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| The Price of Curiosity; first-person english assignment | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 23 2009, 09:50 PM (84 Views) | |
| Teslyn | Feb 23 2009, 09:50 PM Post #1 |
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Inanely Insane*
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1. MY NAME IS NAME; Jay Klemmer [basis] 2.SEX; Male. 3.AGE; 23 4.OCCUPATION; Reporter 5.STATUS; I live alone. Currently single. 6.MY OBESSSION; mysteries 7.I LIKE; the investigation; the thrill of figuring out a secret. Classical music. 8.AND DISLIKE; uptight seriousness. The rain. 9.I AM A FAITHUL WORSHIPPER; of my shrine to dirty socks. If you get to believe in zombies that promise eternal life, why can’t I believe in my socks? 10.MY HOME; is a small one-story house in a fairly quiet neighborhood. 11.THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON; let’s be serious- myself. THE PRICE OF CURIOSITY Mystery. Mysteries are something that call to my insatiable curiosity; they croon my name, always seeming to demand to be investigated, poked at, looked at from every angle until they are solved - from who’s having an affair with whom to where that multi-billionaire’s will disappeared to. It is such a mystery that now dominates my thoughts from the moment I woke this morning until now - but this mystery is a little different. More dangerous, with stakes higher than my reputation as a relentlessly truthful (and maybe a little too focused on scandals) reporter or the eternal enmity of some political family or other on the line. This game – because this, like everything else, is a game – is the same but at the time is not the same as my usual seek-what's-hidden fun. I'm not poking my literary nose around where it doesn't belong in an attempt to write some scandalous story that will unmask something or someone, now. I’m doing this purely for my own self, my own curiosity - no groundbreaking article or almost unbelievable journal or incredulous report about it. Perhaps I should explain. There are people who live across the street from me; their car is almost never in the driveway, their front door is boarded up – and really, who the hell boards up the entrance to their home like that? Apparently locks no longer suffice; or maybe they just aren’t obvious enough. Doors boarded up really give off that KEEP OUT vibe, and along with the whole ragtag appearance – namely, the jungle of a yard – it looks ridiculous and out of place next to the perfectly manicured lawns of the neighbors who I would swear on my life don’t understand the concept of locking their doors at night or when they aren’t home. (I’m pretty sure the Johnsons two doors down don’t even own keys, let alone neglect to use them.) Some nights when I can't sleep or I didn’t feel like taking meds for my insomnia, I sometimes take a walk in the early hours of morning, before the sun has begun to sneak over the horizon. It was on one such walk that I heard the voices coming from the house - and they spoke of thievery and murder and a group to which they belonged and was no doubt an organization for some nefarious purpose. They spoke of rising in the ranks and intrigue and all sorts of things that made me want to stand there, loitering in front of the rotting white-picket that fenced in the overgrown weeds. Today is an Investigation Day. I am going to break into the house find out just what is hidden there. Normally, on Investigation Days, I don’t go for the whole breaking and entering thing – usually merely trespassing and proceeding to annoy the hell out of someone until I get some answers is good enough for me – but I don’t really see how it’d be possible to conduct a decent investigation without breaking and entering, and I’m really not keen on meeting people who speak so casually of murder… It doesn't take long for me to cross the street; before I know it, I’m practically wading through shin-high weedy grass, eyeing the back window warily. It looks old and decrepit and rotten, and I have a feeling that it’d give way under my weight in less than second if I tried to climb through it. But that curiosity – I’m standing literally two feet from the window and I’d feel like an idiot if I just walked away now – it drives me on. I glance around surreptitiously – but there’s a tall wooden fence lining the small plot of land and conveniently blocking everything from view. Once I’m sure there’s no one to observe, I drag over an empty crate, turn it on its head, and climb into the home. I’ve decided that my adrenaline is too high to be afraid of breaking rotting wood - or anything at this point, really – and I’m already starting to narrate my actions in my head to write down later. The floor lets out a long, groaning creak when I step down lightly on the floorboards, but the stairs make no sound when I silently pad my way upstairs. Left- I take a left, and ease open a door, wincing as it lets out another creak that speaks of the age and neglect of the home. Laying spread-eagle on a bed is a body that clearly has no signs of life (airway; breathing; circulation, a voice in my mind offers with sardonic amusement, remembering that CPR class) - but more interesting to me are the ten new, crisp one-hundred dollar bills laid out neatly in a row against the puke-colored coverlet that reminds me of a cheap hotel. I feel the grin that splits my face and I move forward to take it. My sister would balk and say, “But Jay, that’s stealing” – but let’s be honest! Money is money, and I could really use some… and d’you really think the guy’s going to come back from the dead to accuse me of theft? – And not only that, but it would seem like a sin not to take it, not when it’s money that’s clearly connected to some pretty iffy business. It’d be like – going to the Pyramid of Giza and not secretly stealing a piece of it to take home with you, or something. But then I pause mid-action. Do I really want to do this? Get myself caught up in something that’s so obviously over my head? What if the men know I’m the one who took it – and, well, the first guy is already dead. No real argument about the facts on that one. Would they have any moral qualms about killing a second? Did they even kill the first? Who are ‘they’? … But then – taking the money would make me part of the mystery. It’d make it fun – more interesting if I took this bit of this metaphorical pyramid, and Christ or Buddha or Allah be my witness, this would be the story of the year. I wouldn’t be that brown-haired reporter- yeah, you know the one with the funny eyes, one green one blue, the one that wrote that article on that family with the affair – you know, Klemmer’s son – no? Oh yeah, that was someone else… No, I can see the morning’s headline already : ‘$1000 MURDER? BY JAY KLEMMER’. - But again… what’ll the price be? What’s the price for stumbling upon a lot of money, and a dead body? The price for taking that money? Because really, if the price is death, I think that’s a bit too steep for me to be willing to pay – it’d have to be at least a billion dollars if I were going to risk my life. Or maybe a couple million… I hesitate; and then I turn around, and quietly, quickly, make my way back to my own house. It’s a pity to leave one-thousand dollars that I could’ve used behind, but well – I like breathing, thanks all the same. I guess I’ll just go visit Egypt instead. Edited by Teslyn, Feb 23 2009, 09:54 PM.
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