I wrote this story about a year and a half ago. It's not my best work,
but I still like it. It was written for a scholarship.


I stand looking down at the lifeless body lying before me in a casket-a person that
I have luckily not seen or heard from in almost four years. I should feel hurt
or sad, but I am emotionless. Peering down at him in the casket right now,
knowing that he will never put my family and me under the torment that he has
caused so many times, puts my conscience at ease. Seeing this horrible man
again does nothing but remind me of nightmarish memories. These memories will
live in my mind for the rest of my life.

It all began one night nine years ago when I was ten. My dad had gone to
a party at his friend's house, and my mom was feeding the two-month old baby,
Ashton, in the other room. It had just finished raining, and I was sleeping in my
parents' bedroom. I suddenly woke up and looked around the room. The lamp next
to the bed was turned on, and no one was in sight. I got up and walked into the
bathroom when I heard a quiet noise coming from outside, but I just
thought it was the wind or maybe our dog, Knuckles.

Approximately ten minutes later, I heard the baby whimpering. The whimpers
slowly turned into loud cries. I thought my mom would calm her, but nothing
happened. I walked into the living room; no one was around. I kept looking for
my mom as I stepped into the hallway, but I didn't see her. I was almost to the
nursery when I heard a thump. It sounded like someone had fallen. When I
stepped into the doorway of the nursery, I saw her. I saw my mother lying on
the floor, blood surrounding her neck. Ashton was in her arms. It looked as if
she were bleeding as well, but as I ran and picked her up, I noticed that
it wasn't her blood. I took her in my arms and sped to get the phone. I called 911,
and within a few minutes an ambulance and a few police cars were in the yard.

The police questioned me, and I told them exactly what had happened. I described
the noise I heard and how I found my mom, but I don't think I was of much help.
One of the officers called to get my dad, but he had already left the party and
was on his way home. When he arrived, the officers questioned him. They asked
if there could've been any reason that someone would have wanted to hurt my
mother, but he didn't have an answer.

A few hours after the incident, we found that my mom's gold bracelet and her
diamond wedding ring were gone. I remembered that she had been wearing them
earlier that evening as she usually did.

During the funeral and at the funeral home, we made sure to watch for people
we didn't know, but we saw nothing out of the ordinary until we looked at
the guest register. There was an odd name, someone we had never heard
of before tonight. It was written in sloppy cursive style, and it read, "Noel Gallaher."
We thought and thought and asked all the guests, but no one knew who
it could be, so we went back to the police station. They ran a search and found
that there wasn't anyone with that name.

We had no evidence against the person that committed this crime, except that
he had stolen my mom's bracelet and ring, and had used the name
"Noel Gallaher." The only person who had the answers we needed was a couple
of months old at the time and couldn't explain anything to us.

The case was dropped after a few years, and we still had no idea who had killed
my mother until one October evening. I was on my way home from my
best friend's house, who only lived about ten blocks from me, and I thought I'd
take the short-cut through the city park. I was walking along the path, watching
some of the leaves fall, when I heard something behind me. I turned around to look
only to see a dog coming up to me. I told it to shoo, and to get away, but it insisted
to follow me. I decided to sit down on one of the park benches and pet him-he
looked very lonely. He adored the attention. He had to have been a stray. I sat
there for almost fifteen minutes, petting and talking to him. I got up to leave
when someone wrapped their arm around me and covered my mouth with a rag
doused with chloroform.

I woke up about five hours later. I had obviously been knocked in the head
with something hard, because I had a large gash on my forehead. It seemed
that I was in a basement. It was dark and muggy; dust was everywhere. I coughed,
but that made my stomach hurt. I looked down at my feet; my socks and shoes
were gone. My jeans and shirt were torn in numerous places. It looked like
a bear had mauled me. I tried to stand up, but I fell back. My legs were bruised,
and it felt as if they could be broken.

I finally got the strength to stand up, while holding onto anything and everything
in sight. I scanned the room for a door, window, or any kind of opening to the
world outside. I saw a door, only about ten feet away. I limped, still holding on to
things around me, until I reached the door. Unfortunately it was locked. I pulled as
hard as I could, but I had no luck opening it. I turned back around and noticed a
small window. I felt as if my time were running out, so I staggered to the window
as fast as I could, but I wasn't going very fast. I unlocked it and tried to open it,
but it was painted shut. I slid down the wall and sat in the dirty floor, crying, wishing
that my daddy would come save me. I felt so helpless and alone.

