Chapter 01 

Countless people stumbled alongside each other at the Subway station, scampering towards their destinations. Eager to head back to Manhattan, I boarded a metro and sighed when I finally found a seat that wasn’t taken. All the poker-faced strangers surrounding me had their eyes fixed on a mobile screen and their fingers incessantly tapped buttons. Laced with boredom, I adorned a pair of headphones and swiftly bobbed my head to the mellifluous music.

My eyes wandered to the seat next to me which was vacant yet, occupied. A spiraled, green-hued journal was seated gracefully next to me. As curiosity overpowered me, I grasped it with cautious hands and softly flipped it open. On the very first page, a name, Regina Clay was scribbled in cursive. The more pages I turned, the more secrets of Regina’s life were unveiled.

I discovered that she was from Brooklyn and was dating a charismatic man named Mason. Immersed within the pages of hastily written anecdotes, I had almost forgotten that it was time to disembark at my station. Swiftly, I navigated my way through the overcrowded building with the journal clutched within my hands; for some peculiar reason, I had refused to part ways with it. I had never fancied being an eavesdropper or an intruder but, reading this journal unleashed waves of emotions I didn’t know I had and I felt inspired after a long time.

I had been struggling with writer’s block for a few weeks and I desperately looked for stories everywhere I went; this journal filled me up with the creative energy I was lacking. Everything that Regina had written was accompanied by an enigmatic metaphor; honestly, I was thoroughly enjoying reading about her day-to-day ordeals and her infatuation with Mason.

As I turned a page, a polaroid photograph slid out. A brunette girl with gleaming, green eyes who seemed to be in her mid-twenties smiled sweetly at the camera, holding a giant teddy bear. I flipped the photograph overleaf to find a few words scattered there, “Valentine’s Day present, 2013.”

I continued to read until I had to surrender to my drooping eyelids. A dreamless sleep enveloped me and I slept until the alarm clock piercingly cut through my peaceful slumber.

With a brewing cup of coffee and a pile of unread newspapers, I sat down at the kitchen table; this was my mundane morning routine. Sipping leisurely, I read the headlines and a particular one caught my attention: Brooklyn girl still missing, no clues found yet.

Underneath the headline, there was a picture of the brunette girl I had come to know as Regina Clay. Speechless, I hurriedly swallowed all the words from the article and learnt that she had been missing for nearly a week now and even after thorough investigation, they couldn’t find enough clues to trace her location.

Numerous questions circled back and forth in my mind as I wondered how her journal ended up in a metro and where could she have gone? Did someone do this to her? This case was overflowing with riddles.

Distracted by Regina’s mysterious disappearance, I couldn’t concentrate at work the entire day. My desk was cluttered with a truckload of paperwork but, it all seemed like a static blur to me as I continued to comprehend the newspaper article. I spent my lunchtime studying the journal; she was extremely happy when she wrote these diary entries and as I proceeded, I noticed a gradual change in the way she described Mason.

Until the last three months, she loved Mason unconditionally and never questioned his actions but, in the more recent entries, her perception of him wasn’t as rose-tinted. Her writing reflected the doubts she was having about their relationship and how insecure she had been feeling. With each day, her elation faded and the smiley faces she used to doodle vanished completely from the dog-eared pages of the journal.

Her love for Mason dwindled with the ceaseless clockwork but, I couldn’t figure out what exactly he had done. Since, I had deadlines to meet and columns to write, I put her journal aside and began working with my mind wandering elsewhere.

When my workday finally came to an end, I hurried back to my apartment and got engrossed once again in the journal. She had scribbled about bruises and scars on numerous pages; talking about how some wounds never turn brown and being heartbroken. I traced her mood with each word and it had only continued to deteriorate. Her writing was woven with metaphors and I couldn’t decipher whether she was talking about an abusive relationship or emotional scars; either way, it seemed like she desperately needed help but, nobody reached out to her.

After surfing the internet for a while, I learnt that the investigators still hadn’t found any concrete evidence that could lead them to Regina and today marked nine days since her disappearance that has left the police clueless. My heart clenched guiltily and I debated whether I should move forward with the journal and hand it over to the police department but, since they don’t have a single clue about this case, the suspicion might get thrown in my direction.

Bewildered, I ran a hand through my hair and tried to look for more information. All the websites told the same tale over and over again and it seemed like I had more information than they would ever be able to gather. Something written in this journal will be the answer to this riddle; I just have to look for it through these words.

