesome characters, but the problem was, he just didn’t know how to put it all in words. He even had the exact words of the ending in his head, and a dramatic scene which was supposed to go in the middle, but he just can’t get there. A part of him wanted to skip right to the middle, but he knew that that would make a sloppy story.

James knew that being a writer would be tough, but he did not want to give up. He had to try, no matter how hard it might be for him, he will at least be able to say that he tried.

His eyes suddenly became wide. That’s it!

He picked up his pen, and started scribbling furiously.

I never wanted to be a murderer. I never wanted to take the lives of others. But the problem was…I had to…

 

 

 Chapter 2: "The painter" 

There are so many colours in the world. But the question is, what do they mean?
Red is the colour of love...anger...blood. White is the colour of peace...innocence...death. Purple means royalty, while yellow shows gaiety.

One colour does not signify a single emotion. It depends on the person, and how they perceive it. It is like the difference between an optimist and a pessimist. An optimist will say that the glass is half-full of water, while a pessimist will say that the glass is half empty.

Through an artist's eyes, the colours, if alone, don't mean anything. To him, blue is blue, and red is red. But, give him a canvas and a brush, and the colours become so much more.

It all depends on his mood. An artist will paint whatever suits his mind. He will paint whatever he is feeling - anger, frustration, hate or just calm. One good look at the canvas will reveal the artist's emotions. The thickness of his lines, his choice of shades, the strokes - they reveal the artist's heart just like the words in a diary. And to an artist, his canvas is his diary, concealed by layers of paint, yet on display for the world to see.

In the small studio of his apartment, a man was standing before a large easel. The strong smell of turpentine and oil hovered in the air, and a long, thick, brush hung loosely between his thin fingers. His grey eyes were glazed in concentration and his brow was furrowed in thought, as the brush moved slowly over the canvas, covering the rough cloth with colour wherever it touched. Adam Jones was painting.

He didn't know what he was painting. He had just felt like painting something that day, and the rest happened on its own. Before he knew it, his hands were moving the brush on their own accord, applying forceful and soft strokes where needed. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his dark hair was matted on it. He wanted to swipe his hair away from his eyes, but his fingers were smudged with paint, and he didn't want his face to be smeared as well.

The studio was quiet. It had only one door, and one window. The noises of the outside world could not penetrate its walls. This was why Adam chose this room as his studio. This was where he felt most at peace, and think without any hindrances. This was his sanctuary.

Canvases lined the wall and old paint brushes were discarded on the floor alongside empty curled-up tubes. Adam had painted the walls whenever he was running low on canvases, and it was covered with portraits, sceneries, and anything that had occupied his mind at the time. One wall was only painted of people's faces he saw or knew. Little girls with bright smiles, old men with wrinkled faces, or beautiful women he saw covered this wall.

Another was of the places he visited. The park, with its apple trees, the museum with the paintings of the artists he liked, and the lake with white geese, was painted here.

The wall with the window had different animals painted on it: cats, dogs, birds, and even monkeys. This one looked like a jungle.

The last wall was blank.

Adam didn’t know what he wanted to paint on that wall. He had plenty of blank canvases now, and didn’t have any reason to paint on it. Neither did he have any inspiration for it. So, he left it like that – white, blank and lonely, and decided to let it be.

Adam painted continuously for six hours, not even wanting to take a break. He felt like he needed to finish the painting. He could never stand incomplete paintings, but this one was special. This one had to be finished.

Another hour later, Adam finally awoke from his intense reverie of painting, and focused on his canvas. The brush in his fingers fell to the floor with a clatter, as a gasp escaped his mouth.

The painting was of a woman. Her brown eyes stared blankly at Adam, while her body was twisted in an uncomfortable way. She was wearing a white nightdress, smeared with something red. Blood.

A knife with an ornamental handle was sticking out of her chest, and beside it was a small, black rose that was also smeared with the woman’s blood.

With shaking hands, Adam lightly touched the canvas. The woman had a soft, beautiful face, but her hair…her head was shaved.

He had never painted anything so violent. Why did he paint this? All he felt like was holding the brush, and the next thing he knew, he was moving it without thinking of what he painted to paint. What did this mean?

Sadly, Adam couldn’t answer these questions himself. All he felt was shock, disgust…and fear.

