Murder Of Sandra Pryce

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Murder Of Sandra Pryce (1)
by Mary Omobz




To Donald she was always the woman.

I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name that was contrary to what he described her as. In his eyes she eclipsed and predominates the whole of her sex, all emotions he felt were akin to love towards her.

To him Sandra Pryce was his perfect light, his escape from reality.

I had seen little of Donald in days, my work as a freelance writer had drifted us away from each other, he was still as busy as ever even in his silence, creating beautiful strokes of designs, he brought real life to art, gave every canvas a meaning, I had heard of his numerous wins, and his success from various art exhibitions, he definitely was leaving his dreams.

It was on the twenty-eighth day of June, I was returning from a journey into the city, when my way led into Kessignton street. As I passed the building of my dear friend and business colleague Donald, I was bent on seeing him once more again and knowing what next plan he had for his art cause.

His rooms were poorly lit as usual, the house had no change, it was still the same white peeled flat he had stayed in for the past 6years.

I laid my feet on the doormat as I reached for the doorbell, he barely said a word to me, but with gleeful eyes he ushered me in, directing me to a rocky chair covered in paints. He was busy, drawing what seemed to be the most interesting piece of art he had ever set his mind on to put out.

     "The eyes are pretty "he said with a smile across his face.

         " Yes!" I said taking a step forward to admire the piece on the canvas; indeed it was beautiful, she was beautiful.

          "Who is she?" I asked.





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