When I awoke from my deep sleep, I thought it was all a dream, but I opened
my eyes only to see the filthy basement walls again. Only this time a glare
caught my eye. I looked to find that there was another window, a bigger window.
I had gotten stronger during my sleep, so I hurriedly walked to the window, where
a thick cloth was draped. There were some boxes stacked in front of the window,
hiding the opening to the building's exterior. I moved the boxes, which weren't
that heavy and lifted the cloth. I could see outside! I pushed the window up,
and it broke open. I could finally get out of the dingy basement and go home
to my father and sister.

When I walked outside, I found that I was in another town. It was a town close
to my home, but I rarely ever came here because of all the drug dealers
and gang members. I was too far away from home to walk, and I didn't have any
money, so I went to a local diner. As I walked in, everyone stared at me.
The woman at the bar came over to me quickly, while the man behind the bar
called the police.

The police rushed over. My dad had already called the station and told them that I
never came home from my friend's house, so he was with them when they arrived.
I ran outside and gave him a huge hug. My dad, escorted by the police, rushed
me to the hospital to get the gash, bruises, and everything else checked out. I
ended up with a concussion and many bruises, and somehow I cracked my femur.

After I was finished at the hospital, the police started questioning me. They asked
me some of the same questions they had three years ago when my mom
was murdered. Again, I told them everything I knew. I never saw the person
that kidnapped me, but I showed them the basement that I had been locked in.
They searched every bit of it, but couldn't find any incriminating evidence. I had
to change into other clothing so that they could search my ragged clothes
for hairs or anything that could have come from the attacker. They found a few
hairs, but they belonged to the stray dog that I had met on my way home.

When I arrived home, my dad insisted that I lie down and get some rest, but I
couldn't. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My dad opened it, and a
police officer stood holding a bag with a piece of jewelry in it. He showed it
to my dad and me, asking if it was mine. At the same time, my dad and I replied
that it belonged to my mother-it was her bracelet. It even had the inscription
my dad had put on it, "Love lasts forever, and that's how long I will love you."
We looked at each other and then back at the officer. The man that killed
my mother had kidnapped me.

The police ran a check for fingerprints and such on the bracelet, only to find my
mom and dad's on it. This meant that the person must have been wearing
gloves or something. They ran a more in depth check on it, but it concluded nothing that
we didn't already know. There was nothing else we could do with the bracelet, but
the police put it in a file for possible future reference.

Two more years went by, and we didn't hear from the mystery murderer. We
wondered if he had fallen off the face of the earth, and we hoped that he had.
It was December 19, Ashton's fourth birthday. My grandmother couldn't make it,
because she was snowed in at her home in Ohio, so she mailed Ashton her gift.
When she finished opening her gifts, my dad walked into the room carrying
a small package addressed to Ashton. We knew that it was from granny. My dad
opened it for Ashton; he thought he would never get through all the birthday paper,
but he finally did. When he pulled the top off of the box, there was a smaller box
with a sheet of paper on top of it. It read, "Ashton, I hope your birthday is great,
because it may be your last. Love, Noel"

My dad ran and got the phone; he ran back to Ashton and me in the process
of calling the police station. An officer rushed over and looked at the note. He asked
if that was all that came in the package. Dad thought and then remembered there
was a smaller box along with it. My dad gave the box to the officer and the officer
opened it. It was my mother's diamond wedding ring!

We all rushed to the police station. That was the only place we really felt safe.
They put us up in a very nice hotel under secret names until the ring and note
could be dusted for fingerprints. To our surprise, the murderer had finally given
us a clue. He had touched the ring. Shortly afterward, the officers ran the
fingerprint through records and found out the killer's real name. His name was
Steven Modgross. He lived across town in a trailer park.

Some police officers went to his house and arrested him for homicide, kidnapping,
and threatening homicide. At his court case he pled not guilty, and afterwards while
I was looking for my dad I saw him standing near Steven, talking about something.
When I asked my father what he had said, he replied saying that he asked how
a man could do such a thing to someone.

Now I look down at the man in this casket, for this will be the last time I will
see his face and body, and, as a tear runs down my cheek, I say, "When Steven
later convicted you of hiring him, I couldn't forgive you. I still find it hard to, but I
know I must. I don't love you. You have put Ashton and me through too much
misery. You were always there acting like you cared. You were always acting
like you loved us, but in reality we were just your next victims. Why you hired
the hit-man, I will never know or understand, but in doing so you ruined your
life and ours. Good bye, Dad."