48 A Murder - Part 2

A few drinks later, their moment came. Slowly they rose out of their stiff-backed wooden chair, and carefully strode towards the violinist. Their breath tickled the violinist's ear as unspeakable words resulted in them both walking out of the pub; one with strong purpose, the other stumbling along, shaking ever so slightly.

After travelling for what seemed like hours to the poor violinist, they stopped suddenly at an incredibly rusty warehouse, which had obviously been out of use for quite some time. Its iron roof towered over the skeletons of machinery covered in dirt and an explosion of bright, overpowering light tore through a small crack above, like a fallen angel dropping from paradise into a poisonous nightmare, uncovering dangerous secrets that were previously untold.

There wasn't much discussion before this kidnapper abruptly pulled out a gun and steadily pointed it at the violinist, who was evidently trembling now, his breathing ragged, his pupils dilated. He couldn't even begin to contemplate what would happen next.

The brute pulled the trigger. The gunshot sounded as if it could crack a skull, but the loud bang attracted the unwanted attention of a lonely hiker on his evening stroll. As quick as lightening, the beast sprinted from the scene leaving the distressed hiker to tend to the injured violinist, moaning in agony.

Blood soaked into the violinist's trouser leg, and when the fabric was stripped away, a dark red hole stood out against his pale skin. His face was clammy with the effort to not pass out until the pain ebbed away momentarily and he could move a little, but once it returned he could only hold still and breathe, slowly and deeply.

Now his body lies cold, soulless and empty. No more will his long hands play beautiful violin tunes, or care for the flowers that litter his home. His eyes stare upwards, clueless to the world around him, while deathly white skin pulls tightly against his thin muscles.

Upon closer inspection, a small scarlet dent is tucked away inside his thigh; it seems to be a bullet wound, around a week old. That isn't what killed him. Surrounding his neck are bruises in the shape of a giant's hand, musky purple with yellow blotches. Yet this is only the surface wound. The real one is within, that feeling of betrayal, that breaking of trust, which can never again be felt by the dead violinist.

A figure, hovering at the doorway, drinks in these surroundings, a small smile creeping up his face. If the dead could see, the violinist's eyes would have burst out of his head as he recognised the face of his murderer, before that monstrosity turned away and vanished out of sight through that lonely open window.