A Fictional Detective Story

I don’t know who said it or typed it, but I like to think my personality is best described by the phrase “I like to browse, smoke, and fuck.” It’s ironic, in my opinion; because I’m currently a nineteen-year old virgin who rarely smokes and has no idea what “browse” alludes to in the previous statement. You’re probably wondering why I chose the statement, then, if it in actuality doesn’t describe me at all. What I wonder, instead, is why it can’t. Is it hard to believe that I’m instead a different person beneath my life experiences? You’re answer to this question is probably no, but I disagree with you (for the sole purpose that if I agreed with you, I’d have nothing to write about). My point is, what if I do browse, smoke, and fuck on the daily, then the phrase would indeed describe me quite well, but as you and I both know, I don’t, and thus, it doesn’t. This brings me to my first dilemma. But, this dilemma is easily solved with the simple fact that the ones who write the autobiography are the ones holding the pen. This saying, in its original form, may indeed relate to other things, but for now, let’s assume that I have the ability to rewrite my life the way I want to, so it does match up with one of my favorite sayings. Then what would you say? I guess this is the point I’m trying to make, that I want to change my life into something I’d actually want to live. The best way to express my point is to firstly reveal myself as a terrible detective in a city you’ve never heard of.

If reality could be in black and white, it was the type of reality I lived in. The world lacked a spray of color, and along with that, a drop of imagination. Killers were commonplace in my city, or at least the city I’d dubbed mine. My hometown was a small town near a creek further south. This, on the other hand, was more or less the city my home was located. I stood beneath a drenched streetlight, more drenched then it was and feeling its effects much sooner than it did. It was mostly because I disliked smoking outside without being surrounded by like, but in this particular case, I was doing to set the desired tone: desperate. She was like a lost kitten in the storm, her mascara running down her face and spilling down her neck. She saw me and wasted no time getting her pretty little self within my personal space. Before I knew it, we were in Joe’s, pretending to enjoy the bastard’s terrible coffee. She ran her finger around the rim of her cup as she spoke with an accent boiled in guilt and lightly sprinkled in Spanish. Her dark eyes eyed me carefully. I knew she didn’t trust me too well.
“I have no reason to trust you,” she started, “But I do.” I shrugged and acted unaffected. I could’ve cared less.
“I don’t care,” I said, “You came to me, not the other way around.” She nodded and took another sip of her coffee. I watched her. Well, my eyes were on her, and I saw her, but watching her wasn’t what I was doing. In my mind, her dress strap calmly slipped off and down to the side of her arm. She brought me back to reality with a question I couldn’t answer.
“Can you find him?” She asked. I rubbed my chin.
“I can’t answer that,” I said, “You don’t have anything? A lead I can follow? A photo I can use? Anything that can help me find him?” She hung her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. She shot out of her chair started for the rainfall outside. I grabbed her arm and suddenly felt my mother’s words in the back of my head, asking me what the Hell I was doing putting my hand on a woman. She turned to me and looked into my eyes.
“My sister needs this,” she started, “Her fiancé has been missing for almost two days. I have no pictures; I’ve never seen him myself. Please,” she paused, looking deep into my eyes. It was the closest I’ve ever come to crying due to a client. She finally continued, “Will you help us?” She asked me. That was a question I could answer. I nodded and released her from my grip. I placed a cigarette between my lips and started for the darkness of the night. As I stepped out of the diner, I stopped.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I said over my shoulder. In an instant, I was gone.

The woman’s name was Michelle Miller, a computer programmer with a heartbroken sister looking for her missing fiancé. The missing man went by the name of Alexander Hughes, a writer well-known within the confines of the city. The whole thing actually reminded me of some novel her wrote, called Winter, in which a college-age man decides to investigate the sudden disappearance of a woman he develops feelings for over the course of their Christmas vacation. The point was, now he was missing, and I was the one investigating his disappearance during the Holidays. Myself as a detective has nothing to do with the next piece of this story.

Suddenly she wasn’t sitting there, even though I strictly remember seeing her sitting there just a second ago. And it wasn’t just her. My couch was gone with her, and so were the chopsticks in my hands. I furrowed my brow, realizing my life and my apartment were disappearing right in front of me. I bit my lip as she make a sound in the kitchen behind me.
“I think it’s happening,” I said. She passed me in a hurry and collected a handful of her things from around the room. She ignored me. I looked her over. She reminded me of a girl I knew in college, especially when she spoke. It was probably because I made every girl out to be the same in my head. She stopped and sighed.
