Being outstanding as a writer in the big city of New York, is nowhere as hard as being in a committed relationship, and Camille Forest joggles family, a writing career, with a possible sociopath who might as well be the "Goldilocks' Reaper", a seria...
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A/N: For a pleasant read, I would recommend that you have from your page setting, the page page color set on "white" ...Thank you! This page has the Prologue first, and the First Chapter right under it.
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December, 2014.
Dark. A desk lamp brightens, revealing only a dairy and a pen sitting neatly on the surface of an antique wooden table. Illuminating further, it pulls to view a chair next to the table which slouches away as ordered by the slender arm pulling it. Ending, the light expounds a man who slumps into the chair: the black sacks hanging from his screaming eyes; the writhing movements of all his clasped ten fingers; thumps, resounding from his pounding chest and spiraling pulse; and his haggard short golden hair that contorts in every possible direction.
The brilliance from the lamp reveals the current state of Colin Hawthrone, a blonde British youth in his late twenties, nervously fiddling fingers and dragging up sweats while watching what seems to be the tyranny of his best memories forcing it's way into his mind. Sitting up, Colin leans forwards, takes hold of the ballpoint pen, and without delay his fingers are flipping the pages of the dairy in search of a barren space: a pseudo companion, one he made of inks and paper: a perfect self therapy session to ease the echoes of confusion and screams of derailment sloughing his sanity.
Settling on a page, Colin begins to write, starting with the date: Twelve December, Two Thousand and Fourteen. Beneath the date, his pen throttles like exhaling undue haste in preparation for a sprint, and Colin inking the empty sheet before him, empties unto the page as commanded by the voice in his head which strung his fingers like a marionette.
He writes.
It's the surreal dream again.
Upon a sea of snow, in what seems like one of the dark alleys of London: one specifically close to "The Dew" cafe, I stand as the white beneath my feet slowly gets soaked up in red. My hands equally drips the same crimson spill, and I could feel my eyes burn in hate.
The black mist of malice oozes from every inch of me, mixing with the highlights of darkness which forcibly shoves me into its jaw, as I stand and stare at my shivering hands. Raising my eyes, I spot a woman laying lifeless next to my feet. Her long golden hair sprawls all over the white snow, and her fair skin slowly evanescence: slowly turns pale and blue.
A purse, coated in stones that glitter like the amethyst laid beside her, planted next to the back of her head. Its strap was fixed within her brown leather glove in a firm grip, and her face stared at my feet, so was her jaw stretched and lips unease as though she had a sudden outburst of words right before she was lost to this plane.
