APRIL 2021 ISSUE 02
DOODLES NOTTING HILL & EALING HIGH SCHOOL
ART AND WRITING MAGAZINE
COVER ART BY LI AN TAN 12KO
ART BY NADIA MUBGAR-SPENCER 8T
Contents 4/5 8
Cake at Six
Through the Years
6
9
Detritus
Art By Anaiya Doug
11
Erased From the Report
12/13
16
Art By Anika Shet
17
20
Stay Home Now
21
2 DOODLES / APRIL 2021
3
Editor's note
7
The Hunt
10
Chelsea and Westminster Is My Favourite Hospital
14/15
Gone
Where is the End?
18/19
April Gloom
Art by Meher Garg
22/23 The Smell After the Rain
The Dog-Sheep
A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS... Welcome to the second issue of Doodles magazine! This is a magazine designed to showcase and celebrate the creative writing and artistic abilities of students throughout the school. We are so excited to carry on from last year’s reps to be able to highlight the skill, passion and hard work of students outside of their English lessons. We were so impressed with the number of submissions we received and the quality of the pieces that it made our selection process very difficult. Given the challenges that the past year has presented, creative writing and art are even more essential outlets for many to channel creativity and express frustrations. It is because of this that many of the pieces are centred around the theme of lockdown, although there is a wide range of ideas featured in this issue. With this edition of the magazine, we hope to give a spotlight to some especially talented students and provide a much needed moment of relaxation and inspiration. - Alice Rowlands - Jenny Dawson - Isabel Hepburne-Scott - Aliyyah Tahir - Zahra Mahmood -
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CAKE AT SIX
By Divyasree Kaliappan 11S
We had cake for supper. Not the type you bake at home with warmth and chocolate, but the type with bitter flowers and translucent jelly. It was ten to six. The long table was exposed, three forks, three plates and three faces, none of whom were joyous, as it was supposed to be. She took the knife, cut a generous slice and propped in on my plate with an itching smile. It was ten to six. She took the knife, cut a small slice and laid it on her plate. She clenched the knife, cut a meager slice and plopped it onto his plate. It was nine to six. She didn’t ask if we should say grace, like you were supposed to do. But simply, “ Enjoy!” as if she had toiled away baking it. But simply, “ Enjoy!” as if that was the protocol after what had happened, as if I didn’t know. It was five to six. I heard his fork scrape against the plates from Germany that she brought back so happily, like it was supposed to be. She told me to eat and to forget. It was three to six. But forgetting was impossible. I could only see the cake. The cake being torn apart so meticulously, one by one, piece by piece. The knife effortlessly lacerated the translucent jelly, piercing the sponge. Here was this cake being torn apart, drained off life, permanently eradicated from existence and no one blinked. And I thought how horrible it must be to be forgotten so easily, to have the purpose of merely existing for the benefit of pleasing someone. I thought how strange it was to exist and then not in a matter of seconds. Wounds can graze the skin, but repeated cuts tear away the mind, one by one, piece by piece, just like she had done to the jelly and sponge. Just like she had done here. The repeated infliction failed to graze but only tore away what was there, leaving just the plate and half of the cake that was now sponge and jelly. It was one to six.
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I looked at my plate in disgust. I thought about the remains of the cake and how we celebrated while it silently suffered. We gave no concern for the cake, nor its wellbeing as long as we were happy. But we weren’t. Happy. We knew it was wrong but did it anyway, because that was what you were supposed to do and if the cake was sliced in the process then so be it, because we were superior to it and that was how it was supposed to be. But I knew different. It was six. I got up and left, voices pleading behind me, then muffled shouting. Again. I left and all I could hear was the rage of that house. All I could smell was the wet grass on our perfectly mowed lawn, and the orchids outside our doorstep. The perfect watering can, shiny and tidy on the outside. But horror lies inside, as each of the drops are tied down by each other as they lie still, eager for a way out. And when that way out finally arrives, only a few leave the horror, but even those few are fed back into a society that utilises and engulfs the weak, so that a change can never come. And the water droplet longs for the comfort of the other water droplets, to be with its own kind, regardless of the dire circumstances in that shiny watering can. I thought of that droplet and walked away from the watering can, leaving the smooth, flawless lawn and approached the dusty dangerous road. Although, it was not dusty nor dangerous but rather quiet with a few cars passing by. Nearby, I noticed a few droplets approaching me, there were three of them compressed onto the pavement. Their distant figures grew into clarity and I noticed they were smiling and in cheerful conversation. I paused and waited for their arrival, I don’t know why, I just wanted to see them, another droplet. As they neared, one waved and asked how I was. So I told them that we had cake for supper. Not the type you bake at home, with warmth and chocolate, but the type with bitter flowers and translucent jelly, not how it was supposed to be.