“What’s happening?” She asked. I hesitated.
“I’m dying, I think,” I said with a shrug. She had a do that could best be described as a puff of hair. It shifted slightly when she swerved around to look at me.
“Well, it had to happen sometime,” she said plainly. I stood where I was, eyeing the black television screen.
“What do you mean?” I asked. She shrugged.
“Everyone dies Alex,” she said. I nodded. I started drumming the top of the television, considering my predicament. She shifted her weight to one leg and just stood there, “Is this meant to make me stay?” She asked. I shook my head.
“Not at all,” I said. I remembered what it was we were doing. She started moving around the apartment again, collecting her things. I took a seat on the couch, which had reappeared, along with the remote to the television. Late Nite flicked on. Fallon’s monologue did nothing but provide another layer to the tension-filled silence. I scratched my black hair, watching as my apartment was suddenly taken over by an orange fuzz like something from a low-quality film from the seventies. She didn’t notice, not one bit. She took a seat across from me, sliding on her emerald heels in a huff. I looked at her until my apartment began to fade away, losing itself to the back of my mind. We were across from each other at some table in a Chinese restaurant. I played with my food as she ate silently. She looked at me.
“What’s wrong now?” She asked. There was always something wrong with me. I hated the way she said it, with such disdain, and I hated how this was like something I’d written, and how what I had written was just like this movie I’d seen. I poked this green piece of something on my plate, thinking over my response.
“If this is death,” I started, “Then why are you here?” I felt mean when I said it, but I got a sick kick out of being mean at that time. She gave me a look.
“You think about me too much,” she said flatly. I nodded.
“Makes sense,” I said. She played with her long black hair, now divided and clumped into two large circular shapes on the sides of her head. I looked at some couple sitting to our right, laughing and smile the way she and I used to. She started speaking my mind.
“I wish we were like that again,” she said. I rubbed my face, trying to shove the thought out of my mind. I heard her attack her plate with her chopsticks and listened as she slurped something down. I swallowed.
“I need to get my head right,” I said. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said, “I’d like to get a handle on things myself.” I grabbed and napkin and wiped my face. She eyed me as I did so, “What’s the plan?” She asked. I stood from the table and took her hand, leading her out of the restaurant. As we emerged out of the door, we found ourselves in walking into my grandparents’ home. She looked around, “I remember this place,” she said. I nodded sarcastically.
“I know I do,” I said. We took a seat on the brown couch, directly facing the flat-screen my mother had given them when I went to college. We didn’t watch anything. We just sat there.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked. I thought it over.
“I don’t know,” I said, “Life is kind of fuzzy before you.” She sighed and shook her head.
“That’s…sweet, Alex,” She said. I frowned, remembering the line from the movie I was thinking about earlier. I tried t keep it out of my head.
“We were breaking up,” I said. She nodded.
“Yes, I remember that part,” she said, “But what were you doing before that?” I thought it over again, this time pretending to try harder.
“I was writing,” I said, vaguely seeing myself in the chair next to us, typing away at something. I looked up from the screen and eyed myself and her. She looked at me.
“What are you writing?” She asked, almost completely forgetting about the me sitting next to her. I scanned the screen.
“Traveling through one’s mind,” I said to her. She looked the room over.
“That movie,” she started. I rolled my eyes.
“Enough with the movie,” I said. I started typing again. I stopped suddenly, and when I looked up, I saw she and I were gone, “Wait a second,” I said, “Where are we now?” I looked back at my screen. Like a movie, I watched myself turn the corner near my apartment. She was smiling and moving around like an excited child.
“That was so weird,” she said, her eyes huge. I gave her a look and continued walking down the sidewalk, my hands in my pockets. I felt so cool.
“You’ve never seen scale a fence before?” I asked. She smiled and shook her head.
“No, who knew you were such a badass?” She said. I smiled at her.
“I did,” I said jokingly. I yanked my head back and slammed the laptop shut. She was back on the couch now.
“I enjoyed that night,” she said. I looked at her.
“So did I,” I said. She got up from the couch.
“Maybe this is your story,” she said. I gave her a look.
“What do you mean?” I asked. She looked at me like I was crazy.
“I mean, what if you’re writing this?” She said. I scratched my head.
“Then…I am really into this story right now,” I said. She rolled her eyes.
