1 Janey Wimphord

I remember everything. Being ten, seeing her, everything. I watched as she killed the people I loved most, for something as simple as money. I moved my hands to reach out for my siblings. They were cold, almost as if they were stuffed into a freezer for years. Gosh, the way she left a memorable slash along my parents' faces was unforgettable. The scar lined up from their right temple all the way down to the neck. It seemed easy, but the deepness is what caused every single drop of blood to drip from their veins. In a way, I envied their demise. They didn't have to see what I saw, for seeing your family die is the most upsetting thing of all. All the memories, all the anger, fighting, crying, were put to an end. It was just silence. And that's what I feared most.

I watched as the silence made its way, so eerily around our house. It crushed every window shard, every painting, and everybody that littered the floor. It was truly terrifying. Just then, I heard something. And by God, was it piercing. It was the sound of singing. There wasn't any singing. It sounded… heavenly. It was almost as if angels themselves came down to talk to me personally. Well at least, that's what I hoped they sounded like. Except… When I finally heard the words, I froze for dear life. They were saying my name. Telling me to come closer. Telling me to come there. Gosh, and I didn't. I didn't move a single second. Until I felt the balcony door open. After that I saw her… she wasn't white, nor black. Her eyes were a nice palatable red. It looked like strawberries. Her hair was tied up and placed under a nice sunhat. She said my name one more time before she left, that's all I remember.

Clayton read over the sentences he wrote in his book one more time. To be honest, her words didn't sound very convincing. Not only that, she spent over fifty years in a nursing home. How much could she remember? It happened when she was twenty-one. She's eighty now. The journalist scanned over the recent report one more time. How could an assassin so willing to show their face, never be caught in a hundred years of living? It just seemed ludicrous. Maybe everyone was just poking fun.

"Baby, are you okay?" Out of the corner of his ears, he hears the sound of a coffee mug being placed on his desk. Chamomile, his favorite smell. "I don't like you working this hard. It's bad for your health." Yasmine's voice sounded sweet, yet strong at the same time. She was always like that. Making sure he didn't overwork himself, yet making sure he did his best. He responded with a nod before shutting off his desk lamp and following behind her.