Laying in Silence, a short story by WriterDanni. Date added: 2008-08-03. Times viewed: 1141.
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- Intro: A look at an undiscovered crime scene. This is very much on the dark side, and has some mild adult overtones.
- A leather jacket was dumped carelessly on a bench in the kitchen. Steel-cap boots with large silver buckles had been seemingly thrown at opposite end of the lounge. In the bedroom, lay the body.
His torso and feet were bare, the button and zip of his jeans was undone, and shoulder-length brown hair flayed out neatly across his pillow. This last would have been a first sight for anyone who had known him; if they had found the body. Few would have guessed, alive, that the man even knew how to use a brush.
Instead, lead-singer of Indy-Rock band - 'Rusted Chalice' slowly decayed alone. He would have hated that. He would have also hated that he died in the most gossip-worthy fashion to occur to any member of an Indy band in over two decades - and no one knew. Worse still than even that: The body of his rival, slain on the same night and by the same killer, HAD been found. Now the cd's and dvd's of his rival's band were selling faster than the label could produce them. Jonathan Beechman, better known to his fans as, 'The Beechman Bloodsucker.' Would have really hated the whole situation, had he been alive to know about it.
But, that was the thing wasn't it? He wasn't alive, he was dead. Stuck in an eternal and lonely decomposition. No one had noticed his absence from the world, and his shiny, marbled, dead eyes would spend eternity locked on the sight of his favourite old acoustic guitar, the one he had always denied owning.
Maybe this is what intrigued the killer so much that he returned. Night after night, in a darkened corner spent watching this body as it rotted away.
Jonathan, when he was alive, had been such a social dependant. He had been one of those people who detested those who had been left alone. Now, when it counted most, he was alone himself - A beautiful example of 'poetic irony.' One that happened to smell really, very, bad.
This had been the killer's ultimate objective in killing Jonathan, as well as those like him. This is exactly what the point had been. And yet, the lack of recognition for the deed left him...unfulfilled. Much like the way his victim would have felt about it.
The man who had once played at being Jonathan Beechman's secret lover, slowly raised a gun to his head. They would rot together. Jonathan's eyes forever on the acoustic, Bradley's on Jonathan. They would be each other's fame he supposed.
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