The weeks
Mid-Week Blues-Buster gave an 80's sound to things, but the content of the lyrics gave it the story. Mine piece was unfortunately very similar to another entrants - even though I had not read any of the other pieces before writing - and I think that might have killed it a bit. I still enjoyed writing it though.
The prompt song this week was:
Peter Goodwin - Images of Heaven
Johnson shifted his position slightly and found the window
he was looking for. He fiddled with the focus on the binoculars and someone
came into view. It wasn’t her. He sighed. Was she home? He thought she was;
he’d seen the limo turn up, and a group of glitter clad individuals rush into
the house. He assumed she was among them. Maybe he was wrong.
He scanned the top floor windows. Lights were coming on and
people were running about. Couples were pairing off and he wanted to know who
she would be with.
Movement in another window sent him looking there and there
she was, head thrown back laughing at the guy in front of her. He looked like a
typical New Romance geek; silver shoulder pads making him look like something
out of a badly made sci-fi movie, with hair lacquered into an elaborate quiff.
The guy was lighting a cigarette, if he wasn’t careful his hair would catch
light. Johnson smiled. He’d like to see that.
They were drunk, swaying all over the place, and he was
waiting to see if they were going to get undressed, but no such luck as they exited
the room.
He pulled up off his elbows. Watching that guy light up had
made him want a cigarette too, so he pulled a packet out of his jeans and
enjoyed a smoke here on top of the world.
Johnson surveyed the city below him as it glistened in the
night light. He’d been scooping this location out the last couple of days,
making sure it overlooked the right house.
He’d wanted her ever since he’d first seen in her debut
music video. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t someone worthy of knowing; he owned
a music production company, but it wasn’t a big enough concern for her to
notice. He’d found out all he could about her, and even though he could access
to the parties she attended, her group of sycophantic security guards wouldn’t
let him close.
He knew he tipped into the obsessive when he woke up every
morning thinking about her and fell asleep every night with her image in his
head. He’d started to resent it, started to resent her. And that’s when he’d
come up with this plan.
Johnson ground the butt into the ground and kicked it away, then
spun round back onto his belly. Looking through the binoculars again he found
her downstairs in the lounge, moments before the French windows burst open and
they all came flooding out. Even from this distance he could hear their screams
of laughter and knew what they were planning.
He reached out and grabbed the hold-all he had with him and
scrabbled about inside with one had. He didn’t want to miss this opportunity.
He saw her come out, already stripping off her clothes,
revealing a sexy string bikini beneath, reflecting gold in the light round the
pool. He paused as his hand found what it was looking for and took in the view
for a moment. He imagined his hands on that soft, supplicating flesh. It was
such a waste.
He took away the binoculars and replaced them with the sight.
He found his target easily and flicked the safety off the rifle in one
movement. He took a breath and waited a second as he saw her approach the
diving board. She jumped once, then twice, and as she jumped a third time he
pulled the trigger. It hit home, making the dive into the water less elegant,
but the crowd round the pool still loved it, cheering and thinking it was just
the drink.
Johnson smiled as he beat his retreat, knowing that in a few
seconds those cheers would turn to cries as the blood surfaced and she didn’t.
He jogged down the top of the ridge, more sure-footed than
he’d imagined, and jumped into his jeep. Being half way up the hillside he was
able to coast the car down to the tarmac, keeping his retreat silent.
If he couldn’t have her, no one was going to.
