Skill Shall Efface The Spots
Life is sometimes Luther’s playground. Ruthless. Sadistic. Cruel. Enough to make one yearn for the comforts of death. Yet destiny intervenes and pries you from the jaws of hell, flinging you far into the reality of survival.
As Francesca wielded all the insolence she could muster up, her conscience screamed from inside. Was it all worth it?
Inappreciable thoughts swarmed her brain, striking her conscience and choking her breath. It was all a haze of conflicting emotions, nothing she could point a finger at.
The detective’s exaggerated pretense of clearing his throat snapped Francesca out of her trance and her focus returned to the matter at hand.
“What were you doing this late at night here Miss Francesca?”
Francesca’s brows twitched together in annoyance as she detected the accusation in his tone and she snapped, “As I have already explained to your partner, I was practicing for the Swimilympics next week. My coach can vouch for me, this is his business card.”
It hadn’t taken her long to realize that the victim was dying – she had lost a great deal of blood by the time Francesca punched 911 on her mobile. No mortal would sustain such a fearsome, brutal attack.
Francesca had always enjoyed the crime series on TV shows, but now that she was an actual part of the play, a gamut of emotions wreaked havoc within her.
The searing stench of ripped flesh and fresh blood was making her giddy, but she knew she could not give in to that reflex of nausea at the moment, for there were more serious matters at hand.
The corpse was staring off into space, pale and still like a disfigured mannequin. It was a five-star rated homicide. It had been instant murder and she had felt like she was at the butcher’s those Saturday nights when she went to buy lamb chops for stew. The sickening smell of fresh flesh ripped apart was so strong that she had to fight back another surge of nausea.
After the impromptu interview was over, the detectives retreated. She was requested not to leave town, for she was the sole witness to a homicide.
It was cold out there on the ledge and the wind was her chaperone tonight-a raw attenuated gust of air, like a delicate wine glass, skimming the veneers of her soul, seeking to penetrate deep into the marrow.
The shadows and silhouettes that scurried hurriedly into view with the advance of darkness brought a smile to her lips. She reminded herself to not let herself soak into the world. Raising her green eyes heavenward, she sucked up a lungful of the raw November air.
As she stood there on the ledge ready to make the plunge into the world below, she felt the whoosh of the wind before it even touched her.
Francesca all but wanted to make a clean plunge, cleaving the water powerfully with her arms, like Moses’ rod when he cleaved the red sea. She wanted to feel the water make way to her streamlined posture as the powerful strokes of her arms pushed through.
As she took the plunge, the dive that would splash out all her worries, all the left-over emotions of guilt, she could see through her goggles the sprays that flew when her body licked the water. The blue and white mosaic of the walls of the pool reminded her of the flashes of the sirens that had swarmed in hours after the murder when she had placed the call to 911.
Water always had its way of soothing and calming her.
A strange calm filled all the crevices, a tranquil so heavenly that she could picture little angels playing the harp while solitary nightingales sang a melodious song.
In the water, she could drown her fears of getting busted. She could devise a plan to take down the next competitor so that she would reach the other end of the pool first at the Swimilympics.
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