Looking out the window on one of the warmest days of the year’s winter, John decided he was going to make the most of it and go for a walk. The aging man bent down, his lower back twinging as he tied his muddy brown boots. He gently pushed his glasses up from his nose, readjusting them. He slid into his warm coat as he called goodbye to his wife, who was in the kitchen, preparing their dinner. John rubbed one hand over his white hair before placing his green flat cap onto his head.
The air held a chill, gently caressing John’s cheeks as he made his way outside. He kept his hands in his pockets. The sky was clear of clouds, the green grass glowed, no traces of morning dew. A neighbour strolled by, shopping bags in hands, and greeted John with a welcoming smile. He tipped his hat to the middle-aged woman who had lived in the quiet town for almost 20 years.
John soon arrived at one of his favourite places to walk, a small forest a few minutes away from his cosy cottage. The crisp air seemed fresher beneath the towering trees of evergreen. His feet stomped across broken branches and moist mud.
John had recently retired, at the age of 67, previously working in government. He wanted to move somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere relaxing. Away from the busy streets and loud traffic that never seemed to end.
Amongst the silence of the trees, John thought about his daughter, Julie, one of his two children. She had told him about her son’s school play. Jacob was playing the role of a baker, that was as much as he knew. His grandson had one line but John felt proud anyway. He made a mental note to buy two tickets so he could attend with his wife to watch the performance on the Friday night.
A crow cawed in the distance, enough to snap John from his train of thoughts. As he ventured further in, John ended up reaching a small stream that ran straight through the middle of the forest. His feet splashed in the icy water, rinsing the mud from his boots. John didn’t usually walk alongside the stream, he tended to stay around the edges of the forest, however, this day was different. John felt like exploring.
John pulled a camera from his coat pocket and began to snap pictures of his surroundings. He was never much of a photographer but enjoyed it nonetheless. His eyes peered through the lens. He frowned.
He slowly lowered the camera from his face and stared ahead, his eyes went wide. John gulped. John blinked. He felt sick. His old hands began to shake. John blinked. He took a step forward. John blinked. He wanted to close his eyes but they were glued to the black bin bag in front of him. It was torn apart and he could see the contents but couldn’t believe what his eyes were witnessing. John blinked. He walked closer until he was stood above the bag, lingering. The scent was almost too much for his stomach to handle. He gagged. His wet boot, shining in the sunlight, carefully kicked the bag, displaying the remains of a body. No. No. No. His mind told him to ring the police but he found himself stunned. John blinked again, desperately trying to erase the image from his brain.
The town John lived in was fairly small, he knew most people that lived close by, including Mr and Mrs Elliott, and their daughter, Emily. She was in the same year as his granddaughter at school, only 8 years old. Emily had gone missing. It had been almost two weeks since her parents had seen her. John swallowed. He scanned the mess of remains below him. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. He just couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Emily, at just 8 years of age, murdered. Her body mutilated and thrown out in the cold.
Realisation hit John. He took a step back from the soaking wet bag. As he tried to take in a deep breath of fresh air, his body jolted forward as he retched a small stream of vomit that washed away with the flow of water. With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone and dialled for the police.
The police quickly arrived on the scene and proceeded to investigate the grim discovery while simultaneously questioning John. He answered every question as best as he could. He was shaken up and although wanting to help find whoever committed the cruel act, he also wanted to run home and wipe the image of what he had seen from his mind.
When the police were done with John, an officer was kind enough to drive him home, where his wife patiently waited for him with dinner on the table. John didn’t eat that night. He couldn’t.
The police made an arrest just two weeks after finding the body. Mr Watson, the Geography teacher from the local primary school, had lured Emily into his car after school one day. He had never married, and lived alone at the age of 47, in a small house on the outskirts of the town. The police confirmed that Emily had been imprisoned in a downstairs toilet, being sexually abused by Mr Watson for a week before he disposed of her.
The town was never the same again. The place was unsettled and everywhere you went, there was a sense of distress. John rarely left his cottage after that. He couldn’t bear to go out in public in case he saw Mr and Mrs Elliot. He didn’t want to see their faces and be reminded of their loss on that tragic day. John stopped going for walks through the forest. The town was too small, a constant reminder of that day, and so, eventually, John and his wife moved away, to another small town, with a Geography teacher named Mrs Young. John spent the rest of his life praying that history didn’t repeat itself.