“Fine, don’t be serious, you’re the one who came to me with the problem,” She said in a huff. I thought it over before speaking again.
“Then what’s the point?” I asked. She looked at me.
“I don’t know, you’re the one writing it,” she said. I looked back at the closed laptop in my lap. I could feel the sunlight barring down over us while I thought. She looked around.
“Where are we now?” She asked. I looked around, my grandmother’s green felt chair now in the front yard of the chapel. It must have been April, judging by the heat. She stayed on the couch and looked around. I eyed the grass beneath my bare feet.
“This is the chapel at the university I went to,” I said, “She and I used to sit here a lot.” She looked at me.
“Give me a name,” she said. I stared at her.
“Andrea,” I said. Andrea sat up straight.
“What was the name of this girl?” She asked.
“Marie,” I lied. I tossed the laptop into the grass. It disappeared before it hit the ground. Andrea eyed the scenery.
“I must be based off of a real person,” she said. I nodded.
“My ex,” I said. Andrea nodded.
“I think I got it,” she said. I waited for her to continue. She cracked her knuckles.
“I represent what you have now, and she represents what you wanted. In this story you’re writing, you’re traveling through your head to various places that have some memory of her attached to them, and I’m here as some sort of character made to act as a combination of the two,” she said. I looked at her.
“So…,”
“So, you need to get your head out of your heart and start living your life,” she said. I grimaced.
“There’s something wrong with that,” I said. She raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You’re obviously not a perfect representation of these two women, because you’re my character, meaning you’re not what they are, but how I see them,” I said. Andrea stood from the chair and slid all of her things into her handbag. I switched the television off, realizing I was back in my apartment now. She looked at me as she reached for the door handle.
“It doesn’t change the fact you need to stop loving a lot of women with some of your heart and start loving just one with all of it,” she said. She walked out of the door. And suddenly she wasn’t there, even though I strictly remember seeing her there just a second ago. It wasn’t just her. My love was gone with her, and so was y broken heart in my hands. I furrowed my brow, realizing my life and my apartment was emptying now, right in front of me.

I stood from my coach and wiped any food that may have fallen on my shirt. In all honesty, Andrea doesn’t exist. At least, not in the form I just gave her. She, if anything, represents the girls I used to know as a child, who I’ve found myself emotionally latching on to as a grown man. I am a writer and a detective, still in love with the loves I’ll never have. I sighed and found myself running down the hallways before long; trying to catch up to the girl I knew didn’t exist. She turned the corner, leaving the hallway and walking into the hallway of our apartment complex. She must have heard me coming, because she swerved around as soon as I saw her.
“What are you doing?” She asked. Her eyes were huge, and seemed wet from where I was. She was sad, there was no doubting that. I stopped near the PO boxes and just looked her over. She didn’t mind. She just stood there and allowed me to take her in.
“Stay,” I said. I had a case, in the back of my mind, waiting to be solved, but at the time, I was more concerned with the status of my relationship with my girlfriend. She sighed and slouched, just eyeing me with mild irritation. The forever we waited for was interrupted by her.
“Okay,” she said. She fell into me, and in no time we were holding each other back in our bed, back in our world, back in our apartment. My eyes were closed, but I could smell her hair. I was flooded with the scent of shea butter or something like that. She held me closer, “What do you want to call this?” She asked. I opened my eyes and thought it over.

^In Front of Me – The Past is a Present from the Future^

She smiled, “I like it,” she said. I smiled and sighed.
“I need your brain,” I said. She looked up at me.
“You need it for what?” She asked. I shifted my position slightly.
“What do you think about this case?” I asked. She looked deep into my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Have I ever told you that it isn’t a good idea to take on cases when you have no experience in this field?” She asked. I smiled and nodded. She smiled at me, “Good, just making sure. I think you should comb his usual scenes, his workplace, his home, places like that,” she said. I made mental notes of all of this. Before I knew it was up and about, grabbing my coat and my hat and heading for the door. She leaned on one elbow and looked at me, “Where are you going?” She asked, “What about us?” I looked over my shoulder and smiled.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I said. An hour later, her ideas led me nowhere, a realization that left me tired and sick feeling as I walked into a telephone booth down the street from the missing fiancé’s apartment. His home was his workplace; the office of a writer. I inserted a handful of coins and waited for my woman to answer our phone. A man approached me with a smile on his face, poking the phone booth madly as if he was seeing an old college friend.
