| rdfs:comment
| - No Reply is a song by The Beatles, written by John Lennon, credited Lennon/McCartney. The song is included on the albums Beatles for Sale and Beatles '65.
- No Reply is a song from Cowboy Bebop, preformed by the Seatbelts, and sung by Steve Conte.
- Sundays. I hate Sundays. I hate Sundays even more then Mondays. Nobody ever does anything on Sunday. I guess it just signifies the end of the weekend, y'know? Well anyway, it was Sunday. I was, as per usual, home alone, and bored. T.V was rubbish. It was a slow day online, and I couldn't be arsed to study. Even if it was Sunday, it was still my day off. I decided to text a few friends, maybe ask if they wanted to go for coffee or something. So I sat there, wallowing in self-pity for about a half hour. It was then my mother walked in. "About time!" I yelled. No reply. The bold black heading read:
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| abstract
| - No Reply is a song by The Beatles, written by John Lennon, credited Lennon/McCartney. The song is included on the albums Beatles for Sale and Beatles '65.
- No Reply is a song from Cowboy Bebop, preformed by the Seatbelts, and sung by Steve Conte.
- Sundays. I hate Sundays. I hate Sundays even more then Mondays. Nobody ever does anything on Sunday. I guess it just signifies the end of the weekend, y'know? Well anyway, it was Sunday. I was, as per usual, home alone, and bored. T.V was rubbish. It was a slow day online, and I couldn't be arsed to study. Even if it was Sunday, it was still my day off. I decided to text a few friends, maybe ask if they wanted to go for coffee or something. First friend. "Hey, you busy?" I texted. I waited 20 minutes. No reply. Unusual, she was the type of person who replied almost instantly. No harm though, she must have been busy. I texted another friend. No reply. I sent out four more messages to four of my friends, and hadn't gotten a reply from anyone. Weird, I thought. Then it dawned on me. They must have all been together. What had I done to piss everyone off? Was I suddenly not good enough to merit an invitation? So I sat there, wallowing in self-pity for about a half hour. It was then my mother walked in. "About time!" I yelled. No reply. "What's for dinner? I'm starving," I called. No reply. I walked into the kitchen, to find my mother sitting with her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. "What's wrong?" I asked, running and putting my arms around her. No reply, she just sat there weeping. I glanced down at the newspaper that was laying on the table in front of her. The bold black heading read: "Police still without lead to location of teen's bodies" I scanned through the paragraph. Apparently, a girl had murdered her four friends, and hid the bodies, before killing herself. Accompanying the article, there was a photograph. The sub heading on it read: "Face Of The Killer". Of course, I recognized that face. I saw it every time I looked in a mirror, every time I looked down into a pool of water, every time I passed a reflective surface, I saw that face. The face in that picture, was me.
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