 

 

Chapter 3: “Detective Jones’ Conundrum”  

 

Detective Gregory Jones was tired. Broad shoulders sagging, and eyelids dropping with sleep, Gregory Jones sighed heavily as he slumped back on his uncomfortable chair. He glanced at the clock, and then at the huge stack of papers on his desk. If luck was on his side, then he might be able to finish everything by midnight. If not, well, he might have to sleep in his office.

He groaned. Not again. God, I need sleep.

He was just about to rest his head on the table, when his assistant barged in.

“Sir…we…have a…problem,” he panted as if he had run a hundred miles.

“What now, Doff?” Jones asked tiredly.

“Er…we have a homicide case on our hands, and the Chief wants you to do it,” Doff explained.

Jones sat up straight. “Me? Doesn’t he already know that I have dozens of cases still left?”

“Yeah, he said he’ll hand them over to Smith, but he really needs you to do this one.”

A frown formed on Jones’ forehead. This case must be bloody important if the Chief wants me to abandon my other assignments, he thought.

“Fine,” Jones replied, his sleep finally gone from his eyes. “Let’s go.”

 

---

 

“Name?”

“Penelope Anderson; twenty-six; bank accountant.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“No. But we found these.”

A detective handed a plastic bag to Jones. He peered at it closely, a frown forming on his forehead. The bag contained a black rose stained with something red, which Jones was sure was blood, and a dagger with elaborate carvings on it, also covered with blood.

“Is this the murder weapon?” Jones asked the other detective, poking the dagger.

“Yes. She was stabbed with it, sir,” replied the detective.

Jones nodded solemnly and looked towards the bedroom. Police were talking to each other, forensics were examining the area with their equipment and cameras flashed as photographers took pictures from all angles. The girl’s body was neatly laid out on the bed, her hand crossed on her chest. She could’ve been mistaken for sleeping, were it not for the fact that her chest was stained with blood.

“Her hair -?” Jones started, as he noticed the girl’s neat, bald head.

“Shaved. Before she died, apparently,” answered the detective.

Jones frowned. The murderer wanted her hair?

He glanced at the items in the plastic bag again. A black rose. What did it mean? And who found black roses these days anyway? They’re very rare.

“Harrington, I want you to find out anything about this dagger. Where knives like these can be found, what these carvings mean. Anything,” Jones ordered a short man with brown hair. Harrington nodded, took the bag from Jones and ran off.

“Fray, I want you to find out the places where black roses are sold,” Jones told another man.

“Yes, sir,” said Fray and walked out of the room.

Doff approached Jones. “Looks like we have a tough case on our hands, sir,” he commented.

Jones scratched his chin as he looked skeptically at Doff. “How so?” he asked.

Doff shrugged, but his face showed that he was thinking hard. Doff had sharp green eyes that Jones always found too easy to read.

“We have no fingerprints, no eyewitnesses, nothing to lead us to the killer,” Doff replied.

“But, we have a black rose and a dagger that looks expensive and not found in the average market,” countered Jones. “If we find out where the killer bought those from, we can easily find out who our killer is.”

“This case will be easy,” commented Jones as he glanced sadly at the body once more. At least, I hope it will be.

 

---

 

The next morning, the news stands were crowded. Everyone was grabbing a copy of the newspaper and whispers erupted amongst the pedestrians.

BANK ACCOUNTANT MURDERED IN OWN HOME

Penelope Anderson, aged 26, was found dead last night in her own home.

The police are all working hard to find the murderer, but as of now, it is still a mystery to them.

“The murderer left a few things that might be traceable, so I believe this case will be easily solved,” confirmed Detective Gregory Jones, the main detective on the case.

No eyewitnesses were reported, and the murderer didn’t even leave fingerprints at the murder scene.

This incident has shaken Penelope Anderson’s neighbours. When asked, they said that they did not hear anything that might have suggested a struggle.

“Whoever it is, is sneaky,” comments Fred Doff, Detective Jones’ faithful assistant. “But Mr Jones is one hell of a detective and he’ll solve this case in no time.”

A man smirked as he read the last line. We’ll see how you catch me, Mr Jones. We’ll see.

He bought the newspaper and tucked it under his arm before setting off towards his next destination.

I wonder who’ll be next tonight…

 

 

Chapter 4: “Coincidence?”

Laura Summers sipped a steaming cup of coffee as she stared pensively through the window in the café. She was oblivious to the bustle of activity around her, and only focused on the street outside as she waited for someone to arrive. Cars drove by, pedestrians walked briskly to their destinations, and little children trailed behind their parents. The weather was sunny, yet not too hot, just perfect. Laura smiled absentmindedly as she twirled a strand of her red hair between her slender fingers and admired the scenery outside.

