For this piece we had to write a story where we had previously considered multiple beginnings, this is what I went with:
Tea For Three.
It was a ghastly Tuesday
afternoon. The sky was a deep grey and the wind was beginning to sweep up. I
approached Mr. Dillinger’s Chicago apartment at the Marion Le Pip Farie, an
establishment of refutable acclaim I was told by Mr. Briggs, my employer at
that late time, god rest him. The door man, a stout fellow granted me access
into the building’s lobby where the rich alabaster walls and warm light sent my
eyes about. So much so that I did not see Misses Richards and bumped the poor
girl over, she was never really quick on her feet. The confrontation aside and
a warm cheek later, I was at the man’s door. I knocked for a great length of
time to no avail, until I jiggled the handle and the door popped free. The door
popped free? Just like that? Yes well it is quite an old building the handles
date back to 1850. It says on the official report, the door looked as if a
train was driven through it. I’m getting to that part Stevens.
Anyways I entered the room and called out
expecting to hear a response to which there was nothing. I saw the file on the
table Mr. Briggs had instructed me to retrieve. Dillinger’s coat was off its
hanger so he must have been out, I reached to grab the documents just a quick
peruse, when I heard a peculiar sound. Dillinger had placed a glass of water I
had knocked over onto the carpet, to my horror. I swiftly removed the shoes and
went to the bathroom to acquire some soaking aids to fix my mistake that is
when I heard the front door open. What happened next I’m not proud of; I
assumed the position everyone does when they are in an apartment they’re not
supposed to be in. I hopped into the shower tub and closed the curtain.
Realizing what a stupid decision this was I peered through the end of the
curtain, praying presumably Mr. Dillinger did not have to use the bathroom. No
one had told me Mr. Dillinger was blind, he made his way to his bed, I could
only partially see him from the curtains but, he removed his sunglasses and put
his cane aside the bed. He had a cross and he lay down with it clutching it
tightly.
The feeling of stupidity was
now met with sorrow and inherent guilt for tricking a man without sight or for
evening wagering the idea in my mind. Then I saw him. The man in black? Yes
him. Dillinger said, I thought they would send someone better. The man replied
with ‘’ The documents are property of Omega ‘’ and shot Dillinger twice. He
moved out of sight and I heard the creek of the door and eventually the slam. I
looked over Dillinger transfixed when I felt the cold steel of the man’s gun
press against my nape…
I found this image to be a good representation of what I was going for:
