It's a shame for someone like Mr. Haemarth to stoop this low. I'm talking about the article in today's paper - "Writer manifests own thriller : kills five". His passion for thriller already looked suspicious when he singlehandedly released two volumes of "The Dead" in a brief span of thirty days. Now, things have really gone out of hands. It's an unfortunate news for his readers who were anticipating the third book of the series which was comparatively taking forever to come out. I too read the first two volumes and knew something was wrong. Very wrong. They were too authentic to be fictional.
Dr Paedro, the protagonist of his series earned a plenitude of accolades and Mr Haemarth never backed off relating the fictional hero with himself. He also commented on several occasions that Dr Paerdro was his alter ego. Now with five deadbodies lying in his backyard and an incomplete script of the third book where Dr Paedro turns out to be the antagonist, many heards turned to him. In his latest interview, he was seen insisting upon how he was being framed and the actual murderer was Emithy. Emithy? That's bullshit! I don't think it's true. She is still an amateur writer who has no identity because nobody takes her seriously. No, it's not her. But wait, their last meeting was not pleasant. He got riled up over a silly dispute. She had just gone to gift him a book to which he could have politely declined instead of throwing her out of his empire, as he liked to call it.
Well, let me tell you another interesting tale of the day. Last night was tedious so as I sat sipping my coffee early this morning admiring the huge collection of books which I have no memory of writing except for one, strangely, my door bell rang. It was the beautiful lady that I had called for an audition the other day. Just like Mr Haemarth, I want my books to be made into movies. I gorged out my best piece of all times, "The Persian Brunette" in which I wanted to cast my beautiful model for the role of my leading lady. She had brought me a bouquet of white roses with a card attached to it - "Thank you, Mrs Crystal A Steen." I accepted it humbly. It looks like we were each other's first choice. She was willing to play the brunette that gets ruthlessly slain by an old covetous woman but I forgot to mention two things - one, the movie will probably never make it to the screen and two, she will have to die. Just like those five fools who came to audition for the "The dead." Nobody will ever know how I did it. I executed it. I had it in my mind. I like my thrillers served real but Mr Haemarth didn't realise what he was dealing with when he unscrupulously plagiarised two full volumes of my books, third one of which he couldn't lay his hands on. So he must pay the price in lieu of the success he had stolen from me. Back to the new event, I took out my marker and marked page number 181, paragraph three of the second unfinished volume of "The Persian Brunette".
Before I wrap for the day, I wanted to see my criminal one last time so I took the keys and drove straight, not to the police station, mind you! But to the hospital. In one of the corner beds, laid my dear patient, a greedy looking old lady. I brought her some presents- a bouquet of white bloody roses with her name attached and my unfinished volume of "The Persian Brunette", the first part of which she stole from me. My visit was once again disregarded by the covetous sister of Mr Haemarth. She had fear in her eyes. She was petrified to be defeated by someone who has no identity, someone who isn't taken seriously by anyone. I bet she remembered my name when her heart felt sudden tremors at the sight of her brother's condition.
I bet nobody knows my name. I was Dr Paedro aka Mr Haemarth when I partly burried the bodies at his backyard. I was Mrs Crystal when I killed the brunette. I was anonymous when the duo took advantage of me and my ideas. I'm anonymous when you read my stories under someone else's name. Tonight and like most nights, I'm Emithy, waiting for the news to flash in tomorrow's paper - "Writer's sister hides dead body in wardrobe."
The interesting part is, they will never know how I did it. It's my story. I executed it. It's always in my mind and I will never complete it.
And if they find out, they will take me seriously.
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