Suspense @ MindSay

I just finished writing this for fiction lit tomrrow. should be fun fun fun in the sun. lol maybe not. but yeah. i couldnt think of any direction so its kinda lame but what can ya do? at least i made the requirements of 2-4 pages. i wonder if that was supposed to be double spaced... hmmmmmm. oh well enjoy.
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The woman went into the desolate room. There, stood two chairs, a metal table, and a pitcher of water; no glasses. Taking a deep breath she slowly made her way across to the chair on the opposite side of the door. She wanted to be able to see the convict when he entered. She heard a slam and the door she entered through lock behind her.

Minutes passed, and still nothing happened. But it was nothing compared to the wait she had endured all day. The only sound she could hear was that of her own heartbeat. The pulsation was enough to drive a sane man mad. 1... 2... 3... the pulses didn’t stop. Eventually she lost count.

The electronic clock above the door she noticed had made a noise every time a minute passed. The repetitive clicking began to feel as though it were imprinted upon her life. At 5:58 pm, thirty five minutes after waiting inside the room, she began to notice the water inside the pitcher was beginning to go bad. Already bubbles were forming and condensation was setting in around the outer edge of the pitcher. Her hands which she had kept atop of her lap the entire time slowly unclasped as she went and grabbed the pitcher, leaving a smear of water upon the table. Setting the pitcher down, she began to write a name in the water left on the table.

May 23. The day her world went crumbling down. A day which had started like all others, but ended up being more significant to her than any other. 19 yrs of marriage, two children, and a hidden secret. An affair. That day, that dreadful morning, the secret was revealed. Her dream home, the white picket fence, their maroon mini van, and all their experiences together; none of that could have persuaded her to give him a second chance.

It had appeared that Ms. Susan, from the third floor was bringing him more than just his decaf coffee in the mornings.

She had been devastated upon hearing of his infidelities, but she put up a charade for her children. In reality, she wouldn’t even sleep in the same bed as him. He slept on the couch. He begged for forgiveness constantly, promising her it was nothing. But she would hear none of it. The only reason she hadn’t divorced him right away was for their children’s sakes. Margaret was nearing her eighteenth birthday, and Stephen only had a year and a half til he would be going away to college. The children may have noticed, or may not have, but when they announced to the children of their upcoming divorce, neither looked too surprised.

The divorce took place two years later.

Margaret had been accepted at a private school in Europe, (but later moved back to Washington). Then Stephen went away to a college in Colorado, and the dogs accompanied him to Colorado.

The divorce was easier then planning their marriage. All it took was two signatures. He was reluctant at first, but she was willing to give him everything in order to get his signature. He declined her offer, and she ended up with the house, and the minivan. She sold it, and bought a corvette. Soon after he left, there was no one left for her to care for after he left. He later remarried Ms. Susan, from the third floor in their brokerage company.

Years went by as they always do, and her children married off and had kids of their own. But she still felt alone and incomplete. She often wondered if she would be alone to the ending of her days.

Until one day, a handsome man moved across the street. The man was 56, single, and apparently was widowed when his youngest was barley two. Evidently his former wife died of some terrible car crash. He didn’t go into detail, and she never wanted to pursue it. He had two children, as well. His youngest daughter had just graduated and left home, and his oldest lived in California. He and the woman soon became close friends.

They spent their days together, investing all their time in many adventurous activities. From walking through the park, to going to music festivals in the city, her new friend soon became her first boyfriend in over 25 years.

She felt awkward when they became lovers, but he made her as comfortable as possible. He never rushed her, nor did he try to pull anything on her. Eventually the two fell in love and were married. It seemed she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her days after all.

Everything was going absolutely perfectly for them, until recently, almost two months ago she had gotten a bizarre letter in the mail from a prison down in Arizona, near her current husbands hometown. The name on the envelope was addressed to her husband, but something about this letter perplexed her beyond belief. She thought for days trying to figure out who would be trying to reach her husband from a prison. She had never met a convict in her life, nor had she ever even been caught running a red light. The worst crime she had ever committed was going ten miles over the speed limit when her water broke with Stephen. She wanted to bring the issue up to her husband, but decided the letter must have been a ‘will you contribute to our fund’ letter. Many people often got strange charity asking for some sort of contribution to help rebuild buildings and the such. So why wouldn’t a prison want help with someone native to the town.

The letter was soon thrown away and forgotten, and life took its natural course again. Spring came, they replanted the flowers, he had been given a promotion at work, and she had begun working part time at a library downtown. Her first job in over 30 years.

It was a basic job, they mostly just had her organize and file things. Cabinets, book shelves and the sort.

Not even three days ago to the day, she came across an old newspaper clipping in one of the newspaper catalogues that the library had kept for young college students and other history researchers.