The tumultuous transition from love to hatred for Mason made me wonder if he caused Regina’s disappearance or harmed her in any way. Maybe they had an argument that shaped into something bigger, he was overcome by rage and he mistreated her? Multiple websites came up with their own theories by using the scraps of information about her whereabouts and some even suggested that she was no longer alive.

As breeze fluttered through the windows, the pages of the journal swayed along with it. The last page was invitingly spread before me and it was paired with a photograph. A dark-haired man adorning a turtleneck with a pensive face was posing for the picture but, there was a scarlet cross mark etched across the photograph and this deeply puzzled me.

A line scrawled in crimson ink underneath the picture caught my attention: I used to sleep next to him each night now all I have left of him is his bloodstained jersey and his bloodcurdling screams echoing through my ears.

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Description 

Title: Regina’s Journal

Genre: Mystery/Thriller

Age Range: For teenagers and adults

Word Count: 1,107 words (1st chapter)

Author: Ria Chakraborty

Why It Is A Good Fit: This mysterious story is accompanied by numerous twists and turns which will make it enjoyable.

Synopsis: An enigmatic journal is discovered on a metro which might have the answers to the questions related to a girl’s disappearance. In this puzzling case, countless pieces are missing and searching for them is the herculean task that Alan has unintentionally taken up. Will he be able to connect all the dots?

Writing style: I am fond of writing fiction and poetry.

He kept me alive within the pages of his artwork; splashed with numerous hues. My fingertips became his paintbrushes and I would freeze time just to be his muse. But, as the incessant clockwork had its way, my face soon seemed weary, laced with boredom. He is an artist; he can’t limit himself. Art is borderless but, love isn’t.

That raven-haired, ceramic-skinned assistant, Veronica soon served as an inspiration for the portraits he made. My lips remained sealed; I didn’t want to believe that I wasn’t his muse anymore. He concealed canvases and lied about working overtime; I couldn’t bring myself to utter something because my lips quivered every time he said he loved me but, didn’t mean it.

Hopelessness painted our house instead of vibrant hues on the night when over dinner, instead of halfhearted sweet-nothings, I asked about her. His mouth overflowed with denial but, I saw the guilt creep into his irises. My heart raced as he forcibly admitted the truth. The table was littered with incomplete verses, fully-bloomed falsehoods and a plate of the apple pie he adored.

When sunlight poured through the window, I threw everything that I thought belonged to me into a bag and stared at it, realizing that the past five years of my life have shrunken into a mere bag. With misty eyes, I left him a note, telling him not to look for me because I might not be in places he may expect me to be.

The plate of apple pie remained untouched.

I had a home but, I was lost. Stumbling through the bustling city, I ended up at a bar. Anxious, drunk sport-enthusiasts were hurling words at the television screen. I drowned my sorrows in a glass of vodka punch, letting a few tears escape. Losing track of time, I gulped down the drinks recklessly. I began to feet nothing; neither sadness nor elation. The rainbow streaks of light were abstractly splashed across the room and the bartender’s face swirled in a blur. Amidst a pandemonium, I felt as if I was fading into one of those faceless strangers; I was slowly forgetting who I was. I tapped my phone and texted my husband about how happy I was to be partying at the bar which was my usual haunt. It felt surprisingly good and as the last drop of alcohol slid down my burnt throat, my eyes began to droop low.

The last thing I remembered was a black car speeding towards me.

A throbbing head woke me up as sunlight filtered through the window. I bit my chapped lips and squinted at my surroundings. The familiarity of this bedroom haunted me; this used to be ours. But, why was I here? This was the last place I wanted to be.

A cold metallic object clasped in my fingers caught my attention. A sharp-edged knife drenched in blood sneered at me. Alarmed, I threw it across the room and jolted my hand which was covered by blood too. Scarlet bloodstains ran down the hemlines of my dress. Whimpering, I stood up and reached for the doorknob. Tiptoeing through the hallway, I ran into my husband. The look on my face told him everything he needed to know.

“You did something really bad last night,” he said and I shivered.

“What did I…? What did I do? I don’t… I really don’t remember,” I stammered with tears running down my face, once again.

“Overcome by jealousy, you mercilessly stabbed Veronica to death. The cops are on their way, sweetheart. You couldn’t stand the fact that someone else had my attention, could you?”

