The murder mysteries

Murderer's P.O.V

It was a dark night. Rain poured down in the tonnes. Storm clouds blocked the full moon, which would've lit up the school yard otherwise. Suddenly, out of the pitch blackness, a mysterious beam of light flickered out of a bush. A rustling of leaves rang through the playground. I climbed out of my dorm and onto the drainpipe, which ran down the high brick walls onto the flowerbed. My fingers scrapped along the old, crumbling cement and the dusty red stones. The wind pushed against me as if it wanted me to fall off. But no; I cannot simply destroy my-no, Crimson killer's-reputation, just because a little weather put me-her-off doing a job right.

I dropped down the rest of the way. My hand fastened around the wet, muddy light source as I crouched. All I could see was the darkened paths, the now swamp-like field. Feeling my way along the walls of the blackened building, and every now and then wiping my blurred vision, I finally found the drainpipe I had been looking for...the one that lead to the prefect's room...

The black, thick plastic was slippery, as I suspected, so I rubbed chalk onto my gloves and headed up, hand over hand. Once again, the bricks were harsh and scratched out at my hands, but I felt no pain; not because of the gloves but because it was familiar. Crouched on the windowsill, I fiddled with a piece of wire until I heard a soft, satisfying click-the window was open.

The smell of many perfumes wafted from every bed. Prefects, you see, are allowed things that we are not. Perfumes being just one on the list. Unfortunately, as tempting-and easy-as petty theft is, it is not the reason I'm here. I have bigger fish to fry.

I waded through the sea of uniforms and other objects over to a mint-green bed. Posters seemed to be like paper mache over the walls there. A neat desk with a huge mirror and heavy draws next to it. I leaned over the person; her dark hair was a complete opposite to mine and her lips were an apple-like red.

My hand dropped to my belt, my fingers clasping around a relaxing cold metal grip I've come to know and love in the past two months, give or take. Bringing the object up into the torchlight, I thought about the first time I did.

It gleamed a beautiful silver in the light of the fire. The very tip of it gazed into my eyes as the scent of burning flesh choked me. I try to forget that tragic day but I can't. The great train wreck of the fifteenth of April, 1965 will be stuck in the history pages forever...and I'll always be the only-unknown-survivor.

This was my father's knife... And now it is mine!

Slowly, my hand reached towards her neck. The stained metal shone back at me. In one swift movement, blood poured out. My hand covered her mouth, then she stopped. Lifeless. Enid was no more. I dipped my glove into the liquid that was pooling onto her sheets, before pressing my palm onto the wall. My print was my pride.

And in a flash...I was gone.