Here is the beginning excerpt of my senior thesis. “Dead End” is a murder mystery that is told in multiple point of views as the actions take place in present time. This first part is told by Clyde. The time stamps will help you in the long run.
If you want more – let me know!
CLYDE
9:30 A.M.
This motel room reeks of mold and I am so tempted to grab the hammer from my tool belt and dig into these floral-pattern dressed walls. I’m lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling and wonder why we always meet here. I can’t replicate the Sistine Chapel to save my life, but I can at least fix a leak or remove mold. There are dark, stringy marks on the ceiling like varicose veins. The mattress feels like a hard sponge: that type of sponge someone leaves on the counter overnight to dry and curl up.
This isn’t my first time here, and I still am not used to the smell. I have a bottle of Lysol in my truck, but I’m not getting up anytime soon. I’m taking up the whole bed with nothing on but a blanket that’s covering me like a toga. This room smells. This blanket smells. This blanket smells like low tide at the beach: dead people and pig butts.
In the fifth grade, my biology class took a field trip to the nearby beach during low tide to collect crabs. One girl in my class, who always wore her hair in pigtails and brought a snack pack of Pringles to lunch everyday, said the beach smelled like dead people and pig butts. I never had been to a funeral, but I had had bacon. The beach at low tide smelled nothing of bacon. I wondered if Pringles girl was brought up on a farm. I’ve never seen a farmer smell a pig’s butt. I’m sure if Pringles girl were to smell this blanket she’d agree.
It’s a little past nine and I hear the shower turn off. I picture Victoria wiping the mirror’s condensation with the provided face cloth before drying herself off. She must be so wet all over and I’m just glaring at these varicose veins, wishing my head were between her legs. I can hear Victoria humming and all I want to do is join in. She never lets us share a duet. Once in a while I’ll hear her humming from downstairs and I’ll try to harmonize with her even though she can’t hear me.
I go over to my pile of clothes: tool belt, t-shirt, paint-splattered jeans. I throw on my jeans and belt. I hear Victoria sigh before clicking off the lights and turning the knob. She has on a pair of pink matching panties and bra. Her eyes make contact with mine before shifting down and back up. I bet she’s wondering if I’m still hard.
“I don’t need you to fix anything,” she says before walking to her own pile of clothes on the opposite side of the room.
I take out my drill and rev it up. She continues to put on her khakis and button-down blouse. “Are you going to shower?” she asks. “Cause I have to get on my way.” She excavates her front pocket for her blue emerald earrings.
I shake my head and return my drill before putting on my t-shirt. “It’s a little early to be shopping for groceries don’t you think?”
Victoria’s eyes – hazel with a drop of honey – widen like a doll’s. She struggles finding the hole in her lobe and after a few tries, goes back into the bathroom. She shuts the door and clicks the lights back on. “Ben wants you to check the fridge when you come by today.” She sighs before clicking off the lights and turning the knob. She stands in the doorway and twirls a strand of hair that still has bits of blonde; it looks like a candy cane around her finger. Her whole body is a candy cane.
“Is it leaking again?” I ask.
She goes back over to her things, retrieves a pair of sunglasses and car keys from her purse and heads to the door. “I don’t really know. But I have to go.”