Todd Anderson Dead Poets Society Romane & Geschichten

… One day, I suddenly saw the news on the television. "The Jones family was murdered. None of the family members lived." My heart skipped a beat. I then saw a photo of my family on the screen. "It is reported that the murder was committed by Susan Jones, the wife of the old director of Jones Group..." None of them survived. Charles, Derek, Samantha, Jenson, and Susan—all of them died. "Mrs. Jones left a suicide note, claiming that this was done for her daughter Celine..." I could no longer process the words I heard after that.

The usual – a concoction of caffeine and existential dread. As I waited for my elixir of sanity, I couldn't help but overhear a lively conversation at the next table. A group of caffeinated gossips were dissecting the latest Hollywood drama. And who was at the epicenter of it all? None other than the shiny, illustrious Anderson – Killian Anderson. My guy was everywhere.

Victoria Marshall. That was my name. Today marked 312 days since I died. I couldn't let go, so my soul had been lingering in this world. However, my husband, Noah Carlson, showed up at my doorstep with a bunch of burly men, shattering the peace of the countryside. He glanced around with a face full of disdain.

My friend was dead, Andros was dead and he died for me. _______

Standing there, barely ten feet away is Jaden staring at me like he has just seen a ghost. His reaction is confirmation enough that he knew my sister and knows that she is dead. "We'll take one of each," a good looking guy in a suit says. I know him, his assisstant who goes everywhere with him. I struggle to take my eyes off Jaden and work on their order. "Anything else?" I ask with a smile which seems to disarm him. They turn to walk away. I won't have another shot. 'Say something, anything' my mind screams at me.

Thanksgiving is over, my friends have returned home. Austin has returned home. Antonio’s body has returned to the local funeral parlor. Over the past week I have been dealing with phone calls and emails about Antonio’s death. No one seems to have boundaries. This is my husband. I’ve tried to stay off of the computer, even to check email because of seeing all the news. “Antonio Anderson death”, “Antonio Anderson passes away, age 43”, “Antonio Anderson died in a horrific car crash”, “Mrs. Anderson moves on without Mr. Anderson”. No Mrs. Anderson didn’t move on, why are they so grimy?

Trent howled, coughing from the pain whiles Anderson addressed him coldly, “Look around you Trent, you think I want to kill you? Death is too good for you.” Trent looked around for the first time, feeling reassured at seeing all the familiar faces. Anderson wouldn’t indeed kill him in front of all these people so killing wasn’t in the equation. “So why did you have me brought here?”