Flopped out in the green armchair, the room pulsating with my heart, I felt trapped. It was as if my midriff had been removed, like I had a huge abstract hollow where my guts should be. I looked off down the hallway and imagined a camera running up towards me on a dolly, zooming right in close, showing the world my anguish in weird perspective. For a moment my thoughts were blocked, a million different fears and worries, excuses, lies all clamouring for space and time in my head. If Brian passed by tonight, or any other night, it no longer mattered. It was Verity with the book: the evidence – the innocent doodles of hangings, poisonings, neck snaps, plant pots breaking over heads and limbs poking out from window boxes. She had seen it all, had known and had still questionned and asked me of it, forced me into lying with her vicious vegan threats of shopping me to the law. But still, even if some of my doodles did almost detail exactly what had happened, it still wasn't planned. I doodled many things.The murder was an accident! Of course, no-one will believe that now. Fate has hit me yet another low blow.


It came like something had hit a nerve. An electrifying pain shooting through my temple and penetrating right deep into the brain. And every time it happened it flashed silver and made my head jerk and I'd scunch up my eyes and in my minds-eye an image would show up in the black.. It was like a guilotine, a modern edit:

Flash! Arghh! Black: outstretched arms
Flash! Arghh! Black: panic:
Flash! Arghh! Black: plant pot
Flash! Arghh! Black: crack
Flash! Arghh! Black: crack
Flash! Arghh! Black: a body crumpling
Flash! Arghh! Black: the corner of a face whack flat on the floor
Flash! Arghh! Black: scarlet
Flash! Arghh! Black: crack
Flash! Arghh! Black: crack
Flash! Arghh! Black: a tongue shooting off
Flash! Arghh! Black: John trying to crawl away
Flash! Arghh! Black: CRACK!

When I finally made the images stop my face was broken with grief and staring off at the phone receiver on the floor. It looked like a bone. A feint noise was still buzzing up out the earpiece. If it was language it made no sense. Petrified, I gently raised myself out the chair, and ever so quietly, making sure not to send word through the pile of the carpet, I tiptoed away, down the hall, heading back to bed.


  1. God I hate flashbacks they are just a nightmare..Bed is definitely the safest place right now xx

  2. 'John trying to crawl away


    An accident?

    Don't think that will stand up in court as self-defense.

    Anyway, surely Verity's not going to squeal?

    Is she just trying to make you pay for some past transgressions?

    I really want to read those secret gospels of John.

    Must get Thick Blue Glasses and the Nerdettes on to that...

  3. Ruth: My bed may not be! It seems nowhere is safe for someone like me. Life's picked a fight with a weakling... how brave of it! X

    Abigail: Oh, you've twisted my arm. When WFJ ends I will at least do a month of posts from Johns blog, up to the day he was accidentally brutally murdered! X

  4. For each man accidentally and brutally kills (and chops up into little cellophane packets) the thing he loves…


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