In the clipping there was a man; a man with a wide grin, and a twinkle in his eye. It was her husband. He was walking next to another man, one not so sharp looking, one with a more sinister grin on his face. And in the background there were screaming people, a mob of angry people appearing to be chasing after them. Unfolding the clipping revealed that her husband, Jonathan Michael Rhys, had been committed of murdering his wife, Patricia Lynn Smith-Rhys. Reading on her she learned that there was not only proof of foul-play in her crash, there was also residue of alcohol and other combustible substances inside the car she was traveling in. Her remains were small and badly scorched, but what was apparent was that she had possibly been dead hours before her small little Porsche had hit the rocky Arizonian terrain that dreadful night.

His lawyer, the angry man pictured above, had argued that on the car there was not only his set of his clients fingerprints but another man, a Louis Vidalia, who was a night crew man at Patricia’s office. She worked days. So without further adieu, Jonathan was released and Louis was brought in for questioning.

Covering her mouth in awe, the women stood and briskly went home in hopes that there had been some mistake. She called the police station that the newspaper claimed he had been incapacitated in, and they confirmed it. Not only did they confirm his release 22 years ago, they also told her of how, Patricia’s lover had no alibi for the night of her death and was charged with murder in the first degree. He was currently serving a lifetime imprisonment.

The next night she told her husband how one of Margaret’s children had grown ill and she needed to go for a few days to visit and lend her assistance, since Margaret had her hands full with the new baby.

She packed her bags and got into Arizona late last night. She rented a hotel and rushed over to the jail to meet Mr. Louis Vidalia. She knew she was going behind her husbands back, but felt she didn’t want to take any chances. Just in case.

Scared as she was, she showed up at a little past eight the following morning. She filed many documents and had to sign many legal statements. Then she had to wait hours, since she wasn’t a scheduled visitor. It didn’t matter much considering she didn’t have any where else to go in Arizona anyways. Finally someone took her to the desolate room she was waiting in.

She broke her day dream and glanced down at the water residue. She then realized she spelled out murderer. Heaving a deep sigh she looked back at the clock.

6:01pm. Only three minutes had escaped her. Her frame shook with anticipation until finally she heard the lock on the other side being opened. She sat up straight and brushed her hair out of her eyes. This was it.

The man who walked in was short, bald and wearing a blue uniform. Her chest heaved deeply as she saw the chain trailing behind the man. A tall, dark and handsome character appeared from the shadowed hallways. He had greying sideburns, but they didn’t reveal his age. He hardly looked a day over 50. One more guard followed behind him and shut the door as they all entered. He sat down, and one of the guards walked over and apologized for the delay. It seemed that there had been a fight that needed attending to. Apologizing again he then placed two glasses down on the table. But neither she nor Louis reached for the water pitcher.

"I take it you’re here about Patty?" he said cooly adjusting his orange jumpsuit, as he took a seat in the only other available chair. The other guards were by the door half listening. He had a fiery-anger burning in his eyes. She didn’t speak, but nodded and he continued. "I didn’t kill her. But then again, why should you believe me? A convict." he scuffled his chains and looked back. "The asshole husband did it. And he got away with it. Spick and span. His children don’t even know how their mother REALLY died."

"I am Rebecca Allen- Rhys. I am now married to that ‘asshole’ you are referring to." she finally found her voice.

"Well Becky, mind if I call you that?" he continued without a response, "sucks to be in your shoes right about now. Finding out you married a murderer." she glanced down at the water specks left across the table. They had all evaporated but two droplets. But the word remained; Murderer.

She stood up and walked out in a daze, not sure knowing what to do, or who to trust, but she knew she needed answers. She had to find the answers. Even if it cost her own life.

I had known the nature of this creature before ever entering its lair. I had seen the still frame photographs, witnessed their horror. Although tainted by the black and white ink that colored them, I knew what they held. The vicious hatred, the unadulterated terror in each splatter, each pool, each broken body slowly ebbing away life. I saw in those faces the cold will of their killer, gazed intrusively upon their last moments, their icy stares tainted with death.

Yes, I had seen the will of the monster. I had understood to fear it’s intent. And yet…

It fascinated me. My mind twisted and turned. It clung to the instinctive human fear, and reveled in the feeling of it. Temptation lingered on the edge of my conscious mind. It overwhelmed my darkest fantasies, opened my most twisted ideas; thoughts that otherwise might have been hidden, stuffed down into the cold, black corners of my mind. Soon, my curiosity began to swell, superseding my ethics, and quietly provoking me until at last I began to succumb to its will.

I knew it was wrong, this morbid fascination that I harbored. I knew it should have been smothered, it’s life taken before it could mature. But I cradled it, nursed it with my darker thoughts, and soon began working to bring this strange fantasy to life. It was justified in my mind, somehow, as nothing more than a primitive craving, kindred perhaps to hunger or fear, which needed satisfaction. I knew that the only cure for my temptation would be my submission.

As a high-ranking doctor of psychology and a practitioner of such sciences, it had been a simple enough task to assign myself within easy reach of my interests. The town was discrete, cradled by the mountains that lay on the borders of France and Spain, and isolated in its thoughts and endeavors. They had answered my letters of request with few questions, accepting my degree and reputation as a reasonable judgment of my nature, and allowing me to slip unnoticed from the grander world into one that would soon lay the foundation for my plans.