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DETRITUS
By Charlotte Coningsby 9S
The Shadow of the Snow Trickles through the Earth, Mingling with remnants of strays and dust. The new Thames rich, ever rising. Overflowing With its blood. For once timeless, Sheets of ice start to tick and shift and slide, Squeaking and crushing and smashing Like broken pieces of precious glass. But the Shadow still remains, Creeping under curbs, sliding in the sides of Streets, becoming the boundless sea Between pavement and land. And above, the sky remoulds, recedes from The ground. Stops. Breaking and flaking and screaming-flying Apart. And shifts into citrus. And melts into flame.
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THE HUNT
By Nadia Mubgar-Spencer 8T
The sharp thorns of the rose stalk sunk deep into the palms of my hands as I gripped it, inhaling the flower’s sweet aroma. Still twirling the stalk between my bony fingers, I picked at the thorns with my long, sharp nails. I looked up at the deep navy sky as the wind ruffled my coiled, soot black hair and it billowed behind me. Nostalgia and euphoria flooded my senses. The night was still and silent and only the eerie rustling of the bushes could be heard. I stared up at the moon as it oozed silver light over me and backlit the trees surrounding me. It returned my gaze with its intimidating yet ethereal aura. Announcing their presence with a screech-like caw, a murder of crows flew overhead and weaved through the sky. I snapped back into focus, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in my hands where the thorns had penetrated my skin and drawn blood. It reminded me somewhat of what I imagined it would feel like to have a vampire bite you. I took a moment to watch the blood trickle down my hand, drop to the floor and sink into the soil. Having admired it long enough, I wiped my hands on my clothing; yet another white blouse ruined by blood. At least this time it was my own. As I watched it seep into my clothing and gradually fade from a crimson red to a maroon brown, I was reminded of how tedious it would be to wash out. I sucked the air through my teeth and exhaled deeply for a moment before I was interrupted by the startling sound of a hunting horn. It echoed around me silencing all other background noises. Year after year, that sound would instil paralysing fear into anyone who had the displeasure of hearing it. The main attraction of the evening was now in motion. It was time to run.
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THROUGH THE YEARS By Abha Bhole 11G 1 year old. My wide brown eyes stare and blink at all that I see. This is a new country, so different from the heat and the dust of my birthplace. Here the air is cold and clear. The cold breeze brushes past my pale cheeks, turning them pink. I shiver in my pale grey coat and my hands tighten around the tiny blue bear. 1 year old. 3 years old. I sit cross-legged on the floor surrounded by pieces of a tiny toy kitchen. I chop and stir and toss, baking my thoughts into something delicious. I give it to my mother. She smiles and takes a big bite out of the air she holds in her hand. She tells me it’s delicious and then turns back to her own real cooking. 3 years old. 6 years old. My mother dresses me up in my school uniform and tells me how lovely I look. My father hugs me before I walk through the huge gates and see all the big girls laughing and chatting. They tower over me with their long hair, bright eyes and backpacks full of books. I feel smaller than I have ever felt before. Then I see them. The other girls just like me, looking around in wonder and fear. One of them catches my eye and smiles at me. 6 years old. 10 years old. I lie on my bed, crying because my best friend won’t talk to me anymore. I shut my bedroom door and block out my parents’ fruitless attempts to comfort me. She only talks to her other friend now who she has known for so much longer and I wonder if she had ever thought that I was her best friend, even if I had always thought that she was mine. I don’t have any other friends, at least none that I can ever talk to like I can talk to her. 10 years old. 15 years old. I sigh with relief as I finally finish the pile of homework on my desk. The holidays are near and in a month, I will turn 16. I feel like I felt on my first ever day of school. I mourn the loss of my carefree childhood, and I am filled with excitement and just a hint of dread. My heart feels warm as I look back on the journey I have made, and I laugh at the worries and troubles of my past self. They had seemed so huge at the time. In my mind I weave a rich, golden tapestry of my life so far and I pick out the jewel-coloured threads that will make up the years to come. I look to the horizon and smile as I know that whatever happens, I will prevail. 15 years old.
