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Project 30, Chapter 8 |
| Written by Project 30 | |
| Wednesday, 06 August 2008 | |
Chapter 8 - Amanda (AMS)
"Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee-"
"Okay, that's about the hundredth prayer I've heard from you. I need information not some divine inspiration. I've got a ton of witnesses to interview and I don't have time for this," the detective coldly told me. The stern look on his face told me that he didn't want to mess around. I noticed that he was suspiciously eyeing my hands. I looked and noticed that I was playing with my fingers, which is a nervous habit I have. I immediately stopped.
"Sorry, that's what over a decade of Catholic schooling does to you. Whenever anything happens to anyone you start praying for them," I replied.
"Okay, first I need your name, address and all the basic stuff," Davidson told me. I gave him my information.
"Are you going to have to tell my parents? They don't know about any of this and I was kind of hoping that it would stay that way," I asked.
"I'm probably going to have to tell them. How did you get all the way from Boston to D.C. without your parents knowing?" he asked me.
"They're away on vacation without me. I have my own car so I just drove down here and used the GPS to help me find my way. Oh God, they're going to flip. They don't even know that I write so it's going to be a complete shock when they find out that I was at a writer's party. Why can't I be a normal kid and throw a party at my house when my parents go away?" I said.
"So how did you get invited to this party?" Davidson asked, ignoring my previous comment.
"I'm a member of an online writer's community called StoriesVille," I said.
"No, really? I don't think that I'd know that by now. I mean how did you end up in StoriesVille?" he asked to me.
"Well, I want to be a journalist when I grow up. So over April vacation, I went to look at colleges with journalism programs and we stopped to visit some family friends in Virginia. One of them asked me if I like to write on my free time and I said that I do, but I'm not any good at it. She suggested finding a writer's website where I could post stories and get some feedback. I thought it was a good idea, so when I got home I googled short stories and this was the first site that I liked, so I decided to set up an account. I didn't know anyone there and the only time I've ever talked to anyone is through the site," I told him.
"So basically you're retarded enough to go to a party where you don't even know anyone there?" he interrogated me.
"Yeah, pretty much. You obviously don't understand that what we're doing could possibly change the history of writing. It could be a new revolution. Like Mark Twain once said, ‘Why not go out on a limb? That's where the fruit is.' I like taking a risk once in a while. If you play it safe, you're just content. You're never happy with yourself. You know what I mean? I'm awful at explaining things," I said.
"Taking chances? What type of chances? Killing a person? That sounds like taking a risk to me," he said.
"Now you're twisting my words around," I said.
"I'm not twisting your words. I'm just trying to fill in the blanks. It's like a mad lib and I've got the words ‘cold-blooded murder' under the blank. I just got to find out who that is," he said.
"Well, it's not me," I said.
"Well, if it isn't you then who is it?" he asked.
"I've got two theories. The first is more reasonable than the second. There use to be this writer named Bubbly. She thought that she was the ****, but she was wicked annoying and couldn't take criticism. So anyways, she hated certain people on the site. One of which was Zombie Punk. Well, you'd know him as Max Booth III. So one day she basically told him that she was going to kill him and skin him or something like that. Max then reported her and she got kicked off the site. Maybe it's her way of revenge? I don't know, I couldn't see anyone on this site being a murderer," I said.
"If you don't think that anyone at the party was the murderer, then what's your second theory?" he asked me.
"I told you that this is going to sound crazy. But, what if the whole murder thing was set up? Maybe it's not the administrator who died but someone else. We're all here for the project, so maybe this is the project. He could have set up this whole murder thing for us to write about. Wouldn't that make a good story? A murder from twenty different views?" I told him.
"So someone killed themself for a story?" he questioned me.
"People die for stuff they're passionate about all the time. Look at all the martyrs who died in the name of God, or the revolutionaries who died in the name of freedom. Why not die in the name of writing? Or it could be more complex than that. What if the person who we met was really just a robot or something?" I said finishing my theory.
"You have quite an imagination, don't you?" he asked me.
"Well, I'm a writer. What did you expect?" I questioned him.
"Well, we still need to talk about what happened the day of the murder," Davidson told me.
"I arrived at the mansion and took my seat at the table, just like everyone else. I'm shy so for the first few minutes I just listened to the others talking and studied them, trying to figure out who was who. I then started a conversation with a kid with blue hair, who I learned with Max. We talked about the usual stuff like scary purses," I said.
"So scary purses are the usual stuff you talk about? The two of you are either messed up of a bunch of smartasses," he told me.
"It's an inside joke. Sometimes when Max gets wasted, he messages me these crazy things that are only about a sentence long. They're almost like short, short stories," I said.
"Doesn't sound like much of a story to me," he mumbled.
"Hemingway's best piece was only six words long: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.' See all that can be said in six words?" I explained to him.
"I've got on for you ‘Murder, twenty crazy witnesses. One bad day'," Davidson said.
"That's seven words. It needs to be six. Maybe you could cut out the word ‘crazy.' That way it would fit the word limit," I told him.
"Do you think I care? No. And crazy is the only way to describe you people. Now let's get back to business. What was the present that you received?" Davidson said changing the topic.
"I opened up my present and discovered that it was my keys. I was quite disappointed; I was hoping that I would get something that I didn't already own. Even a lamp or a stuffed animal would have been nice. The valet must have taken my keys when he was parking my car and probably just wrapped them up in a box. I thought it was interesting that he took my keys because my key chain has my initials engraved on one side. My initials are AMS which is also my username on the site," I told him.
"And why do you think that he gave you your keys?" he asked me.
"I noticed that there was a key on there that wasn't mine. I'm not sure what it's to, it could be anything. A key to a secret room, a key to a box full of important documents, or it could just be nothing," I said.
"Okay, that's all I need from you. If you figure out what that key is for just let me know. I would like to talk to you longer, but unfortunately I have a murder that needs to be solved, so I don't have the time," Davidson told me as he was walking away.
"He's never going to solve this murder," I whispered under my breath once he was out of earshot. Copyright 2008 Project 30 |
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