Minds of the Tormented
oo3
Frank.
The picture was old, but not so old that the person portrayed in it was unrecognisable. They were smiling, a gentle, genuine smile, one that light up their whole face, radiating the innocent beauty that only children and few young women possessed. She was sat at an angle, dressed in what appeared to be a violet summer dress - though it was hard to tell as the picture cut off from the waist down - body turned slightly to one side, face turned towards the camera, large emerald-jade eyes sparkling with the kind of carefree happiness most people spend their entire lives trying to restore; the typical portrait pose. Her hair, long and golden, was held loosely by a scrunchie at the nape of her neck, strands not held back spilling over the front of her bare shoulders in natural curls, the rest falling down her back, partly obscured.
I briefly scanned the text next to and below the picture, paying little attention to the headline. It was virtually the same story as last time, only a different name, a different face, and a different life fabricated by the media.
It was lies, all of it. An old picture and a fairytale persona used to gain the publics sympathy, to trick them into believing that the woman, and the others before her, had died for no reason, that she was nothing more than an innocent victim targeted by a cold-blooded murderer who killed her for the sheer enjoyment of it.
Lies. All lies.
I played no part in the death of the woman - someone of innocence, devoid of all the poisons that life offered - in that picture. She was dead long before I got to her older self; murdered by drink and drugs and a selfish heart.
I could hear murmuring around me, the usual ever-present background chatter of the small coffee shop I sat in sombre in tone. I looked around briefly, leaning back in my chair as if I was stretching, getting a good look of everyone who sat in the crowded area. It was mostly old women and young mothers, a few business men grabbing a cup of coffee before work scattered here and there.
Most of them had the morning newspaper laid out on their round tables, as I did, their expressions displaying anything from worry to disgust as low murmurs of ‘How awful,’ and ‘Such a waste,’ reaching my ears as nearly everyone read over the story splashed across the front pages of every paper in town, oblivious to the fact that the girl portrayed had been gone for years.
It was somewhat sad how quickly people would believe the media, even after all the times it’s been proved the media will harass, over dramatise and outright lie if it’s something that will sell. If the paper had published a more recent picture, one of the woman who was murdered, instead of her past self, then the public reaction would have been different. No one had time nor sympathy for a drug addict. The whole thing would have been looked upon in a different light. But then, the truth just wasn’t an interesting enough story.
People were nothing but sheep; quick to follow the crowd without ever stopping to think for themselves. They were too blinded by money and false promises to see what was really going on right outside their front door. The entire world was corrupt yet no one could see it.
It was no wonder people turned out the way they did.
The sound of someone entering the small coffee shop caught my attention. I continued to pretend to read the paper laid out on the table in front of me, while watching the newcomer out of the corner of my eye. He manoeuvred easily through the maze of tables - too many for such a small space - and made his way over the counter at the back.
I’ve been watching him for a few weeks, now. I’d already gathered everything I needed to know and planned out what was going to happen with the girl, the drug addict, when he’d caught my eye.
You could always tell when someone had something to hide by their body language. The way they talked, walked, looked, stood, sat… Even the way they breathed.
And boy, did he have something to hide.
The picture was old, but not so old that the person portrayed in it was unrecognisable. They were smiling, a gentle, genuine smile, one that light up their whole face, radiating the innocent beauty that only children and few young women possessed. She was sat at an angle, dressed in what appeared to be a violet summer dress - though it was hard to tell as the picture cut off from the waist down - body turned slightly to one side, face turned towards the camera, large emerald-jade eyes sparkling with the kind of carefree happiness most people spend their entire lives trying to restore; the typical portrait pose. Her hair, long and golden, was held loosely by a scrunchie at the nape of her neck, strands not held back spilling over the front of her bare shoulders in natural curls, the rest falling down her back, partly obscured.
I briefly scanned the text next to and below the picture, paying little attention to the headline. It was virtually the same story as last time, only a different name, a different face, and a different life fabricated by the media.
It was lies, all of it. An old picture and a fairytale persona used to gain the publics sympathy, to trick them into believing that the woman, and the others before her, had died for no reason, that she was nothing more than an innocent victim targeted by a cold-blooded murderer who killed her for the sheer enjoyment of it.
Lies. All lies.
I played no part in the death of the woman - someone of innocence, devoid of all the poisons that life offered - in that picture. She was dead long before I got to her older self; murdered by drink and drugs and a selfish heart.
I could hear murmuring around me, the usual ever-present background chatter of the small coffee shop I sat in sombre in tone. I looked around briefly, leaning back in my chair as if I was stretching, getting a good look of everyone who sat in the crowded area. It was mostly old women and young mothers, a few business men grabbing a cup of coffee before work scattered here and there.
Most of them had the morning newspaper laid out on their round tables, as I did, their expressions displaying anything from worry to disgust as low murmurs of ‘How awful,’ and ‘Such a waste,’ reaching my ears as nearly everyone read over the story splashed across the front pages of every paper in town, oblivious to the fact that the girl portrayed had been gone for years.
It was somewhat sad how quickly people would believe the media, even after all the times it’s been proved the media will harass, over dramatise and outright lie if it’s something that will sell. If the paper had published a more recent picture, one of the woman who was murdered, instead of her past self, then the public reaction would have been different. No one had time nor sympathy for a drug addict. The whole thing would have been looked upon in a different light. But then, the truth just wasn’t an interesting enough story.
People were nothing but sheep; quick to follow the crowd without ever stopping to think for themselves. They were too blinded by money and false promises to see what was really going on right outside their front door. The entire world was corrupt yet no one could see it.
It was no wonder people turned out the way they did.
The sound of someone entering the small coffee shop caught my attention. I continued to pretend to read the paper laid out on the table in front of me, while watching the newcomer out of the corner of my eye. He manoeuvred easily through the maze of tables - too many for such a small space - and made his way over the counter at the back.
I’ve been watching him for a few weeks, now. I’d already gathered everything I needed to know and planned out what was going to happen with the girl, the drug addict, when he’d caught my eye.
You could always tell when someone had something to hide by their body language. The way they talked, walked, looked, stood, sat… Even the way they breathed.
And boy, did he have something to hide.