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Art by Anaiya Doug 7T
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CHELSEA AND WESTMINSTER IS MY FAVOURITE HOSPITAL By Elizabeth O'Brien 10D
The Problem Lies In Her Liver I Think. 'Well, I Have Four People To Disagree' No! It's A Typical Self-Piteous Overflow They Go Off To Rethink: 'She's Making It Up' -Let's Go Home Done With The Maudsley Great Ormond Says I'm A Liar West Mid's Not For Me It Was Not Charing Cross Honestly I'm Just Rather Tired I'm Bored And I'm Sad I Don't Recognise This Place I've Been Told They All Look The Same Mum Builds Her Vendettas Still Not Getting Better At Least Chelsea Admits That It's Bad 10 DOODLES/APRIL 2021
ERASED FROM THE REPORT By Alexandra Down 8T They ignored the statistics. They ignored the lives lost. They slipped away and are forgotten. People get ill and die but the government writes them out of history. I watch as my mum comes home shattered, Her hard work is buried below millions of other numbers piling in every day. Patients tragically die but their names vanish into the sea of certificates. This is the story at hundreds of nursing homes nationwide. Imagine your relative in a care home: They catch Covid like thousands of others, But they fall very ill and eventually pass away. Their names and legacies are just erased from the report. The forgotten victims of the pandemic. I beg this like many staff working in nursing homes: Never forget them. Remember their triumphs and try to write them into the stories you will tell. Do your best to save others from falling through the cracks.
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THE DOG-SHEEP By Matilda Hardman 9S
I always loved playing this game - just the three of us, Nessie and I, chasing the ball each time our mistress, Mae, threw it across the field. Nessie always seemed to get there first but I didn’t care, at least until the day the children started laughing at me. ‘Look! It’s the sheep that thinks it’s a dog!’ shouted a small boy. ‘Not so much a sheepdog as a dog-sheep!’ he exclaimed and his friend laughed. I didn’t know what they meant but I didn’t like being laughed at. I was pondering this when a pack of children scurried over to join their frenzied friends. They were criticising my every move but I couldn’t comprehend why. For my whole life I had tried to copy my perfect sister Nessie and lived in her shadow, yet everyone seemed fascinated by me. Did I do something wrong? I deliberated, ‘I know my paws are a little more angular than Nessie’s and it’s true, I can’t run as swiftly as she can but what does that matter?’ Mae put Nessie and me back on our leads and I juggled all the questions whizzing round my head as we walked home. All my thoughts just blurred into one, resulting in a crescendo of confusion. By the time I had reached home I was desperate to curl up in my bed on the cloudlike pillow, press my cheek on the cool velvet and submerge myself in the warmth and darkness of my blanket. Yet the minute I crossed the threshold, I was faced by my worst nightmare - the shears! Mae had only dared to shave me once before and it wasn’t a success. But at least that was Mae, my beloved mistress and not the ominous hairy figure that loomed over me. I didn’t trust this man with his face enveloped in a mass of thick, wire-like hair. Mae greeted him as if he were her friend (and any friend of Mae’s is a friend of mine) but this man’s identity was as clear as mud to me. However, my uncertainty was resolved when Mae exclaimed, ‘Mr Fredson, that beard looks great on you!’ It was only the local farmer, although that still didn’t make me like those shears in his hand. Nessie never had to endure the torture of the shears. But why? Mr Fredson pinned me down and I shuddered as the whirring blade descended upon my skin. It roared with a squeaky ‘Eeaaaarr!’ sound. I barked until my throat felt hoarse yet the minute I opened my mouth he dropped the shears.
