M\u00e1li\u00f0 er a\u00f0 \u00e9g ger\u00f0i stuttmynd \u00e1 \u00cdslandi fyrir nokkrum \u00e1rum, eins og bloggvinir og a\u00f0rir kannski muna. Sagan var of st\u00f3r \u00ed stuttmynd, svo \u00e9g skrifa\u00f0i handrit \u00ed fullri lengd. F\u00e9kk ofsalega j\u00e1kv\u00e6\u00f0 vi\u00f0br\u00f6g\u00f0 fr\u00e1 \u00fev\u00ed f\u00e1a f\u00f3lki sem f\u00e9kk a\u00f0 lesa. Hef\u00f0i hugsanlega komi\u00f0 verkinu \u00ed framkv\u00e6md og gert kvikmynd, ef \u00e9g hef\u00f0i ekki veri\u00f0 a\u00f0 rolast \u00ed \u00fatlandinu. Hva\u00f0 gera b\u00e6ndur ef \u00feeir eru langt fr\u00e1 sveitinni sinni? \u00deeir skrifa s\u00f6gu, svo \u00e9g f\u00f3r \u00ed \u00fea\u00f0 a\u00f0 breyta \u00feessu \u00ed b\u00f3k. Hefur gengi\u00f0 \u00e1g\u00e6tlega, \u00fe\u00f3 a\u00f0 daglegt l\u00edf eigi \u00fea\u00f0 til a\u00f0 fl\u00e6kjast fyrir.<\/p>\n

Sagan gerist \u00e1 nokkrum t\u00edmaskei\u00f0um \u00ed \u00edslandss\u00f6gunni. H\u00e9r \u00e1 eftir er upphafskaflinn \u00far b\u00f3kinni. Gerist \u00ed \u00feessu (e\u00f0a svipu\u00f0u) h\u00fasi. Afsaki\u00f0 enskuna, en \u00e9g f\u00f3r v\u00edst a\u00f0 skrifa \u00feetta \u00e1 \u00fev\u00ed tungum\u00e1li. \u00deetta er hugsanlega kl\u00fa\u00f0urslegt, en \u00fea\u00f0 er bara \u00feannig me\u00f0 verk \u00ed vinnslu.<\/p>\n

1947<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The storm had been raging all night. Thunderstorms were rare, but tonight was different. Like God wanted to show that he wasn\u2019t happy. Like He wasn\u2019t ready for the gift He would receive tonight.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

The big house was dark, with just a couple of table lamps keeping total darkness away. The entrance was grand. Heavy furniture that had been picked for style rather than function. She was standing on the top of a central staircase, looking like a ghost with her light silk bathrobe. One nostril bleeding, soiling the perfectly white silk. She looked back quickly, saw him approaching and grabbed the heavy wooden rail. She stumbled down the stairs, almost falling. He followed slowly, like he knew she wouldn\u2019t get away. One foot reached the floor and she looked back. He was standing at the top of the stairs. Took the first step down. She ran towards the large front door and tried to open it. It was locked. They never locked it. She tried frantically, but there was no point. It was locked and it would have taken an elephant to force it open.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

She slowly turned around. He was at the bottom of the stairs now, holding the gun at his hip like a gunslinger from a bad western. It didn\u2019t suit him, she thought. He wasn\u2019t the gangster type. She looked at the antique bowl on the dresser. He had bought it for her at an auction a few years back. She hadn\u2019t liked it. She wasn\u2019t into this over-decorated stuff, but now she wanted it more than anything. She needed the contents. The keys. It was just out of reach. If she\u2019d run for it, he might panic. She would never make it. Get the keys, back to the door, key in the keyhole, turn, open the door and go outside. No, she had to use reason. See what he wanted. Why he was doing this? Was it for the slender silhouette, smoking a cigarette at the top of the stairs? Nothing had been the same since she arrived.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

He looked at the keys and smiled. Smiled, but his eyes were not happy. Moved closer to her. She thought it was a tear in his eyes, but it never came. He wouldn\u2019t cry for me, she thought. He wouldn\u2019t cry for anything. Not anymore. He had changed.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Her hand moved slowly down her side, finding the pocket of the bathrobe. Her hand slipped into the pocket. He moved closer, raising the gun. Her hand found something. She raised it.<\/span><\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Are you looking for this, dear?\u2019 she said as a single shot echoed though the hallway.<\/em><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\t