When I started writing my second novel, I was very unhappy with the first chapter. Instead of rewriting it at the time, I continued forward with the story. I have since gone back and rewritten it and am much happier with the results. Interesting story, the same thing happened with the first novel and now I love that first chapter. It's as if when I start writing I am very uninspired and then as I get going I go back and write something more worthy. I believe I have done that and I decided to post it here for anyone who wants to read it. Now I am not an editor, nor do I pretend to be so there are probably some tense issues (as in past, present, future...not as in uncomfortable) and minor other problems which will be addressed once I am done and send it off to my professional editor. So please keep that in my when reading this. At any rate, I hope you enjoy the first chapter of Sun, Surf, Suicide.
The sound of his heart, beating in his chest, is the only noise stopping the room from being completely silent. The distance is too great for the hum of the refrigerator to pierce the quiet as he sits on the couch contemplating the fact he is about to remove another life from this earth.
Like a golfer visualizing the roll of his putt, he has spent the last hour going through the events of the evening. How he would get to her place. How he would gain entry. Where he would find her and how he would subdue her. He had the answers to these questions because he was a planner and he’s been planning these murders for a long time. At the time he planned to breach her front door, precisely 10:00pm, she would be upstairs in her room, unwinding with an hour of reading before the corner of her eyes got tight and the heaviness of impending sleep began to droop her lids.
He would enter her room quickly and be on her before she had time to register his intrusion. Rag to mouth and the chloroform would gain purchase almost instantly. She would never wake again. From there, he would carry her body to the open hallway which overlooked the living room below.
Wearing gloves, he then will slide the noose over her neck feeling the weight of her life in his hands. Stroking her hair, he thinks about how at that very second, he holds the ultimate power. The power of deciding life or death. Whether she lives or dies is up to his complete discretion and that excites him. It excited him during the previous murders and expects tonight to be no exception. Although his original motivation was revenge, the intoxication of life or death has become almost as strong.
From there, he will pitch her body over the railing like a sailor dropping anchor. Hearing the crack of her neck as the rope goes taut. Listening to her death rattle as life vacates her body. He will linger, watching her reflection in the bay window across from where her lifeless body gently sways.
Once he has committed the scene to memory, he will return to her room. He places the bookmark back into the book she was reading and returns it to the night stand. He makes her bed, smoothing out the sheets so it appears unused. He knows from his research that she makes her bed every morning and if it is found unmade, someone may have questions.
He knows he has all the time in the world so he takes that time. Moving downstairs to the hall closet he retrieves her vacuum, starts in her bedroom and works his way towards the front door. He hasn’t left any fingerprints but the possibility of a stray hair concerns him enough to take this extra precaution.
Once he has made his way to the front door, he will gently remove the bag and replace it with a fresh one. He stores the used bag in the duffle bag he has brought with him and returns the vacuum to the closet.
Returning to the front door, he steals one more look at the body, marvels at his work and slides out the front door. He remembers to leave the lights on. Instinct and habit would have him turning off lights as he left but nobody would hang themselves in the dark and he lingers over that vision a little longer to make sure he doesn’t forget.
Feeling confident that his plan is perfect, he notes the time on his watch and realizes he has an hour before he needs to leave. He uses the time to look over his victim once again. Margie Sands doesn’t deserve to die. The only thing putting her on this path is her last name and the ease at which this plan can be put into motion.
She barely tips the scales at a little over one hundred pounds and she is easy to manipulate. Her demise is by far the easiest to orchestrate. His first victim was John Sands, an 18 year old cabana boy who was working for the summer, trying to earn money before starting college in the fall. Although hanging was possible, there was no need to tackle that challenge. John met his end with a razor blade and a slit of the wrist. Even three months later he still gets excited thinking about all that blood. It oozed like water from a faucet and the metallic smell that permeated the room was intoxicating.
Tonight would be his third staged suicide and he was thrilled that the rush had not diminished. If anything, it has gotten stronger. He feels a justification in his actions and that his life has been leading up to this. Before this, his life was one of quiet reserve, without direction or course. He now gets it. A life without purpose is not worth living, he now feels that purpose.
He knew it would only be a matter of time before the authorities get suspicious. Even on a resort island such as this, two and two still equal four but it would not be enough to make him stop, nor would it be enough to make him chance course. He planned to ride this horse to the end, the bitter end if necessary.
He checks his watch one more time as the minute hand moves into position and it is time for him to go. Before leaving he takes a mental inventory of everything he needs, he then takes a physical inventory. His murder kit is small yet essential. Chloroform, a rag he grabbed from the laundry to make sure it was of common use at the resort and a length of rope already fashioned into a noose. Zipping the duffle he feels ready. He feels strong, invincible, unshakable. He feels alive as life pumps through his veins while he prepares to take that from another.
He checks one last thing and the key card to Margie’s room is right where he left it, in a plastic bag, tucked into his wallet. As an employee at the resort, gaining entry into any room posed no problem. He duplicated Margie’s key months back in the hopes that when authorities looked into her death, they would not look far enough back to notice. Like a child at Christmastime, he squirmed with anticipation, wanting to open that present he had been waiting for. That time has arrived and his patience is about to be rewarded. As he approaches the front door, in a gloved hand he reaches for the key. As he gently slides the thin plastic into place, the faint click he hears each time he opens his own door registers now and he knows it has begun. Margie’s plan was determined a long time ago and it was time for her to meet that fat