“What? I didn’t… Victor, I swear I didn’t do it. You know I can’t do something like that,” I cried.

“The weapon was with you, wasn’t it? Don’t touch anything; let them investigate it,” he spoke nonchalantly.

“Don’t you trust me, Vic? I was at the bar last night, I told you. I couldn’t have done this.”

He left the room without saying another word, leaving me clueless and panicked. I shuddered at the thought of murdering someone. I may have never been fond of Veronica but, I wouldn’t go as far as killing her cold-bloodedly. But, the bigger problem was that last night was a blur to me. I forced myself to remember something and it only made my headache worse. I could recollect a crowd of drunken, sports fans, loud cheering, gulping numerous drinks and a black car. I couldn’t find a single answer for the millions of questions buzzing within my mind.

“Charlotte Howell,” my name boomed through the hallways.

I turned to see a team of police officers equipped with guns and other weapons with a firm look plastered over their faces. I sighed as I walked over to them. They told me that I had the right to remain silent just the way criminals are told on movie screens but, this time, I wasn’t an actress, I was Charlotte Bree Howell. Without protesting, I followed their commands and peacefully got into a car marked NYPD.

I watched an officer conversing with Victor, who was smirking. I was told that I was being taken to the police station for interrogation but, I knew better. They had recovered the weapon and stashed it in a transparent bag labeled “evidence”. Enveloped by shock and disbelief, I felt my heartbeats pace up. The thing I regretted the most was getting so drunk that I couldn’t remember a single shred of what happened last night after I exited the bar.

After the car halted, I stepped down as gracefully as I could when I realized that I was going to encounter paparazzi. Photographs will be clicked and coupled with saucy headlines for tomorrow’s newspaper since I was the famous artist, Victor Howell’s socialite wife. The news about Veronica’s murder spread like wildfire and burnt my reputation on the way. I admit that I was senselessly drunk but, I do know myself well enough to believe that I didn’t fatally stab Veronica.

I knew that suspects were considered innocent till proven guilty but, since the knife was coated with my fingerprints and I had bloodstains on my dress, it wouldn’t take long for them to place the blame on me even though I couldn’t have been more clueless. I was questioning myself at this point and wondering if the darker side of mine took over last night and stabbed Veronica Baldwin till she was lifeless.

I was ushered into a dim-lit room and asked to take a seat as my anxiety doubled by the minute. I answered the questions as truthfully as I could but, it wasn’t a clear picture to me, it was a myriad of blurs. I remembered nothing about what occurred after I stepped out of the bar at dinnertime and woke up in the bedroom at the house shared by my husband and me. They intricately noted down the details and made various entries about the time I left the house, what I was doing before entering the bar, when I left and what I did in the meantime.

After leaving the police station, I sheltered myself by checking into a ritzy hotel, accompanied with the little bag which had my belongings. It felt as if I was losing my mind and my soul seemed to be cluttered with chaos. Everything that happened last night was just too much to fathom.

I scribbled in my notepad to distract myself from the turbulent waves of emotions crashing against my heart:

the artist’s dainty mistress

lay lifeless

with her blood running down my sundress.

I was told that the police department will be closely observing my surroundings and what I was up to since the prime suspicion had landed on me. It made me feel like a criminal.

May be I was one.

The marketplace bustled with car honks, chattering people, hawkers and robust children. I was seven years old and clutched my mother’s hand like a drowning person would grab a lifeboat. She pointed out fluffy dresses and said that she would buy them later for me. Uninterested, I would simply hum in agreement; I have always hated crowded places.

We strolled around for a while and browsed a few shops before we decided to buy a dress. She intricately examined the fabric and the price-tags. Before I knew it, mom had paid for the dress and was heading down the steps.

Distracted by the fifty-percent off sale, she wasn’t aware that I was not standing right next to her. A little girl was near her and absentmindedly, she grasped the girl’s hand and tugged, assuming it was my hand. To my surprise, the girl began to wail thunderously and drew the attention of everyone. After mom realized it was someone else, she withdrew her hand.

The girl’s mother glared at my mom as she suspected that mom was trying to abduct her child. She began to yell profanities and I raced to the spot to hold my mom’s hand. After she saw me, she stopped muttering offensive words and understood that it was a misunderstanding. My mother explained and then, both of them laughed it off.

Mom often joked about trading me for a better kid and after this incident; I clung to her in markets and tried to appreciate shopping.

#ProseChallenge #itslit