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‘Did he just bark?’ asked Mr Fredson, as if it was so unusual. He seemed quite taken aback by my bark and even more so when he saw me play with my squeaky ball. Mr Fredson made a phone call to a ‘friend’ and within a few hours a man whose shirt read ‘Animal Talent Agency’ showed up asking Mae questions. He told her, ‘My, folks will die for pets like these! If you let me film him, he can make us millions!’ I didn’t like him - he had sly, shadowy eyes, not friendly puppy eyes like Mae’s. Had he come as a friend, I would have done what any polite pooch should and sniffed his bottom, but Nessie didn’t, so neither did I. She was surreptitiously sniffing his shoes and began to bark. I copied, although my bark sounded too high-pitched and feeble to intimidate this intruder. The man simply laughed and without Mae’s permission, pulled out his phone and began recording me. I gave up and comforted myself by kicking about my favourite squeaky ball. He seemed to find this hilarious too. I was only too glad to see him go and wiggled my stumpy little tail as he slammed the door behind him. However, a sequence of strange events followed the man’s visit, including a post avalanche. The day after he came, Mae woke to find a pyramid of post from the Press barricading our front door. Later, I was watching the television with Nessie and amongst a cluster of pixelated paragraphs which I couldn’t decipher, I recognised the clip of me which the man took. The newsreader announced it had received millions of ‘likes’ on ‘YouTube’, much to my perplexity. But the strangest incident of all was my encounter with ‘the sheep’. The Animal Agency drove Mae, Nessie and me to a field full of blonde, shaven creatures. I attempted a game of tag, dodging the numerous cameras but as I circled these curious mammals, I noticed they had the same cloven hooves and woollen coat as me. Mine was much shaggier but I’m sure that if Mr Fredson had succeeded in shaving me, we would have been identical. That is when Nessie explained everything. I had been gossiped about and gazed at because I wasn’t one of Nessie’s kind. I was a ‘sheep’. Mae and Nessie had taken me into their home after my Mother was run over when I was a lamb. I finally realised that I didn’t have the physical attributes of a dog but this label meant nothing to me. As far as I was concerned, I was just like Nessie. I think like her, I play like her, I feel like her, I belong with her. So that night, after Mae warned that money-grasping man to ‘get away from my family’, we headed home and I felt a wave of relief surge through me. It was then that I realised that belonging maybe isn’t what we think it is. I felt that I belonged somewhere ‘I didn’t’ so maybe ‘belonging’ is a feeling of homeliness. A feeling of comfort and security. Not whether you can sniff or run or bark like someone else. If it took a sheep to notice that, then humans have got a lot to learn. Sheepdog or dog-sheep - I’m not going anywhere. Woof! Woof!
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GONE
By Lila Patel 8T
I sat there, tears spilling out of my eyes, as if I were a cup that couldn’t contain the water within it. I couldn’t stop myself. I was a never-ending waterfall. My hood up and my arms wrapped around my legs. The one person I loved, trusted, the one person I could talk to, I felt I really belonged to, was gone. It was as if it was yesterday when Dad picked me up and held me up high in the air. As if yesterday when I ran into his arms after my first day of school. But it was yesterday I lost him. I didn’t know where to go. It was too painful to be at home, to walk through all our memories. So I came to the place where I would go whenever I needed to escape, the one place I hadn’t ever been to with my dad. The jetty by the lake. The endless view of the vast water was a canvas of blues, tranquil against the towering mountains. The mountains stood robust as if they were my guardians, watching over me. The clouds were like a blanket of cotton wool, keeping me sheltered. The deep, colourless, formidable lake made me feel small and nothing compared to the immense world in front of me. Yet I was protected by nature too. I sat there watching the seconds, minutes and hours go by. What could I do now? It felt as if the whole world was collapsing at my feet. I put my hands to my wet face, rubbing the tears off. The world had turned grey. The colour had left my life. I was lost. I belonged to no one now. Dad was gone. Gone for good. Two swans peacefully drifted across the water. So graceful and elegant on the glassy surface. I watched them in admiration. It calmed me. How together they were. How they belonged. They say swans choose a partner for life, don’t they? How awful it would be for them if they lost their other half. It was getting chilly now. And dusk was falling too. I reluctantly forced my body into a comfortable standing position and hesitantly headed for home, my arms hidden in my hoodie. My dark stream of hair covered my wet face. Arriving on the doorstep, even my door seemed to loom over me more than normal – as if to say I wasn’t welcome at home either. As if I didn’t belong. I wiped my tears and ran straight to my room.