“Hey!” He exclaimed. I eyed him before opening the booth’s door.
“Hello,” I started, “What’s up?” I looked him over. His wore a plaid shirt, apparently flannel. It was a combination of black and red, and barely held in his large stomach. His beard was thick and braiding at the ends. The first thing that came to my mind was the word ‘sasquatch’. His smile survived my perplex look.
“Man, man, man, I haven’t seen you in a bit,” he said. My confused look became more advanced.
“I’m not surprised, I’ve never seen before in my life,” I said. He jerked his head back in confusion, but a smile instantly erased the look from his face.
“Dude, it’s me, Markus,” Markus said. I just stood there.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen you before,” I said. Suddenly, the phone was answered by my girlfriend, ending my conversation with Markus.
“Hello?” She answered. I took a deep breath.
“No luck,” I said, “Nothing stood out to me, and now I’m back at square one.” Traffic on the street suddenly picked up, and now I was struggling to hear her response.
“That’s unfortunate,” she said flatly, “What about our talk?” She asked. I was a bit taken aback at her lack of emotion, but I understood that this was a big splinter in her mind.
“Let’s talk now,” I said. I sat across from her in Joe’s diner, pretending to enjoy a cheeseburger on a plate with fries. She eyed her food.
“Why the Hell do we eat here?” She asked. I shrugged and shoved a fry into my mouth.
“We come for the coffee,” I said. She looked up from her plate and gave me a look.
“The coffee’s terrible,” she said. I nodded.
“This is true,” I said. I sighed as we sat in silence, knowing full well a talk was coming, but avoiding it in our own way. I made a face of disgust.
“What do you want to talk about Andrea?” I asked. Andrea gave me a tired, yet oddly relieved look.
“You almost never say my name,” she said, “I’ve missed the way you say it,” she said. I smiled and looked at my plate.
“Well, it’s your name,” I said, trying not to sound too gushy. She rubbed her neck with one hand, and took mine in the other.
“I...I just want to be the only one,” she said. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I knew this is what was bothering her, but I couldn’t face it. I cleared my throat.
“I can’t do just you,” I said, “I can’t leave that stability for the unknown.” Andrea squeezed my hand as softly as she could. I finally looked at her, and found her getting teary-eyed in the middle of the goddamn diner. I held back a sigh and waited for her to compose herself.
“Do you love me?” she asked. I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” I said, “But there’s more to this than just you and me.” She released my hand and swallowed whatever it was she was going to say. I took a deep breath and poked the fries on my plate. The noise in the diner seemed to suddenly escalate, but the silence between Andrea and I seemed to drown out everything.
“You brought me back,” she said. It seemed to echo in the empty diner, against the glass windows and the stale fries. I felt sick to my stomach, disgusted at the way she had put it. I couldn’t retaliate or respond in a manner I would have liked. She was gone now. I watched as everything that used to be Joe’s diner fade away into the darkness that now surrounded me. I was in a strange land; a foreigner in a territory I didn’t know. In now time she was my ex-girlfriend, though she had started as the girl I had loved since my days in my hometown. She was my childhood crush of sorts. I let out a sigh and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes and letting the darkness take over everything I didn’t care about, including myself. Even as I sacrificed myself to the void, I felt the pen in my hand; the keys against my fingertips. I knew I had written this, and that I was the author of my own story. Someone had told me that God was the author, writing my story for me, but I was never much a believer in God. As far as I was concerned, the only person who had control over me was me, but as the darkness took me over, I asked myself if I was the darkness. Was I the void and the black hole, sucking in everything and destroying it as I went along? I had nothing left; everything I touched turned to dust in my world. She was the only thing that had survived tornado after tornado, but even she wasn’t indestructible. I felt her tug on my arm, letting me know I wasn’t paying attention.
“Hey,” she whispered. I was sweating, and felt an intense desire to strip off my sweater to let the heat out. I swallowed and refocused on the woman I loved. She shook my hand again, “Hey,” she said, clearer now that my hearing was returning. I took a deep breath.
“Yes, Andrea,” I said. I remained relaxed in my chair, still leaning back enough to break my neck if such a situation occurred. She kept her grip on my hand.
“I thought I had lost you for a second. Can I have your undivided attention please?” She asked. I nodded and leaned forward.
