I have decided to convert our idea for our thriller into a short story, to bring it alive before we finish filming it, and help us to picture it more clearly.
Across the room she sat, staring into the tatty brown book as if it held the answer. She took the cold silver pen in her pale hands, and began to write, slowly at first, but gradually getting faster, pressing the pen onto the paper harder, writing manically, until it was too much. She stopped, and a single tear trickled gently down the curve of her face.
The edges of the photograph had curled and browned slightly, but that didn't matter to her. What truly mattered was that this picture, this single moment in time that was captured, was to her, the most memorable and beautiful time she could remember. She brushed her fingertips over the boys' face, knowing that she could not grasp him and pull him out of the picture, despite longing to. She began to write: "It's been 136 days since I lost you, and not a day goes by when I don't think about it. You still control my life, you remain the reason for my existence, yet you do not belong to me. I still cannot fathom why. So I've been thinking, why can't I have you Indeed, why. Because of that repulsive, selfish, ugly cow who took you from me! Well, you know me better than anyone, I always get what I want, and this is no exception. I'm going to get you back, Ross, and if I fail, I'm going to make sure no one gets you. You were made for ME, can't you see that? I'll make you see it."
The crumpled pages of the book began to blow, flicking back through all the memories she shared with her beloved, all the memories that the other girl had destroyed the day she took Ross from Charlotte.
A slender silhouette was standing at the window, pacing slowly along the room. Charlotte daren't remove her eyes from it, in case it was the other girl. What if it was? What could she do to stop her from being in Ross' room? 'Kill her!', the voice in Charlotte's head screamed. She shook it off, and continued to stare at the window. Another silhouette could be seen approaching the window, larger than the one that was already there. 'Ross', Charlotte thought instantly. Her hands began to quiver, goosebumps grew across her arms, and a shiver ran down the nape of her neck, chasing her spine. Her heartbeat thumped with such force she felt it in her head, and her chest visibly moved at each heart beat.
Everything had become a blur. Charlotte questioned her actions over and over again, trying to atone what she had done. Did she actually care? No. She wanted him dead. The overwhelming need for him to die had overpowered the urge to do it herself. Her aide knew what he was doing, he could dispose of all evidence, ensure no reporcussions prevailed. However much she wanted to see his death, she couldn't risk following it through herself, if she couldnt have him, no one could. She wondered how Amy felt. Was she worried by now? Was she completely lost without her precious Ross? A smile grew across Charlotte's face, perpetuating her evil mind. She could care less, but then it wouldn't be as fun.
The next thing she knew, Charlotte was walking quickly down a muddy path, her eyes fixated on the woods. She had been told that the job was done, but she needed to see it herself. Perhaps people will believe that he took his own life, maybe that was why he was hung up rather than shot or stabbed. As long as he was dead, none of it mattered anymore. She could feel the blood pulsating through her protruding veins as her heart beat drummed in her head. She pushed her way through branches and collections of leaves, There he was. Propped up perfectly in a tree, a rope tied round his neck, his feet swaying gently in the wind. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and imagined his thoughts before the air from his lungs was squeezed out of him by the taut rope.
Had anyone heard his cries? Had anyone noticed his disappearance? Who actually cared? A name echoed in Charlotte's mind. Amy. If she loved Ross, would she attempt to find his killer, or perhaps even avenge his death? Surely not.
Would the first black hole in Amy's life, the emptiness of lonely arms and no warm neck to put them around, drive her to where Charlotte had found herself that very morning?
Charlotte Bone