The air held a chill, gently caressing John’s cheeks as he made his way outside. He kept his hands in his pockets. The sky was clear of clouds, the green grass glowed, no traces of morning dew. A neighbour strolled by, shopping bags in hands, and greeted John with a welcoming smile. He tipped his hat to the middle-aged woman who had lived in the quiet town for almost 20 years.
John soon arrived at one of his favourite places to walk, a small forest a few minutes away from his cosy cottage. The crisp air seemed fresher beneath the towering trees of evergreen. His feet stomped across broken branches and moist mud.
John had recently retired, at the age of 67, previously working in government. He wanted to move somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere relaxing. Away from the busy streets and loud traffic that never seemed to end.
Amongst the silence of the trees, John thought about his daughter, Julie, one of his two children. She had told him about her son’s school play. Jacob was playing the role of a baker, that was as much as he knew. His grandson had one line but John felt proud anyway. He made a mental note to buy two tickets so he could attend with his wife to watch the performance on the Friday night.
A crow cawed in the distance, enough to snap John from his train of thoughts. As he ventured further in, John ended up reaching a small stream that ran straight through the middle of the forest. His feet splashed in the icy water, rinsing the mud from his boots. John didn’t usually walk alongside the stream, he tended to stay around the edges of the forest, however, this day was different. John felt like exploring.
John pulled a camera from his coat pocket and began to snap pictures of his surroundings. He was never much of a photographer but enjoyed it nonetheless. His eyes peered through the lens. He frowned.
He slowly lowered the camera from his face and stared ahead, his eyes went wide. John gulped. John blinked. He felt sick. His old hands began to shake. John blinked. He took a step forward. John blinked. He wanted to close his eyes but they were glued to the black bin bag in front of him. It was torn apart and he could see the contents but couldn’t believe what his eyes were witnessing. John blinked. He walked closer until he was stood above the bag, lingering. The scent was almost too much for his stomach to handle. He gagged. His wet boot, shining in the sunlight, carefully kicked the bag, displaying the remains of a body. No. No. No. His mind told him to ring the police but he found himself stunned. John blinked again, desperately trying to erase the image from his brain.
The town John lived in was fairly small, he knew most people that lived close by, including Mr and Mrs Elliott, and their daughter, Emily. She was in the same year as his granddaughter at school, only 8 years old. Emily had gone missing. It had been almost two weeks since her parents had seen her. John swallowed. He scanned the mess of remains below him. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. He just couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Emily, at just 8 years of age, murdered. Her body mutilated and thrown out in the cold.
Realisation hit John. He took a step back from the soaking wet bag. As he tried to take in a deep breath of fresh air, his body jolted forward as he retched a small stream of vomit that washed away with the flow of water. With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone and dialled for the police.
The police quickly arrived on the scene and proceeded to investigate the grim discovery while simultaneously questioning John. He answered every question as best as he could. He was shaken up and although wanting to help find whoever committed the cruel act, he also wanted to run home and wipe the image of what he had seen from his mind.
When the police were done with John, an officer was kind enough to drive him home, where his wife patiently waited for him with dinner on the table. John didn’t eat that night. He couldn’t.
The police made an arrest just two weeks after finding the body. Mr Watson, the Geography teacher from the local primary school, had lured Emily into his car after school one day. He had never married, and lived alone at the age of 47, in a small house on the outskirts of the town. The police confirmed that Emily had been imprisoned in a downstairs toilet, being sexually abused by Mr Watson for a week before he disposed of her.
The town was never the same again. The place was unsettled and everywhere you went, there was a sense of distress. John rarely left his cottage after that. He couldn’t bear to go out in public in case he saw Mr and Mrs Elliot. He didn’t want to see their faces and be reminded of their loss on that tragic day. John stopped going for walks through the forest. The town was too small, a constant reminder of that day, and so, eventually, John and his wife moved away, to another small town, with a Geography teacher named Mrs Young. John spent the rest of his life praying that history didn’t repeat itself.