Someone walked inside the café and the bell chimed noisily. She glanced at the door and stood up, her face brightening instantly with a smile as the dark-haired person embraced her.

“Laura, I missed you, terribly,” said the person as he let go of her.

Laura laughed softly as she sat down. “It’s only been a few months, Richard,” she said.

Richard, who had been carrying a newspaper, set it down on the table and took Laura’s hands in his own. “It feels like years,” he said.

She smiled sweetly, and leaned towards him, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “I’ll make it up to you,” she replied.

His grey eyes twinkled as he said, “Oh, you better…”

“Or else?” Laura asked teasingly.

“Or else I’ll -”

“Coffee?” offered a waitress as she stood waiting beside their table.

Richard shook his head. Laura’s eyes dropped to the newspaper between them and gasped.

“A murder?” she asked as she pulled the newspaper closer to her.

Richard nodded. “News of the day.”

Laura read the article and looked distressed. “Oh my, the house is just a few blocks away from here…” she commented sadly.

“If you want to go somewhere else -”

“No, it’s alright, I’m just a bit shocked,” Laura interrupted Richard.

Richard shrugged. “Yes, it really is shocking. Murders aren’t common around here.”

“Especially with the police force here. The law is much better than at other places,” stated Laura.

“I guess so…hopefully this Detective Jones guy will solve it in time,” Richard remarked casually.

“I know Detective Jones. He was a friend of my father’s,” said Laura.

“What’s he like?” Richard asked inquisitively.

“He’s very good. The best of the best,” Laura replied with a hint of pride in her voice.

“You sound like you’re close to him.”

“I knew him ever since I was born. He was practically like my own uncle.”

Richard nodded. A few seconds of silence passed before he launched questions at Laura, asking about her trip abroad. Laura replied enthusiastically. She had missed Richard too. Their relationship was strong a few months ago, and Laura thought Richard would propose. But she had to go abroad, and their relationship was on hiatus. Now, Laura wondered how Richard felt.

“Laura, are you free tonight?” Richard asked tentatively.

“Yes,” she replied.

“How about we have dinner together?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Laura agreed with a smile. They continued their conversation for a while before Richard said that he had to attend to some business. He kissed her goodbye and walked out of the café.

The smile stayed on her lips as Laura watched Richard cross the street outside and head south. She had a good feeling about tonight.

**************************

“Adam?” called a woman’s voice from the adjoining room.

“In here,” replied Adam as he stared at the canvas before him.

A tall, slender woman stepped inside Adam’s studio. Her black hair framed her oval face in sleek bangs and her petite figure was draped in a black jacket and denim jeans. She hugged Adam from behind and kissed on his cheek softly.

“Hi,” she greeted him.

Adam didn’t answer. He was gripping onto a newspaper tightly and biting his lower lip.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked.

“That…and this,” replied Adam as he first pointed to the painting before him and the newspaper in his hand.

The woman took the newspaper from him and glanced at it once. “Well, it is a good copy,” she commented as she criticised the picture in the newspaper and Adam’s painting.

The picture in the newspaper was of a girl with a clean, shaven head, blood dripping from her chest and staining the bed underneath her. Adam’s painting was of the same picture.

“No, you don’t understand, Alexa,” said Adam, “I painted this yesterday.”

“What?” Alexa exclaimed disbelievingly.

“I painted this yesterday,” Adam repeated with his eyes fixed on the painting. “At night. And today, the same picture is printed in the newspaper,”

“Come on, Adam, you’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about something like this?” retorted Adam

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t make any sense,” snapped Alexa, her tone all of a sudden becoming angry.

Adam sensed her anger and sighed. “I’m not lying, Alexa.”

“Maybe you saw it before…”

“I saw a picture of something that wasn’t even printed?”

Alexa rubbed a hand over her eyes. “So, you’re saying that you can paint the future?” she asked sardonically.

Adam groaned. “No, I’m not saying that…I think.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence…even though I really don’t see how,” she remarked uncertainly.

Adam frowned at the painting before him. “Maybe…I don’t know…this is just too weird…maybe I’m just worrying about it for no reason at all.”

“Or maybe you saw it today and painted it, and you forgot because you have amnesia,” Alexa offered with a wry smile.

