Minds of the Tormented
oo2
Gerard
It still hung in the air. Death was a horrid thing. I knew this from being in this field of profession for such a long time. I’d seen suicide, I’d seen murder, I’d seen accidents. In the end, it all turned to the same thing. There was someone, somewhere, who took the death so hard, and he was the one who had to watch them crumble.
It was almost like a bad smell. You hated it, it made you want to vomit all over the floors, and you wanted to spray Febreeze to cover it up. It hung in the air tragically, as you tried to figure out how it had come about. That’s what death was. Tragic. Hanging there above you, a dark cloud, a bad smell, an evil omen.
Flashing lights circled the dingy neighborhood as I stepped out of the car, sighing loudly, paying close attention to the surrounding houses, as well as the very building I was in front of. Several officers were already outside and inside, snapping photos, looking for evidence, whatever it took.
But aside from the soft murmurs of the cops, the world seemed rather quiet, to me. Almost calm. There were no hysterics from a sobbing mother or husband, no kids asking where their mummy or their sister were.
“Gerard,” one of the officers nodded, walking over. I nodded back, and closed the car door, before meeting him halfway down the walk. “Addict,” he murmured, nodding towards the building. “Her family was killed a few years ago, they used to live in a real nice house in the suburbs – when they died it went downhill. Somebody just walked in and found her, called us.”
“How long has she been…”
“Just a few days,” he told me.
The breeze floated over us quietly, and I crossed my arms, switching from foot to foot until finally he led me inside, where I looked around at the kitchen she was lying on. She could have been pretty – at one point, I decided. Except for now, she was dead, pale – the blood having stopped circulating beneath her what I figured was once clear, ivory skin.
There was no mess, just her, on the cheap, dirty vinyl floors, in the cold room that smelled like pot and cigarettes, with five different cops and doctors flashing lights, snapping photos, and taking notes below me.
It echoed through my mind that this woman could have died for almost no reason – except for just being here – making me sick.
“Gerard,” I whirled around, jumping just barely, at Matt - blonde haired, blue eyed, muscular, and also my partner – who was staring expectantly at me. “Are you going to work, or just stare?”
There was something about this particular homicide, like the last three – that just struck me as tragic, sad, upsetting. Two of them had no family, like this one, and the other one had a wife, who was abused by him. But still, there were no traces or who could have done it, or why. Everything was cleaned, when we arrived on scene, nothing but the corpse and smell of death left for us to see.
“Do you ever wonder what the point is, when there’s such lack of evidence?” I asked, my voice monotone. I traced the spider webbed blue-green veins on my wrist, staring at the floor as I let the question fly out into the air, not giving it a second thought.
I did that a lot. Spoke before letting the sentence process in my mind, the lack-of-eloquence words almost always causing a tense silence in the room. I asked the good questions – I knew this. The ones that could never be answered, the ones that were logical and illogical at the same time. Questions like this one.
Which was exactly why Matt remained silent, shaking his head instead, and walking off, murmuring something about how I was strange.
I’m not sure what I did to deserve getting partnered with him.
An hour later, everything was finished, the room cleared out, officers and doctors and ambulances leaving, as I stood in the middle of the room – wondering yet again – why anyone felt the need to murder.
They said the best asked questions were the ones that could never be answered.
It still hung in the air. Death was a horrid thing. I knew this from being in this field of profession for such a long time. I’d seen suicide, I’d seen murder, I’d seen accidents. In the end, it all turned to the same thing. There was someone, somewhere, who took the death so hard, and he was the one who had to watch them crumble.
It was almost like a bad smell. You hated it, it made you want to vomit all over the floors, and you wanted to spray Febreeze to cover it up. It hung in the air tragically, as you tried to figure out how it had come about. That’s what death was. Tragic. Hanging there above you, a dark cloud, a bad smell, an evil omen.
Flashing lights circled the dingy neighborhood as I stepped out of the car, sighing loudly, paying close attention to the surrounding houses, as well as the very building I was in front of. Several officers were already outside and inside, snapping photos, looking for evidence, whatever it took.
But aside from the soft murmurs of the cops, the world seemed rather quiet, to me. Almost calm. There were no hysterics from a sobbing mother or husband, no kids asking where their mummy or their sister were.
“Gerard,” one of the officers nodded, walking over. I nodded back, and closed the car door, before meeting him halfway down the walk. “Addict,” he murmured, nodding towards the building. “Her family was killed a few years ago, they used to live in a real nice house in the suburbs – when they died it went downhill. Somebody just walked in and found her, called us.”
“How long has she been…”
“Just a few days,” he told me.
The breeze floated over us quietly, and I crossed my arms, switching from foot to foot until finally he led me inside, where I looked around at the kitchen she was lying on. She could have been pretty – at one point, I decided. Except for now, she was dead, pale – the blood having stopped circulating beneath her what I figured was once clear, ivory skin.
There was no mess, just her, on the cheap, dirty vinyl floors, in the cold room that smelled like pot and cigarettes, with five different cops and doctors flashing lights, snapping photos, and taking notes below me.
It echoed through my mind that this woman could have died for almost no reason – except for just being here – making me sick.
“Gerard,” I whirled around, jumping just barely, at Matt - blonde haired, blue eyed, muscular, and also my partner – who was staring expectantly at me. “Are you going to work, or just stare?”
There was something about this particular homicide, like the last three – that just struck me as tragic, sad, upsetting. Two of them had no family, like this one, and the other one had a wife, who was abused by him. But still, there were no traces or who could have done it, or why. Everything was cleaned, when we arrived on scene, nothing but the corpse and smell of death left for us to see.
“Do you ever wonder what the point is, when there’s such lack of evidence?” I asked, my voice monotone. I traced the spider webbed blue-green veins on my wrist, staring at the floor as I let the question fly out into the air, not giving it a second thought.
I did that a lot. Spoke before letting the sentence process in my mind, the lack-of-eloquence words almost always causing a tense silence in the room. I asked the good questions – I knew this. The ones that could never be answered, the ones that were logical and illogical at the same time. Questions like this one.
Which was exactly why Matt remained silent, shaking his head instead, and walking off, murmuring something about how I was strange.
I’m not sure what I did to deserve getting partnered with him.
An hour later, everything was finished, the room cleared out, officers and doctors and ambulances leaving, as I stood in the middle of the room – wondering yet again – why anyone felt the need to murder.
They said the best asked questions were the ones that could never be answered.