2ème prix du concours d’écriture organisé en classe d’euro anglais de Mme Gimay : la nouvelle de Romane Landrin
What if a story didn’t begin with fear, but with a routine. Yours usually start at 8 AM, from Monday to Friday, every week of your school year, and I don’t really care about what you do during your free time. Mine usually starts at 5:17 AM, when my alarm screams at me, forcing me to get up for another fourteen-hour shift at Benny’s Pizza, in the center of Chicago.
My name’s Peter Hale, nineteen years old, and living all alone in a studio which falls into ruin in a notorious neighborhood. I’m not paid enough to burn my finger and pretend to smile, my boss yells way too much, and customers always complain about the wait and the service. Like, is this my fault or what? I never planned this life. I never wanted this; all I wanted was to be a writer. But not just a writer, I want to be THE writer. Mystery or horror: that’s the kind of story that makes people shudder till the last page. But when you work until midnight every day, the inspiration dies before it reaches the paper.
The only thing that reminds me I once had ambition is the old watch my father gave me before he died. It isn’t worth much, it’s more like sentimental value, even if it’s scratched, heavy and always five minutes late. I keep it anyway. It’s the only thing that ever felt truly mine.
I’ve been keeping a journal for months now. No, not because my life is interesting, but because I have nothing else to do because of my insomnia (as if it weren’t enough that I have like 4 hours of sleep every night… too bad) My shrink said that it is good therapy for me, after what happened, my trauma. I was the witness to a murder. She says that it might be better than the pills she gives me. And I guess she’s right, that’s her job. So, I write facts, observations, but nothing emotional. I’m not very emotional.
Two months ago, after my smoke-break at Benny’s, I saw a dead body near our trash can. I called the police, and 10 minutes later, at least twenty police cars showed up. I went back inside. Everyone was like “What happened”, “the police said that was a crime “unlike anything seen before””; so, I explained what happened. The customers gasped. My coworkers froze. Someone dropped a tray. Everyone was horrified. Except me. I kept slicing pepperoni on pizzas. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, I just didn’t react. I almost never do. It just… Chicago is a very big city, and people die every day. One more, one less, it doesn’t matter. Plus, I don’t know her at all, and same for everyone. Tomorrow, they will forget her, why acting so surprised? That is ridiculous. The situation was kind of interesting, like something an author might use to open a story.
People say I’m cold, but I don’t think so. Am I cold? Emotions complicate everything. I prefer clarity.
They never found the killer by the way. They just filed the case. The killer is still free. That’s creepy. But the creepiest here, is that there is a rumor that the police may found the killer journal on the crime scene. The guy reported everything he did during murdering the woman.
But, what’s the point? It’s none of their business. Spreading rumors sucks, right? I didn’t bring my journal. It would have been troublesome right? And people are so annoying. Like this woman. She pretends not to see me. I just wanted 10 dollars to eat something, but she refused. People always refuse. But they shouldn’t, it makes things messy, like do you think you’re superior? So, I fixed it. And I ate a burger after that. With her money. You couldn’t make it up.
My psychologist is wrong about one thing. This isn’t a journal of someone trying to recover from a trauma. Why would a victim write like this? No, It’s the journal of someone documenting one. I think, If I made a novel with a scenario like that, it would be amazing.
You’re not reading the journal of a witness, but that of a killer.
You’re reading mine.
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