Unwanted Days of HOLY HOLIDAY

MURDER PLOT

It had been two hours since I started searching for a book that explained, in a detailed and practical way, how to plot a murder scene. Every shelf, every corner of my bookshelf had been meticulously inspected. Each book I picked up seemed almost identical—either too vague or too fantastical for the kind of story I wanted to create. I was beginning to feel frustrated, a little restless, pacing around my room, muttering ideas aloud, none of which felt right.

And then, my eyes caught something I had never noticed before—a black diary, hidden almost perfectly among the row of old novels on the top shelf. It seemed out of place, almost as if it were waiting for me to find it. I carefully lifted it, brushing off a thin layer of dust, and opened it.

The first few pages were filled with my mother’s handwriting. Her loops and swirls, so neat and precise, spoke volumes about her personality. I sat at my desk, placing the diary before me, and began reading one page after another.

What struck me immediately were the letters glued inside—letters my mother and father had sent to each other. They seemed physically distant, yet their words painted a picture of two hearts inseparably close. The letters were tender, filled with hope, with affection, and the naive excitement of youth. I could almost hear their voices whispering through the pages, their laughter echoing in my mind.

I read every single page with a smile. Their teenage years had been overflowing with love, dreams, and ambitions. And then, a pang of sorrow struck me—why had fate been so cruel to me? Why was I the unlucky one, left behind to piece together a life without them?

I exhaled slowly and shut the diary. The momentary warmth of their words faded, replaced by the cold ache of their absence. My thoughts were still swirling when something suddenly hit me on the head—a memory, sharp and insistent, demanding attention.

I rushed outside, finding Aunt and Uncle working in the garden under the soft sunlight.

“Looks like someone needs new ideas for writing,” Uncle announced immediately upon spotting me, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I’m not here for that,” I said sheepishly, still catching my breath.

“I’m all ears,” he replied, continuing his work as if the dirt on his hands didn’t matter.

“I’ve been writing this book for two years,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “and today, I stumbled on something… fishy.”

“What’s fishy?” he asked, his tone unconcerned, and I could tell he didn’t fully grasp the seriousness of my mood.

“Do you think my parents’ deaths were normal?” The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

He exchanged a glance with Aunt, and they both went back to focusing on their flowers.

“Come on, Uncle!” I insisted, frustration bubbling over.

“You must be tired. Go play with Amanda,” he said lightly, not meeting my eyes.

“I’m serious,” I said, my voice trembling.

“What do you mean is fishy?” Aunt asked, finally walking over, her hands smudged with soil.

“Well,” I hesitated, trying to choose my words, “I was writing a murder scene, where two people were killed intentionally after a party…” I trailed off, unsure if she would even follow.

Her expression remained flat, blankly staring at me as if the thought hadn’t even registered.

“And then… my mind hit me,” I continued, “what if the same thing happened to my parents?”

“You mean… someone killed them?” Aunt asked, her voice soft now, tinged with disbelief.

“Yes!” I said, excitement creeping in because she finally seemed to understand.

“Why would they?” she asked quietly.

“Come on! My Dad was part of everything important, everything… influential. He wasn’t just some ordinary man.”

Aunt’s flat look returned, a subtle frown on her face. “It doesn’t make sense to me,” she admitted. She put her gloves away and walked past me toward the water tap.

“Does it make sense to you, honey?” she asked gently, turning her gaze to me.

“What are you guys talking about?” Uncle asked from behind, finally curious.

“Come on!” I groaned, frustrated that neither of them seemed to fully grasp the weight of what I was saying.

“Well,” Uncle said finally, “we all know it was an accident that killed them. If you think differently, then you should come up with proof.”

“Why don’t you start working on your dreams?” Aunt added, moving into her typical sermon mode. I rolled my eyes.

“She doesn’t need your advice, honey,” Uncle said with a kind smile, saving me from her lecture.

“I’m going to my room,” I said quickly, before they could start on anything else I might not like.

I retreated to the sanctuary of my room, letting the memories and pain wash over me. March 11th, 2017. My parents had celebrated their 20th anniversary, leaving me at Uncle’s place with the promise that they would return the next day. That day never came. Only news of a terrible car accident would reach me hours later.

I was abandoned in the world, given the new status of an orphan—a poor, young girl alone in a cruel universe. Two years had passed since their deaths, yet the pain remained fresh, raw, and insistent.

This was my second dream: to reveal the truth behind their deaths.

I returned to my books, studying every detail of murder scenes, every clue, every hint that could possibly point to something beyond a simple accident. Each page I read seemed to whisper the same story: perhaps my parents were taken from me.

I packed my things and found Aunt and Uncle in the kitchen. They were a quiet pair, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine, each movement synchronized.

“Decided to take a walk?” Uncle asked, leaning casually on the table.

“Can I have the keys to my parents’ house?” I asked.

The room froze. A metal spoon clattered to the floor, echoing ominously in the sudden silence.

“What for?” Aunt asked, bewildered.

“I told you… my parents were killed,” I said, nearly on the verge of tears.

Uncle cleared his throat, exchanging a look with Aunt, then turned back to me.

