Authors Note: I wrote this story when I first joined fanfiction (about a year ago) and just thought why not rewrite it, because I saw how many grammar and spelling mistakes I had. And I was unhappy with the ending and felt my summery was a bit misleading, (If anyone who looked at the original version of this story has any suggestions or requests story wise please PM) (email) me at my profile. If I make any New Yorkers mad I am truly and deeply sorry I've been their once and I was too young to remember.
A killer's mind (rewritten)
By Lee's Ghost
Prelude: A murder in New York
It was just one those days when you thought you had landed smack dab in the middle of the desert. Perhaps the only thing that kept New Yorkers sane was the welcoming sight of the red fire hydrants spiting out clear towers of water onto the boiling hot tar street. Children wide-eyed and toothless danced around them like Lakota around their campfires after a buffalo hunt. A girl of not more nine shirked as she fell in a puddle, and scampered off toward her mother's loving arms and promise of fresh clothes. Some older teens leaning against a warn brick of apartment building with cigarettes clamped between their cracked lips shouted with joy as the red needle on a thermometer crawled a few inches away from the ninety mark. A boy dashed down the street after a baseball that bounced down a hill that sloped toward Manhattan. The scrams of tires could be heard as a taxi driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the boy. He uttered a curse under his breath when the boy dashed to the safety of the sidewalk.
Cars flew by the venders on the crowed streets scramming "Hotdogs get your Hotdogs." Or "Get your I love New York t-shirts." This was all an attempt to lour the sea of tourist that invaded the city each summer away from the main eating and shopping centers and to their carts were they could dig deep into strangers pockets. Another sight the traffic ignored was a young woman nudging her way the mass of short sleeve clad people that were tying to find the famous sights they heard so much about. As she brushed back her long brown a businessman whistled. She gave him reproachful because his snow-white hair, prune textured skin and horn rimed bifocals made him old enough to be her grandfather.
Her hair dangled down to the small of back and her bangs stopped just short her gleaming green eyes. The hotness of the day made her sweat and it slid down her peach colored face and slipped into her shirt. Some men her age gawked at the sweat gleaming her, and wondered silently if she was some kind of model. She moved on ignoring their stares and trudged onward gazing fondly at the speck in the distance that was little Italy.
She hurried along the street until the skyscrapers became distant silver lines against horizon. She came a small one-story shop. There was a sign nailed to the roof that said Kindler's meat. As she closed the door behind her a tiny bell rang. A plump man dressed in a blood-spattered apron, with tick featly red hair and thin well-trimmed mustache looked up and set down his stained claver.
"Hey, little sis' what you do'n all the way out here?" asked the man in his musical Irish accent.
"Well, it is your birthday, you should have someone to celebrate it with," she said caringly.
"Ya know you're right, Mr. Garheart ordered a tenderloin, but after that, we could call Laura and Maria and have a couple drinks," he said glad that his sister had saved him from the boredom of a TV dinner knock off and falling asleep to Jay Leno.
"Hum… Three girls and one guy?" she asked.
"Well, I'm not goanna pay for sex on my birthday," he said laughing the expression of loathing on her face.
"Hey there both nice girls," she said defending her two best friends.
"Sure they are," he said smiling.
"Asshole," she retorted while pretending to sneeze.
"Why don't you go up to my room," he said eyeing two men making their why toward the shop. "Because you don't have any people skills, and guess what? I finely got Direct TV!"
"Oh, really?" she clapped in mock excitement.
She headed up the rotting steps to her bother's room and lay on the bed halfheartedly watching an episode of that 70s show. The bell on the door chimed and there was sound of hard footsteps on the wooden floor. They seemed hard and measured like they were fallowing a precise path.
Her ears perked up as she heard bother yell in fiery rage, just what she couldn't tell. She quietly peered round the wall too see two dark figures pointing handguns at her bothers head and chest. An idea to scream was building up inside her and was traveling is throat, so she held a sweaty palm to her lips.
"What is it Kindler?" demeaned the man pointing the gun at his head in a gruff uncompassionate voce that echoed of John Wayne.
"Yeah, you know he doesn't like it when things are late," said the other man coldly
"Well you tell him that he can kiss my ass!" he roared. "Why are you here? Are you his pets or something?"
"Maybe he hid them up stairs John," suggested the other man.
"You'll go up there over my dead body!" growled the girl's bother.
"Have it your way then," said the man.
The man reached for his trigger and put a bullet through his head. They started for the staircase but stopped at the sound of sirens. They ran out the door and drove away as fast as they could.
The girl waited until she heard the sound squealing tiers and wept. Because her only brother was dead.