I have worked for the FBI for most of my adult life. I spend my days and nights searching for the criminally insane. The individuals who commit horrendous murders.
The sharp wind bit against Guy Black's exposed flesh, and the sound of screaming sirens wailed through the cold night air. He glanced out across the city from the edge of the skyrise building, ready to jump, and his eyes locked down onto the busy streets of London. Despite the time of night, the city was still alive, lit up like a beacon of light shining up to the heavens but struggling to attract the attention of God's forgiveness. Instead, the mundane lives of the public found themselves bathing in the sins of the devil. Every other street corner found itself occupied with lowlives looking for their next fix for the night and shady dealers winning off their suffering. However, the odd flower bloomed out from the chaos of tangled weeds, the beautiful rhythmic sounds of laughter, and music. The noises of the real world were a blissful distraction for what Guy was about to do.
I’m running and my breath is staggered. I don’t know where I’m going, I couldn’t even tell you if I’m going north or south. My feet feel like cinderblocks as they clamp onto the floor. It’s finally morning time and I’ve broken free. The air is icy and moist as I sprint towards a big open field. The air slaps my cheeks and stings my nose and lips with every breath I take in. I can see it just beyond the tall pine tree’s, the road. It’s still so far away, but my heart seems to thaw out of the cold depressing cage it was just trapped in. Just a bit further, I think to myself. The only flaw in my plan was leaving at dawn. I spent the past three months, living in a tent, humiliated and imprisoned.
Winter mornings are always depressing. Dark skies, thick with fog, air so cold your breath leaves a cloud of smoke. This morning was especially depressing; I had to wake up at five AM to get the 6:30 AM train. Working in retail around Christmas completely ruins the holidays. Early mornings, long hours, rude customers. The train station seemed completely empty that morning. The sky was darker. The fog was thicker. The air so cold my fingers felt like icicles. I could barely see two foot in front of me. I checked my phone '06:25'. I reached my hands into my thick parka coat pockets in search of my headphones, but with no success. Great. I'll just have to stand in silence. Or not?
"Why do I keep picking you up Nina? I see you here every other weekend. You're beautiful, and smart. Your bakery is a pillar of this community and those oatmeal cookies are heavenly. Why are you letting this shit ruin your life?"
TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal Thoughts
Published 5 months ago
As I step onto the 17:33 train, I feel everyone's eyes manoeuvre to my shaking body; each stare stabs me like a burning, molten iron sword. My legs are pinned to the filthy floor, my body swaying to the rhythmical movement of the carriage, like a drunk man at a bar. I slightly adjust my head so that my gaze can focus on something that isn't a gaping face. However, darkness has kidnapped every photon of light causing the carriage doors to display my reflection.
They were holding hands, fingers tangled together as if they had once been in love. I found that particularly strange given that witnesses say the two victims didn’t know each other.
It was a dark fall night in October. The cool breeze blew, making the leaves on the ground dance along the concrete. A young man walked quietly along the street. Hands in his pockets, he whistled a nursery rhyme that echoed down the absent street. He took out his phone to check the time. He was on his way to a date, and he was almost late. He was hoping that he wouldn't be late because that would mean he walked all this way for nothing. Cars zoomed by him, beeping at him to get out of the street.