“Don’t think of stopping me,” I added, my eyes shifting between them, searching for any sign of resistance.

“Do you really have to do this?” Uncle asked, his gaze filled with concern.

I nodded, firm in my resolve. He glanced at Aunt, and after a subtle exchange, nodded in agreement. He retrieved the keys from their bedroom.

“Are you sure about this?” Aunt asked, worry etched across her face.

“Yes.” Uncle handed me the keys, giving me a long, pitying look.

“Want a ride?” he offered, ready to drive me.

“No. I’ll need the car,” I replied, my voice firm.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Uh…”

“I’m 19. Xavier got me my driving license last year,” I added, watching his expression soften.

“Okay.” He handed me the keys to his Mark II, and I walked out without looking back.

The drive was long, quiet, almost meditative. When I parked on the front lawn, the atmosphere was heavy with dust and neglect. The house had remained untouched since my parents’ deaths, frozen in time. Uncle had insisted on this, saying I needed to decide its fate.

I stepped out of the car, inhaling the stale, musty air. The house seemed suspended in memory; every shadow, every creaking floorboard spoke of lives once lived. I made my way to their room, coughing as dust choked my lungs.

The emptiness of the house pressed in on me. I could almost see them there—smiling, teasing, hugging me as we started the day together. I could hear my father asking how school had been and my voice responding with childish excitement. Tears traced fading streams down my cheeks, landing softly on my collarbone.

I had never been in their bedroom before. Everything was coated in dust. I placed the keys on the drawer and approached the bookshelf. I pulled out several books, some my father’s favorites, others my mother’s unpublished student works.

“Your aunt will definitely kill me,” Uncle’s deep voice interrupted me. I looked up to see him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“Just now,” he said with a shrug. I gestured toward the diary.

“My mom’s diary,” I explained, keeping it brief. “It’s her teenage life. She hasn’t met my dad yet.” A small smirk played on my lips, and I saw him lighten just a little.

“Why did you follow me?”

His gaze drifted around the room before settling on the closet. “I feel like you should know something.”

I closed the diary and turned fully to him, crossing my legs. “Is it about my mom and dad?”

“Ever heard of HAKIKA JAMESONS?”

“Nope,” I said cautiously.

“It’s the number one construction company in the country, nearly in the top ten across the continent,” he explained, settling down beside me. “In 2014, Mr. Lawrence Mosa was appointed Minister of Transportation and Infrastructure. He ended up in a serious dispute with Hakika due to the poor construction of the first railway from Xenonia to the interior. The conflict never ended until his death.”

“Do you think the conflict is related to my parents’ deaths?”

“Many believed so,” he said softly. “But no one has proof.”

“Why did Dad go into politics?”

I remembered asking him before his death, and he had laughed. “I don’t want to be a politician. I want to be the voice of the handicapped.” That answer never made sense to me—until now.

“Your dad always challenged the system,” Uncle continued. “He believed ‘nothing will work until you do.’ Politics was his breath, his mission.”

I exhaled heavily, the weight of understanding pressing down. A mix of pride and sorrow surged inside me.

“I’m always proud of my little brother,” Uncle said with a grin.

“I wish he wasn’t a politician,” I muttered.

Uncle chuckled. “Death is death. Maybe he’d have died of the virus.”

I exhaled again, thinking of Hakika and Dad. So much had been lost, yet here I was, determined to uncover the truth.

“We better go home,” I broke the silence, standing up.

“What’s the plan?” Uncle asked.

“Nothing. I can’t afford a lawyer. I can’t even be one myself.”

Uncle shrugged, and we walked toward the front lawn. “Maybe I’ll stick to writing until I’m rich enough to open the case,” I said finally. Uncle inclined in agreement.

I locked the door, keeping Mom’s diary with me.

“Preparing another kids’ story?” Uncle teased. “You should get them published.”

“It’s not a kid’s story—but I will,” I replied. I thought of Mr. Lecturer, my unresolved inspiration.

“Well,” Uncle said, leaning into the car, “I didn’t want to show you this yet…” He handed me a journal.

I read the front page, puzzled. “What’s this?” The date read April 24th, 2019.

“That will be published tomorrow,” he said.

“Why a kids’ journal?” I asked. Flipping through, I saw the title: The Princess and the Football God. My eyes widened.

“My idea?” I whispered, scanning it.

“I never use anyone else’s ideas,” Uncle said calmly.

I stared at him, disbelief mixed with excitement. “What’s funny?”

“You’re asking why it’s published tomorrow.”

Oh, right. Shock had blinded me to the simple explanation.

“They liked your stories, Amanda bragged about them. The journal team promised to print them weekly,” he said.

I scanned the author’s name at the bottom: Lawrence Evelyn Mosa. My heart leapt.

I jumped into his arms, tears of joy mixing with relief. “You are a smart author. Amanda knows that, I know that,” he said, patting my back.

“Thank you so much, Uncle,” I whispered, overwhelmed.

“I’ll wake up famous tomorrow,” he said, tittering. I smiled, letting the warmth of family and success wash over me.

“Let’s go home,” he said finally.

“Okay,” I replied, closing the chapter on this small but significant victory, ready to face whatever lay ahead.