IF this were page 1 of Chapter 1 of a book - would you read any further? . . . . . . . . . "The car veered, shimmied the curve, shattered a stash of hidden beer bottles and tore through the neglected weeds. Gravel flew out from the wheels and Giselle screamed. A scream so visceral, it sliced through the growing darkness and would have pierced a listener’s ears. Giselle was alone. No one to hear. No one to warn. No one to comfort. Her black Carrera accelerated as her foot fell heavily. Her tears, her screams, her fears accelerated simultaneously.
The salty tears clouded her vision and the soft shoulder threatened to send the car into a tailspin to match her out of control emotions. How could she process the news? The horrible news. Tragedy etched her life and she uttered a constant stream of guttural screams of grief.
She would have stopped. Normally, she would never have gone forward. Giselle never saw him. Never knew what hit the Porsche. Absolutely, never saw the bearded father of four hiking alongside the road. His minivan stood overheated fifty feet behind. Only days later, when the uniformed policewoman crisscrossed the parking lot to accost her, would she learn of her new status. Wanted. Wanted for manslaughter. Giselle wondered if anyone would care. . . if anyone would notice her absence.
One death in a week was adequate, thought Giselle yet two murders in a week was too much for her mind to comprehend. She gripped the black pen as the desk officer droned about police procedures. Giselle noticed for the first time, her blood tinged shirt, the jagged cut over a bruised, swollen knee and her hands shook as she handed the officer the pen. She turned on one foot, careful to protect her knee, and heard a woman’s voice echoing jarring screams of distress. “Giselle! Giselle! Why? Why did you kill our baby? Jonathan! Jonathan is dead. Dead. Because of you.“
Giselle looked blankly at the crying woman in a blue cotton boat shirt, her mind searching madly for a strain of recognition. A memory never surfaced. She continued to stare. Willing her eyes to meet the raging mad woman, now restrained by two police officers, Giselle registered no emotion. No tears. No voice. No noises escaped her throat. Her only motion was to reach into her back jean pocket, stealthily slip out a silver razor blade and in one cat-like movement, slice through her own stone white flesh. The blade flowed crimson as her neck pulsated. The slashed skin parted as a virginal sacrifice and her clean hands dripped with her blood.
Registering another voice, another scream, another cry of despair, Giselle ear’s told her mind that these screams now belonged to her. Giselle saw the blue boat shirt woman jump over a metal desk chair, throw an officer aside and as she grabbed Giselle, she kissed her check, screaming. The women fell; the hard cold office floor embraced them as her eyes flowed fresh tears.
Giselle fainted, her head and chest, obscured by blood and the strange woman sat to the side, head down, muttering, “ why, Giselle, why?” as the paramedics walked around the blood stains. "