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Soft footsteps approached my door from the landing. My sister’s soft voice from the other side of the door saying, ‘I’m here for you, you know. You can talk to me about anything.’ My mostly bossy, occasionally kind sister. Of course, she was there for me. She always was. What she said was a gift that I had somehow thrown away, so consumed had I been about Dad. But she’d lost him too, hadn’t she? I felt guilty as if I had committed a crime against my own sister. I pulled myself up into a sitting position. 'Amy,’ I called. ‘It’s ok, you can come in.’ She opened the door and stepped in, a smile covering almost her entire face. Her joy was infectious. I couldn’t help but smile too. We sat there for hours, chatting, laughing, crying, shouting, smiling. She was there for me. We still had each other. We belonged. I’d been missing out on the best sister all this time. She was the light of my life when I couldn’t find any. She was brighter than the stars in the sky, more vibrant than all the colours of the rainbow. I no longer had my hands hidden in the arms of my hoodie. I no longer had my hood up and my hair covering my face. My face was no longer tracked with tears. I had no reason to be sad. I was happy and would forever be happy for as long as I lived. And as for Dad, when I was with Amy, it didn’t feel as though he was gone. He was still with us. He smiled when we smiled. He laughed with us when we laughed and he cried when we cried. He was watching down on us and we did it all together now, not separately.
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Art by Anika Shet 8S
16 DOODLES/APRIL 2021
WHERE IS THE END?
By Sophie Angell 9T
Six months we were trapped, We binged and snacked, We laughed and lost But kept our fingers crossed.
Christmas bubbles are allowed, Each street has a massive crowd .With three days to go Everything seems to be set in snow.
We turned on our TV To see when we could be free, The rules were changing And plans were arranging.
We turn on our TVs As we beg for good news, please. Joy and smiles are wiped from faces, Christmas is cancelled in some places.
The shops were open once more And we could meet those we adore. Families' eyes are filled with tears The summer sun shone As people shrink inside with fears: And it seemed our problems were gone. This Christmas might be the last for some; Autumn falls and darkness is in the air, They can’t look at the years to come. Hospital numbers growing in intensive care. Vaccines are on their way As we are locked inside once more, But they can’t always save the day. Schools still wave an open door. Covid is growing, A month has passed and Christmas is here, Each city is divided into a different tier. Only one question that's still to be asked: Can we celebrate unmasked?
The rate is not slowing. The cases are rising once more But yet you still walk out that door How is this going to end? When you meet up with your friend.
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APRIL GLOOM
By Liliana Benoliel 9S
In keeping with tradition of previous nights, Cameron Thompson was not asleep and instead staring out of her bedroom window. Once again, she sighed melodramatically. She slightly wished that there had been someone there to see how aesthetically melodramatic she looked, what with her trailing pyjama sleeves, and tilted head looking out onto the twinkling lights of the lamp posts below. She sighed again, for real this time. No one was coming: no Peter Pan would fly through the window; no Hagrid would come to take her to magic school; and no troupe of dwarves would knock on her door to take her on an adventure. She was just plain old Cameron Thompson living in a world without magic. The next day, Monday, was slushy and cold. It had snowed two days before and the last remnants of snow were finally melting. Cameron tugged at her gloves halfheartedly as she entered through the school gates. Suddenly, Cameron found herself losing traction on the floor, her feet flying out from underneath her. Her arms pinwheeled desperately until someone stopped her from falling back to earth by catching her around the waist. “It’s icy. Be careful,” Alice Mizawaya said, helping Cameron back up again. Cameron felt her cheeks heat up. “Thanks.” she muttered. “Here, let me help you out!” Alice offered to carry Cameron’s bag. “I’m alright, thanks.” “Well… ok.” The next day, Alice said "hi" to Cameron three times. The day after that Cameron said "hi" first. Hey, wanna get bubble tea and walk around a bit on Saturday?' Alice asked one day. “Oh, uh, yeah, that sounds nice.” Cameron found herself smiling. “Nice, meet in front of the bubble tea place at 1:30?”
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“Yeah, sounds great!” “Hey mum.” Cameron called out when she got home. “Cam?” her mum responded. “How was your day?” “Good, I was actually wondering if I could meet up with a friend over the weekend?” Cameron bit her lip. You’re going to meet up with a friend?” her mum looked up from her computer that she had set up on the dining room table. “Uh, yeah.” Was Alice a friend? Cameron thought. “Of course baby,” her mum kissed her on the forehead. “Just make sure you get your homework done.” “Ok mum, I might get a head start on it now?” “Sure honey, dinner will be in a bit.” On Saturday, Cameron worried that she had misread the time until Alice came running around the corner, long hair in a braid. “Hey!” she said smiling. “Hey yourself,” Cameron smiled back. Maybe there was a bit of magic in this world. After they got boba tea and were walking down the street, Alice asked a question. “Why did you never talk at school? You’re nice.” “Ah, thank you,” Cameron said. “I guess, I mean, I guess I just didn’t want to be there.” “You mean school or in general?” Cameron took a contemplative sip of her boba. “I guess both. You know, we grow up with stories of children being thrust into fantastical worlds and we’re told to dream about them and so we do. And then all of a sudden, that’s discouraged. We’re supposed to just carry on in this mundane world, this story. When, who knows, there could be so much more out there. So yeah, I guess I didn’t want to be there.” Alice nodded, “I get that.” “Thanks.” They carried on walking. “So which books have you read?” “Well, you know the classics in the fantasy genre…,” Cameron started. DOODLES/APRIL 2021 19
STAY HOME NOW By Matilda Hardman 9S
Say “Hi” to your friends through the window, Tell them not to open the door. As if you meet them in person, You may well be breaking the law.
