It was a small town; everybody knew Peter Wingdale. He had a reputation for being a cold, heartless soul. Any grasp of right and wrong had been lost somewhere along the way for Peter. He wouldn’t think twice about picking on helpless old folks or kids; animals too – more than one neighbourhood cat had been found hanging, gutted in his tool shed. He was crazy if truth be told. However, that summer he seemed to change. He looked so proud. Her blond curls twinkled in the spring sunshine. Long walks in the woods, afternoons in the park, paddling in the lake – they became inseparable.
She was clearly wary of him. Never a sound when he was close. People began to think it was strange – she almost look scared of him. One time old Mrs Haggerty says she saw Peter giving her a fearful smack outside the off licence. As she began to cry Peter grabbed her by the throat; screamed for her to be quiet. He threw her in the car. They weren’t seen again for a week. She now limped but still stayed firmly by his side. Loyal as ever.
For a while things appeared back to normal. Peter and his girl walking about town. He never did say what her name was. Then one day they disappeared again. No more sightings. No more public admonishments from Peter. Late Monday last week the police were called out to the Wingdale place: gun shots had been heard. Peter was in his mother’s room – well most of him was. His brains were sprayed all over the landing wall. He must have been facing his mother’s bed when he pulled the trigger.
Down in the basement they heard whimpering. They found her curled up on a blanket at the back of a cage, trembling but alive – just. Turned out Jennifer was her name. Peter may have treated her like a dog but she had somehow survived both him and his cruelty.
These 333 words, based on the word ‘grasp’, form my entry into the Trifecta 90 writing challenge. If you would like to vote for me in the community voting then you can do so on Thursday night or Friday morning.