Death Reports

Matthew's Curse, part 2

I hated myself. I hated myself for letting the visions control my life. Not life. This. Whatever I’ve been living. Whatever I’ve been… Doing? I felt stupid. Humiliated. I can already see you calling me names, calling me “blood thirsty”, looking down on my appearance. I don’t blame you. But I thought I could prevent it.

Anyhow, how are you supposed to prevent something from happening when you don’t even know for sure that it will happen?

I guess I’m rambling due to a lack of sleep. And caffeine in my bloodstream. Trying to find an excuse to stop pitying myself. No. All of the visions I had, all of them were actually the flashbacks; images from the past. Very recent past. I would’ve seen them a few minutes after they had happened. I was always a few minutes late. And I’ve played by that rule. I’ve arranged my life to match the rule. To match one awful cognition – I’m always freaking late!

I really hope that I’d prevent the boy murder. I thought I’d prevent something that hadn’t even happened. Don’t ask me to repeat that. I can’t. I simply can’t. I’m feeling anxious to read a few of the previous lines. I’m frightened that these “grey cells” or simply, the tiny little organ inside my head would compel me to do a revision – to go through all these files stashed in my mind, in this diary. To read, to think, to contemplate all of them one more time.

Trust me, I’ve done that ten times before.

And please, tell me, who do you think I am? An odd human being looking for compassion? No. A weirdo testing a human psyche? No. A wacko pushing and changing the limits of living? No. I’m just a dead man sharing his thoughts with something that will never come to life. That will never question my actions. That will never judge me. I’m sharing my thoughts with pages filled with guilt and resentment.

Sadness, anger, anguish, confusion have been eating me alive at the same time – like gigantic monsters of reality. If I didn’t write these death reports, if I kept my emotions inside, I’d explode one day. Sooner than I think. And that’s not what I want. I can’t leave. Not yet. There’s one more thing to do. And you know which one.

I don’t think that people need more misery in their lives. And those happy people. They don’t need me to spoil their harmony. To paint it black and white. To discolor it. No, nobody wants that. That’s why I think that no one will read this. My sanctuary. My getaway. My escape from reality.

My visions have made me confused times ten. Is that a small price to pay? A price of what? Life? I’ll pretend it was a rhetorical question. The boy murder kept bothering me. It didn’t happen. Not a few hours ago. Or earlier. I would have known it. For sure.

I was confronting two alternatives. Number one; camping on the playground, waiting for something to happen, chasing the future all over again. Number two; I could go through the archived files and find out if the murder already occurred. That I was afraid of. Of the past.

The precinct was asleep. Only a few detectives were sipping coffee, trying to stay awake. It made me smile. I’d give all the shiny things I possess to grab some sleep. Oh, sweet irony. As I entered the precinct, my shoes started making a squeezing sound. They were full of water. And the soles were covered in mud. Too bad I dirtied the freshly mopped floor.

Our precinct has been subscribed to local newspapers and at 5:00 AM when I got there, every desk had a copy. I guess I’d be better off with a hot coffee instead of newspapers that smudge the dried ink all over your hands. Once again, the editors splashed a lack of information on the serial killer all over the newspapers. I frowned.

The room with archived files was a cold scary place. Lines and lines of shelves with big white boxes. They usually contain all material evidence found at a crime scene, all material evidence that was once relevant to investigation.

I didn’t like the room. The room of closed and unsolved cases. The room of silence, neon lights and numerous names of dead or missing people. The room of secrets. I folded my arms. I felt lost in a maze of ghosts and whispers. I didn’t know where to begin. All I had, was the dead boy. And the playground. All figments of my visions; my mental disorder.

I was standing on the crossroads of my resentful consciousness where the lives of the dead interlace; where every noise turns into silence; where every hope turns into dust; where every drop of a man’s knowledge dries up. Dries out.

I spent a few hours staring at a screen. Browsing files. Digging up. Sweating. The neon lights were killing me; making me feel like I was buried alive.

The sun rays came in through the shutters. Trying to overcome the dreary neon lights. Names and dates that were shining bright kept the unsaid stories within the boxes. And then, all of a sudden, like a summer rain, an article poked my half dead consciousness.

“…a 7 year old boy was found dead on the St. Peter’s church playground…”

I shivered.

“…a skull fracture caused an instant death… COD: Blunt force trauma…

A black and white photograph was wrapped in the text. A photograph that matched the image from my vision – dead boy lying on the playground. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. My vision happened for real. 7 years ago. And the boy… He stopped being another nameless victim in my mind. I could finally say his name out loud. Matthew. His name was Matthew.