That had been weeks ago, and as my black-walled carriage tumbled its way along intricate roads, my mind began to race with aggressive curiosity. The asylum that sat within the folds of these mountains had no name. The villagers that had lived in its shadow for centuries had come to know it as the Maison du Oublié: the home of the forgotten. Here, was the silent graveyard where vicious criminals had been buried alive in walls of stone. Here, they were locked away in hopes that their crimes could be repaid with their lives. Here, deep within the maze of this vast castle, was what I had come for.

The physical shell of the building sat on the edge of a deep valley, looming over the village below. It appeared as though it had once been a fortress of great proportions. I assumed that somewhere in it’s past, when it no longer suited it’s purpose, it had been abandoned here, it’s interior gutted and redesigned for more sinister purposes.

When my coach finally halted, it sat at the edge of the great buildings shadow. The driver advised me before he departed to enter the gates on foot, as the horses could go no further. As the slow throb of hoof beats finally disappeared, the guide I was assigned to bid me follow him to the front door. I kept my mind focused as to keep my feet from causing me to stumble on the rocky terrain. Wait, my mind whispered. Soon…

In the front hall I had my first chance meeting with Dr. Angelene, Head of the Ward. Although he had been agreeable in his letters, he now seemed like nothing more than a skittish, balding man whose irritating, nervous habits only added to my distaste for him. The group of men behind him, however, contrasted starkly to the erratic nature of the man they followed. Their mere size was an imposing threat to whomever they sought to control. A brute squad, I thought viciously as I gazed at the middle-aged coward. Their subservient manner as they followed him was the only visible boast to suggest his authority.

He stopped a fair distance away, nearly across the hall, when he saw me. His gaze was wary when he set eyes on me and with a twitch of his finger he gave an order to his men. A large intimidating form strode purposefully in my direction. Naturally I shrunk back, in reasonable fear of being battered. Angelene’s anxious voice was hardly comforting as it echoed across the hall.

“Just standard procedure, I assure you!” He screeched as the large man promptly began probing my pockets. “Wouldn’t want any of our patients getting their hands on something dangerous.”

My hands rose defensively as the large man finished his search and backed away. I kept still as Angelene nervously stumbled across the hall to a shadowed stairwell. He waited at the entrance, seizing a torch from a bracket on the wall.

“Come. I will take you to your to your quarters.”

My heart began to beat wildly against the walls of its hollow cage. Perhaps, if it were far enough, I’d catch a glimpse… The thought rattled me, and I fought hard to swallow my ever-growing anticipation. I sank even deeper into my own private observations as we descended further into the bowls of the asylum.

Vision was blurred by darkness in the hallways we traveled along. Soon, the cold, stone walls fell back, becoming murky jail cells cloaked in shadows. Anguished voices rose up from the darkened spaces, their owners hidden behind barred doors. Shadows huddled in the corners twisted themselves into obscure and horrifying shapes. My pulse was slowly picking up pace, once again. For the first time, since I had completely entwined myself in the ordeal, I began to doubt my own intentions.

Shadows began to cling to my feet and onto my body. Slowly they wrapped themselves around my chest, silently pressing the air from my lungs. Those strange forms that had lurked in the corners twisted themselves into horrifying faces. A tremble of fear overtook my person, and yet those around me stayed abnormally calm. I knew what was approaching, and I no longer enjoyed the fear that froze my soul and shortened my breath.

We had reached the final door, the small opening at the top strung with thick metal bars. The men began to close in around me, making it impossible for me to go anywhere but inside the open door. Shaking myself, I stepped forward, hoping a viewing was all that was required of me.

My mind tried to recall the excitement I had once felt as I took step after step closer. I held my breath in an attempt to keep the panic at bay. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness they began to lock on a shadow that was beginning to take definition. Its small hands were clutching something. My breath caught when I saw what it was.

A long, slender razor lay across the tiny fingers, it’s blade darkened with rust. I wretched as the tiny form turned to face me. It smiled, revealing row after row of elongated teeth. Fluidly it reached forward, lodging the thin metal into my arm.

The door slammed behind me as I turned to run, locking me inside with the creature. Fruitlessly I pushed against the cold metal, the sound of dragging flesh behind me, pushing my body further into the door.

The knife clanged to the floor at my feet and my hazy eyes began to focus. It wasn’t a knife anymore, but a long syringe recently emptied. My heart skipped a beat, and my worst fears were realized. Something was wrong. As the voices outside began to fade, my mind began to sharpen. My body, however, was no longer under my control. I felt my physical-self fall, felt the blood flow as it hit the cold stone floor. I felt it all, and began to remember.

I remembered the photographs, remembered the blood, remembered the crime, remembered the pain, the anger, the hate. I remembered…

That the monster was me.

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Alright, I was going for gothic literature here. (As in the Romantic Period... Edgar Alan Poe being one of the most notorious gothic writers) I like the story, though my writing gets a bit hazy towards the end. It's nicer at the begining... Anywho, it needs a name, so if any one is reading this, let me know what you think. I had originally named it "Human Nature" but I don't really like it.

Hope you liked it.