(no subject)
Your husband isn't sleeping, Sarah. He's dead...
Beyond the waterfall was the butterfly garden. She'd taken her camera there, snapping photos here and there, Matthieu dangling peacefully from the carrier strapped to her chest. He made sounds now and then, but mostly, he was silent, peering at the world around him with solemn blue eyes.
She'd switched the memory chip out, pocketing one containing a series she'd done of the local hot spots, if you could call them that. These were nature pieces. Boring, innocuous and pretty. Photographs of children on the beach. Men and women sunbathing. The rare shot of the ITF training or the building crew at work. She'd built up a fairly impressive portfolio during her stay on the island.
Jean Pierre would be so fucking proud.
Tiring of her butterflies, Sarah wandered off the path, snapping a long shot of the tangled undergrowth and stepping carefully down a shallow embankment to get at a narrow creek she saw in the distance. But nearby she heard a low rumble, an engine, she thought, and she turned toward it, a kind of fear gripping her that she couldn't explain.
Something metallic caught her eye and she stepped forward with a frown. It was a side mirror, dangling loosely from the door of a navy sedan, obscured almost entirely by a heavy, low-hanging branch. She let her camera hang at her side, Matthieu fidgeting in his carrier, and pulled back the broad leaves, breath catching in her throat at the sight of it.
The windshield was crushed in, completely, on the driver's side, the wiper flopping uselessly from it's hinge. The hood was still wet, glossed with rain water, the radio playing softly inside. There was blood splattered on the hood. On the seats inside. The belts were still buckled, but the seats were empty, soaked with blood and rain water and death.
She took a stumbling step back, her spine hitting a tree trunk behind her, knocking the air from her lungs with a startled gasp, and Matthieu jerked angrily, his tiny face twisted in anger. He opened his mouth and started to cry.
[[Sarah has found her first item: the car she wrecked which would cause the death of her husband. It's a small European four-door, navy in color, with it's front end smashed in. It's a pretty grisly scene, and she's very upset, so be warned. ST/LT more than welcome, open to all. Oh, and ITALICS = French.]]
Beyond the waterfall was the butterfly garden. She'd taken her camera there, snapping photos here and there, Matthieu dangling peacefully from the carrier strapped to her chest. He made sounds now and then, but mostly, he was silent, peering at the world around him with solemn blue eyes.
She'd switched the memory chip out, pocketing one containing a series she'd done of the local hot spots, if you could call them that. These were nature pieces. Boring, innocuous and pretty. Photographs of children on the beach. Men and women sunbathing. The rare shot of the ITF training or the building crew at work. She'd built up a fairly impressive portfolio during her stay on the island.
Jean Pierre would be so fucking proud.
Tiring of her butterflies, Sarah wandered off the path, snapping a long shot of the tangled undergrowth and stepping carefully down a shallow embankment to get at a narrow creek she saw in the distance. But nearby she heard a low rumble, an engine, she thought, and she turned toward it, a kind of fear gripping her that she couldn't explain.
Something metallic caught her eye and she stepped forward with a frown. It was a side mirror, dangling loosely from the door of a navy sedan, obscured almost entirely by a heavy, low-hanging branch. She let her camera hang at her side, Matthieu fidgeting in his carrier, and pulled back the broad leaves, breath catching in her throat at the sight of it.
The windshield was crushed in, completely, on the driver's side, the wiper flopping uselessly from it's hinge. The hood was still wet, glossed with rain water, the radio playing softly inside. There was blood splattered on the hood. On the seats inside. The belts were still buckled, but the seats were empty, soaked with blood and rain water and death.
She took a stumbling step back, her spine hitting a tree trunk behind her, knocking the air from her lungs with a startled gasp, and Matthieu jerked angrily, his tiny face twisted in anger. He opened his mouth and started to cry.
[[Sarah has found her first item: the car she wrecked which would cause the death of her husband. It's a small European four-door, navy in color, with it's front end smashed in. It's a pretty grisly scene, and she's very upset, so be warned. ST/LT more than welcome, open to all. Oh, and ITALICS = French.]]