The Whiteboard, Part Eleven

The Whiteboard, Part Eleven

The Whiteboard, Part Eleven

The Whiteboard, part eleven – find part ten here http://wp.me/p3VxaG-1RM

eleven

Hello everyone! Happy post-bunny day bliss to you. I hope you didn’t eat too much candy! They say we buy more candy during Easter than during Halloween! That surprised me. I had my share of malted milk eggs, let me tell you. And all of it will be half-priced today! Yippee!

So, how about another installment of The Whiteboard? 

The Whiteboard, part eleven ©Kim Smith

Officer Lang and Officer Person were gone. They had taken fingerprints from her bathroom, her bedroom, and from her. She bristled a little at that, but they explained they had to have hers to be able to distinguish them from the violator. The Violator. She’d begun to think of the person responsible for all of this turmoil in just those sorts of terms. The Writer. The Criminal.

Anne went through her list of possibles again. There were a couple of new people at the office, but they would have no reason to do this to her.

No. It would have to be someone who knew her and had a reason to hurt her.

But who?

She sipped at the cooling cup of tea she’d made. She barely remembered even making it. Her entire day had become a little fuzzy around the edges. She was on what some called ‘auto-pilot’ these days, looking inward and trying to understand why she’d become a target.

It was as if she’d gone back in time. Back then, she’d always felt like her father hated her, too. He never had any time to play with her as a child. He’d only provided her with necessities. Other kids spent time with their dads, playing games or riding bikes.

The memory of her lonely youth made her shiver.She rose to heat the tea.

Her face appeared in the clean glass of the microwave. She looked haggard. Well, no wonder. Had she really even rested? This whole writer/whiteboard debacle haunted her.

She pulled the door open and placed her cup inside, When she closed the door, she refused to look at her reflection as she punched in the numbers. Her reflection was not who she was. She was strng, a warrior.

She would survive this as she’d survived the abuse of a man who had never really cared for her. She was a survivor.

At this thought, she stiffened her spine until she stood ram-rod straight. Then, she strode with purpose to her laundry room. First, she scrubbed her clothes, then she scrubbed her house of anything that remained of the writer.

___________________________

Well, there ya go. Eleven is in the can. (Sorry, still think in terms of a movie when I write)

I will be working on more for you. Y’all come back now, ya hear?

About master

Kim Smith is the author of Disk of Death, The Dread Room, Love Inn, and An Unexpected Performance.

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