“If you want a break, we can take a break,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t completely thought it over before I said it, but I said it. I took a second to let it sink into her and let it sink into myself before I continued, “Let’s just take some time to think about things.” She released almost immediately, and all I wanted to do was watch in amazement and confusion as she slipped away. The diner was still noisy. The fries were still stale. I was still disoriented, but this time, she really was gone. The apartment door clicked as the remote in my hand clicked the television off. I could barely make out the sound of her heels attacking the floor as she stomped down the hallway. I still felt bad, but all I wanted to do at that time was focus on the case. I squeezed the arms of the chair I was sitting in and felt myself growing irritated. Gabriel sat across from me in his leather armchair across from me. I bit my tongue and placed a fist in front of my mouth in an effort to keep myself quiet. Gabriel examined all of this.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. I shrugged and shook my head.
“Nothing,” I said. He smiled and shook his head.
“Don’t give me that,” he said, “All I asked was a simple question.” I closed my eyes and rolled them.
“And I gave you a simple answer,” I said, “You know I don’t see the point of all of this.” Gabriel chuckled.
“Surely you must be joking,” he laughed. I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not, and don’t call me Shirley,” I said. Gabriel shook his head and wrote something down. I listened as his pen scratched and the fire cracked. Suddenly, he stopped.
“What would you prefer I call you?” He jokingly asked. I removed my fist and scratched my chin. The sound of stubble between my finger nails made me twist and turn in my seat. Gabriel waited. I finally stopped.
“I want you to call me a cab,” I said. Gabriel hesitated before reaching for his office phone and dialing the cab service. I blocked out the brief conversation he had with the woman on the phone, so I didn’t hear or see it.
“While we wait,” Gabriel said, the phone back on its hook as though it hadn’t been touched, “How about we discuss your newest case?” I took a deep breath and sighed.
“It’s a dead end,” I started, “Nothing at his house points to where he could’ve gone.” Gabriel shrugged and wrote something else down on his pad.
“Did you try the internet?” He asked. I gave him a look.
“The what?” I asked. Gabriel laughed a loud laugh that reminded me of a friend I knew in college.
“The internet,” he said, “Don’t you own a computer?” He asked. My look didn’t waiver.
“No,” I lied.
“You’re lying,” Gabriel said.
“Okay, I do, and I know what the internet is. I’m just too lazy for all that investigative work.”
“Then why the Hell are you a detective?” Gabriel asked. I didn’t have a response for that. I started to get up and leave the bastard where he sat. Gabriel shook his head and wrote more on his pad, “Oh, and how’s the novel coming along?” He asked. I swerved on the spot and looked at him.
“How the Hell did you know about that?” I asked. Gabriel laughed his loud laugh.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a smile. My breathing was hard, so I tried to calm myself down. I found my heart beneath my chest and starting rubbing it to sooth the sudden pain. I came to a realization and asked Gabriel about it.
“Have I been coming more frequently?” I asked. Gabriel raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“Yes, you have,” he said, “It is okay though; another patient of mine has started coming less and less anyway.” I nodded and wrapped my fingers around the door handle. I flung it open, walking straight into the lobby of my apartment. A post-it note attached to the door of my P.O. box was a bright pink beacon in the cold silver wall. I snatched it up as I opened my P.O. box and crumpled it. The trashcan became its best friend as I tossed it, and headed for the elevator door. Stepping in, the doors opened back up, and now I was at my apartment door. Another post-it note got my attention.
“Don’t forget to continue posting your shorts on that website. I want to keep up on your writing,” I read aloud. Andrea’s handwriting almost fell off of the post-it, the pen she used obviously too full of ink or something. I tore it off and introduced it to its new best friend: the trashcan in my kitchen. I sat at my desk in the living room and started surfing the internet for no real reason. I didn’t how to search for the missing fiancé, so I didn’t think too much about it. A video turned into two, and then into three. I jolted awake at the sound of a goddamn advertisement on my laptop. The sunlight punched me in the face, greeting me to yet another day on the case. I saw that the advertisement was for some messaging service, and thought if Andrea instantly. I wondered if she had it, and it occurred to me that she and I should download the program to we could speak to each other. It was funny how I didn’t want to talk to her before, in person. I hit the download button and started surfing the web again. That’s when the idea of searching for the writer hit me.

“What’s that?” I asked. Andrea shrugged.
“Looks like a plot device made to move you to the next part of this story,” she said. I kicked the device and watched it do nothing. “Sweet,” Andrea said with a smile, “I get a name change in this part.”