I am making some changes as to how I will handle this story. I intend to offer branching pathways in an experimental effort to improve my writing and to try out a more visual novel-esque format. I am no longer going to specify the part number. To make matters simple, I shall only have a few parts that offer an alternative ending, and these endings will all be "bad endings." Please note that "*" indicates that a piece is such a bad ending. This part will be the first bad ending, though I plan to have a few more. I will also ensure that there are not such bad endings in a row.
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Then,
as if waiting silently, pain erupted throughout her knee, causing her to drop
the knife with a grimace. Torrential raining soared downwards, steadily
drenching her knitted sweater. Collapsed on the ground on her back, she
clutched her right knee carefully. Overwhelmed, she laid curled up, eyes closed
– her hand opening and closing was the only strong suggestion that she was
awake. She felt twitching in her leg, the kind that accompanies physical exertion.
Tightness pervaded her lower half, centered in her calves, restraining her
motion about her knees and ankles. Then, moments later, she rose gingerly to
her feet and walked, feet spread apart and her steps becoming increasingly
toe-first, as if she were dragging her self. She stumbled away, leaving the
knife alone; by this point, the water had begun to seep into her clothes, chilling
her skin. Before arriving home, she slid the folder she had taken from the
detective under the door of the police sheriff. (Access to the police
headquarters was not difficult, especially since she was recognized as the person
who had sounded the alarm.) Once home, she collapsed onto the bed, legs spaced
apart with beads of cold sweat and rain droplets. Waking up, Gillian rubbed her
eyes and they opened widely: she had slept until purple had infiltrated the
light blue, reflecting twilight. The rain had stopped, though she could still
feel the moisture in her skin and clothes, refusing to offer her comfort.
Rising slowly, Gillian grabbed a tome devoted to anatomy from her desk drawer and lit her candle, casting a shell of shadows. The flames flickered scarcely for the wind was slight. Focusing on the upper body, she attempted to learn more about the posterior spine, an impact site on the murder victim’s body. Furrowed brows, and clenched hands – with a flick of her brown hair, she closed the book and set it aside. Gillian glanced out the window, even though her arboreal surroundings had become too difficult to be viewed. Tracing the knife in the air led to further frustration. If the detective could not decide, she thought, what chance would I have? And so the case was laid to rest in her mind.
The next day, Gillian tried a smaller book, one by a great philosopher, but in this town education was scarce; schooling, for children and adolescents, only happened two days a week, so for her free time she read. An effort at town hall had started to encourage more extensive education but was promptly dismissed: here only professionals needed to learn. Topics like anatomy or philosophy were never taught in school here. A professional could simply pick up necessary knowledge, asides from basic topics, from his work; thus, books were made available through the library even though the school itself carried few academic references. Finishing the anthology, Gillian set the book down neatly and went for a walk outside.
Even after a grisly murder, this town had faded away into oblivion, obstinately staying the same.
Rising slowly, Gillian grabbed a tome devoted to anatomy from her desk drawer and lit her candle, casting a shell of shadows. The flames flickered scarcely for the wind was slight. Focusing on the upper body, she attempted to learn more about the posterior spine, an impact site on the murder victim’s body. Furrowed brows, and clenched hands – with a flick of her brown hair, she closed the book and set it aside. Gillian glanced out the window, even though her arboreal surroundings had become too difficult to be viewed. Tracing the knife in the air led to further frustration. If the detective could not decide, she thought, what chance would I have? And so the case was laid to rest in her mind.
The next day, Gillian tried a smaller book, one by a great philosopher, but in this town education was scarce; schooling, for children and adolescents, only happened two days a week, so for her free time she read. An effort at town hall had started to encourage more extensive education but was promptly dismissed: here only professionals needed to learn. Topics like anatomy or philosophy were never taught in school here. A professional could simply pick up necessary knowledge, asides from basic topics, from his work; thus, books were made available through the library even though the school itself carried few academic references. Finishing the anthology, Gillian set the book down neatly and went for a walk outside.
Even after a grisly murder, this town had faded away into oblivion, obstinately staying the same.
B A D E N D
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