Vision of truth

Oct 11:He stood in the balcony of his apartment sipping a hot coffee. It was a dark sky and he could see the headlights of the automobiles running below, in the street roads. Cold and steady wind was caressing his long hair and his bare shoulders. He could hear the voice of his wife speaking over her phone to a relative. He always took a break for about half an hour in between his writing sessions. This time he chose a murder mystery. He wanted his readers to have something different from the typical love stories he used to give them. The choice of the subject was not random. He himself was curious about the strange murder that happened in the next street three years ago. He always wanted to know who had murdered that gentleman. He had read every news article about that murder in dailies. He remembered everything to the minutest details,the discovery of the heeled shoe print over the balcony of the victims room, the strange odor of perfume in the room and the shirtless state in which the body was lying in the floor in that chilly night. This time he let his imagination to do findings. He always felt that the motive behind the murder was an illicit love affair. He wanted his reader's to have the some difficulty in finding, guessing the culprit, motive and the method of murder. First, he chose himself to be the murderer, that needed a narrator change so later he shifted the role to his wife. He was satisfied by his choice of the murderer as the first person's wife is least suspected. He thought about his wife's response about his choice of murderer and the way he can convince her, by telling her that he uses of false names and false locations in the story, so readers can never relate to him or her, and about going for a dinner after the book release. He wrote it down quickly and had his second coffee in the balcony. When he returned to the study for some minor corrections he found his papers arranged well. " Martha, did you come to this room?" he asked. The response was a No He couldn't sleep well that night. At midnight he felt something moving up to his neck. Oct 12:"These writers are always mad, no one knows why they kill themselves", somebody responded after reading the newspaper. Nobody ever read his murder mystery.