“Maybe…” Adam murmured absentmindedly. But he knew that that was not the case, and he indeed painted the picture yesterday.

Alexa put her hands on Adam’s shoulders and locked her hazel eyes with his grey ones.

“Look, lets not worry about it now, alright?” she murmured against his lips as she kissed him.

“Mmm…so what do you suggest?” he whispered huskily as he placed his hands on her hips and drew her closer to him.

“I don’t know…you tell me.”

Adam smiled against her lips as he backed her out of the studio towards his bedroom.

Chapter 5: “A Series of Events”

Planning. Everything in our lives requires a plan. We plan tomorrow, we plan our futures, we plan the present, and we look for flaws in our plans of the past.

That was what one man was doing – planning. However, he wasn’t planning what he wanted to eat for dinner that night, and neither was he making plans to see a movie. No, he was planning a murder.

Sitting on a bench beside a tree in the park, Rick Masters looked like any normal person just spending a sunny day outside. No one would’ve guessed that this handsome, dark-haired man had very dark secrets. Adorned in black jeans and a black full-sleeved shirt, he looked like a well-off man spending a few minutes off from his busy life. Yes, he did have a busy life…just not the one anyone expected him to have.

Rick’s emotionless grey eyes were fixed on a young blonde woman reading a magazine on the other side of the park. As if sensing his gaze on her, she glanced his way and her full pink lips broke into a perfect smile. Rick raised an eyebrow and smirked. The woman batted her eyelashes and returned to her magazine.

Rick breathed in deeply and smiled. His smile was of a man who had just smelt victory in the air. And for Rick, he knew that victory was not far away. Just a few more victims…

**************************

He waited almost nonchalantly for her in the dark alleyway. With a cigarette between his lips, he was leaning against the wall as his eyes were fixed on the small figure approaching from the other side of the alley. When she was near, she gasped as she noticed him. Her body stiffened at first, but then relaxed.

“Hello, I didn’t know you were waiting for me,” she said softly, smiling warmly at him.

He smiled. “It’s not safe for a beautiful woman such as yourself to walk alone at night,” he commented.

She blushed. “Why, of course, how thoughtless of me. But, I believe that a strong man such as yourself will walk me home?” she replied as she batted her eyelashes at him.

He offered his arm. “Of course.”

James stopped writing as he took a sip of beer. Scratching his head with the end of his pen, he sighed and walked towards the window of his small apartment, overlooking the city illuminated by bright lights. The city lights made the stars in the night sky look insignificant. A cool breeze ruffled James’ dark hair and he closed his eyes as he breathed in the cold, night air.

James bit his lip as he glanced at the notepad on his table. Something was not right. He felt like he was forgetting something. Something important. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes past seven. What was he forgetting?

Sighing heavily, James took his black jacket and walked outside.

**************************

Laura was not happy.

Tapping her foot on the carpet of her living room, she frowned and glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He was late. Very late. Why did he offer to have dinner if he was reluctant on showing up? Why did he give her mixed signals if he forgot about her? Why did he –

Riinnnnggg.

“Finally!” exclaimed Laura as she went towards her door and opened it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” chanted Richard as soon as he walked inside the apartment.

A smile tug on her lips, but she crossed her arms. “You’re late,” she informed him in a grim voice.

“I know, and I know you hate it and I know I should’ve been early, and -”

To his amazement, Laura started laughing as he flushed and stopped talking. She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss on his lips.

“Richard, you’re acting like a schoolboy,” she teased as she hung her arms around his neck.

“You make me act like a schoolboy,” he replied as he gazed into her hazel eyes.

It was Laura’s turn to blush as she let go of him. “Well? Where are we going?”

**************************

Alexa woke up with a smile on her lips. She yawned and stretched her arms, pulling the blanket closer to her body. The smile wiped off as she realised that the space beside her was empty.

Frowning, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Seven-thirty.

She shook her head to clear her mind. Seven thirty! I slept that long! Why didn’t Adam wake me?

Grumbling to herself, Alexa sat up and noticed a note under the clock.

Have some work. Had to go. You looked so peaceful that I didn’t wake you.
Love,
Adam.

Rolling her eyes, Alexa walked towards Adam’s bathroom. Peaceful, my arse. He probably went to some fortune-teller or something to talk about the painting. Why is he so damn superstitious? she thought.

**************************

“Detective Jones?”

“Yes?”

“There’s been another homicide.”