Home will soon be open to friends far and near. Even though we’ve sustained lockdown extension, Listen up, and do pay attention, Please avoid misapprehension.
Help out by doing the dishes, Or perhaps dusting the furniture? Mother could do with a breather Even though she’s no longer chauffeur.
This pathogen is here to stay, Help us all to keep it at bay. Even though hugging that friend is alluring,
Now get into your onesies, grab some chips! Or stream that binge-worthy show on Netflix. With the help of our heroes, a jab is now here.
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Have a thought for those caught in the battle enduring. Evening, morning, day and night, Raise a glass to those who fight On our behalf, to keep Britain well. End of lecture. Get out and tell the world what to do or else Say farewell.
Art by Meher Garg 7G DOODLES/APRIL 2021 21
THE SMELL AFTER By Freya McNeill 12KO THE RAIN The smell after the rain was something they always waited for. Its musty stale air snaked through Parker’s nostrils as they kicked a meticulous pile of leaves. Slosh. Granted, the sopping natural debris did not have the desired crunch effect - the best sound was saved for skulls, but they would settle for this. The street was empty considering it was now 2:02 am and Parker bathed in the artificial amber light, grinning like a foolish theatre kid in the stage’s blinding lights. They swiped blood from their pale face and jabbed it in their mouth letting each taste bud absorb the salty metallic taste. Not bad. She was sweeter than the last - not that they were in the habit of tasting the blood of their clients. An anomaly of course. Parker splashed their Oxford shoes in a concrete-hosted puddle, letting the rest of the speckled blood drops taint the already questionable water. “Mx Walker,” a woman’s voice purred from behind. Their head snapped back. Her high heels echoed like gunshots through the street. Parker stood up a little straighter. “Little late to be out?” she said. They just plastered on a smile. “I could say the same, ma’am.” She pursed her painted lips, cracking each knuckle revealing her wedding ring tan line. “You did what I asked?” “I did what I had to,” Parker replied, tightening their business-striped noose. “Justice has been served," she stated plainly. “Well, everyone has their curtain call, so-” “But if they can squeeze in another act,” the woman persisted with a fake laugh, “then one can open a door of possibilities.”
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“At what cost?” they asked and extended their hand - her touch ice cold. The couple were dressed up in a tailored suit and a pencil dress for the shut newsagents, market stalls and delis. Black-gummed pavements lined the way like star constellations as a police car’s siren blasted through the silence. Parker’s face illuminated blue. “If a person will do more harm, just cast someone else.” “It’s not up to you. My evidence is perfect for this case!” she hissed. Then the woman sighed, “This will change someone’s life. Aiden is not guilty…” “Mr Anderson’s company made those faulty car engines. Those deaths belong to him,” they said. Their jaw tightened. “There’s no justice in that, ma’am. There’s terror in those damned technicalities.” Parker stared into her electric green eyes, taking in her musty scent. “He’s innocent,” she whispered and they scowled. “I didn’t ask of your opinion - just your help.” “I’m your bodyguard, not a thief. If you don’t die, I get paid. ‘Aiden’ will have to look after himself,” Parker said. Their chest heaved, their fingers twitching and she backed away. “I’m testifying," she confirmed. Silence. “You did... do what I asked, didn’t you, Parker?” the woman said, her voice cracking. She smoothed her swept hair and he looked down. “You tied up those loose ends?” They smirked. “Oh, I’m about to,” they muttered. She screamed, blood poisoning her pure white dress. Parker didn’t have to worry about the mess; it would soon be washed away in the rain. The empty street. They blinked and the memory of her was gone - her testimony gone. Mr Anderson would be behind bars soon.
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DOODLES EDITION TWO