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TITLE: Working Title "Unfinished Business" Scene 1
By Samantha Johnston
03/01/06
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This is a mystery with the target audience of non-christians. The goal is to utilize this non-christian character to address major theological questions. This is the first scene. I've pared down the blood and eliminated the swearing for posting. I've been struggling with Point of View so any comments or suggestions on that would be appreciated.
Mike’s black sketcher shoes flipped chunks of mud behind him as he ran to the 30 foot pine tree.
“Anna!” Mike pushed through the large overlapping branches into the dry cubby hole. A gasp flew through his lips, “Oh, Anna!”
A 3 foot 9 inch body lay still on a bed of burnt orange pine needles. Her thin gray tinted face tilted to her left. Her once crushed tomato thin lips burst from Anna’s whitewashed skin with a transparent purple haze.
Mike maneuvered himself over her head and looked for any movement. He squatted down, pressed his forefinger and middle finger on the internal carotid artery. A spasm of cold shot through his fingers and raised the hair on his arm like rows of corn stalks. A gaggle of bumps peeked out like skin toned chicken pox. Mike took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and looked down at the girl’s lavender strawberry shortcake nightgown bunched up to her mid-thigh. The nightgown was drenched in blood. Her wrists were crisscrossed, left over right and placed on her chest, wrists down. The blood pooled by the sides of her chest and passed her throat by her hair. The edges of her natural red hair stained darker and bunched together like paint brushes dipped in old thick paint.
Mike grabbed his radio on his shoulder. “O’Connor 10-97, need assistance, we have a 187.”
“10-4, sending patrol, 10-20?” A feminine voice responded.
“2454 W. Ash Dr. The Bridgemore Estate”
“10-4, patrol on the way.”
Mike stood up, swallowed hard to force the bile from his stomach back down his throat. He walked out from under the tree and looked up at the stars. She was only six, why did you have to take her too. What is wrong with you? Mike’s fists constricted tighter and tighter. He collapsed to a fetal position and cried, hitting his fists on the wet ground. “Why? Why? Why?,” Mike yelled.
The sound of sirens peeked on the horizon. Mike scrambled to his feet, wiped his hands on his black pants and ran his right hand through his curly red locks. He took another deep breath, wiped his eyes with the back of his jacket and puffed out his chest and walked around the front of the house just as two patrol cars drove up.
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