™ HERE IS THE FINE LINE BORDERING OBSESSION AND PASSION / HE SEES DEAD THINGS IN ALL SPACES. DITCHES, CUPBOARDS, MIRRORS. ( he hoards those stacked folders of time of deaths and yellow police tape. he keeps thinking he’s missing something, a clue, a puzzle piece - the nights blend, he is vibrating with caffeine and false adrenaline. it’s dreary here, raining all the time - the thunderclouds are both too close and too far away. he is a nocturnal animal, travels by moonlight - awakens only at dusk, a restlessness that is primal in nature aching in his bones. these failures that are so utterly human are always so vivid in his head, a constant throbbing of brain stem - a realization that he is no god and this is no pleasant story. the mortality weighs down on him, reminds him that there are reasons why some killers simply are not caught. they disappear ; they become so unlike another living thing, that he adopts the act of mythology, forms them into little urban legends. so what if he can’t get the taste of ash out of his mouth? so what if the blood stains his palms a deep maroon and flakes off sometimes if he stands too long in the sunlight? is he just as monstrous as the reapers he has yet to ensnare? is he just as guilty? he remembers each one : their limbs, their eyes bulging, stomachs swelling. the worms and the maggots have always arrived first, they are hungrier than he is - less evolved. or is this just what they want him to believe? ) he will often sit at his desk and stare at the computer screen. watches the screensaver’s ball bounce around as if searching for some way out - he can relate to the panic. the strangeness surrounding a prison that has no bars and no locked doors, but is still so suffocating and silent. is he thinking of this office or his body? there is a compulsive need to become someone else, although all the identities he sifts through are as haunted as he is. the seasons drag, it is winter and spring and summer. the autumn stays longer, the wind chillier and less forgiving - he thinks his windshield wipers are always on. the downpour showers are relentless, he feels as though he is trapped inside of a dream : the water is endless and somewhere up ahead he hears a lady weeping. HE CONTINUES ON IN SPITE / FATHERLESS IS BETTER THAN SOME OTHER HORRIFYING TITLE. SON OF DEVIL, SON OF IMPULSE. HIS HANDS STILL SHAKE, THE SMELL OF WHISKEY STILL MAKES HIM RETCH. HE BEGINS EACH MORNING WITH HIS PRAYER : I AM NOT MY FATHER’S SON, I AM NOT MY FATHER, I AM NOT, I AM. the adrenaline high is addicting, causes toes to curl and knuckles to crack. he breaks noses and enjoys hearing the sound of a snapping tibia, the warmth of a splatter of crimson onto his face, in his eyes. it is an automatic human need to require dominion, it is to be bowed to or to bow and he will never choose the latter. perhaps it is biblical of him to swallow down all dulled rage, all darkening thoughts of motives and psychotic ramblings. he is the shepherd of all troubled sheep, although he fears his flock has become too ruthless, too fixated on how many ways to split a little girl’s rib cage open. the days fester, he is feverish now - vengeance heats him and makes him sweat, he melts until he quakes with cold shivers. an imbalance progresses. ( the trick of survival : keep boots by your bedside, keep your gun underneath your pillow, bite your tongue if you start to speak about lazarus, avoid fires, avoid fields, avoid alleyways, avoid people, avoid yourself. i think the job is finally starting to scratch at my door : it sounds like a rat or a smaller rodent. it looks like paranoia and guilt, but i haven’t really stared at the eyes. they’re beady and soulless, hypnotic too / even now i can feel some of my limbs slipping into the murky abyss. there goes my feet, my arms, my face. ) THE RADIO STATION IN HIS UNMARKED COP CAR HAS BEEN STATIC FOR THE PAST TEN MINUTES, BUT HE HASN’T NOTICED. THE WIPERS, AS USUAL, WHIR / THE GAS STATION IS WELL LIT, BUT WITH A NEON GREEN LIGHT, HE FEELS AS THOUGH HE’S IN A CHEAP REMAKE OF A HORROR FILM. he hadn’t been watching her specifically, but he had been observing the exterior of the parking lot quite meticulously. another missing persons case, but this one is different : all young women, all within a ten mile radius of this particular service station. his window is down and the evening air rustles some strands of hair free from his styling gel. interestingly enough, he’s not focused on her, but there is an oddness to her. an act, a feigned look of vulnerability. he doesn’t trust her, but he certainly won’t leave her out here all alone. she smells like oranges, an overwhelming citrus scent that clogs his nostrils. eyes move away from her, back to peer over his steering wheel, a distant absence from the present moment commences. there is just the pattering of rain on the roof of his vehicle and the mechanical thump every few seconds from his wiper blades. habitual heavy blink of his eyes, squeezed shut and opened once more - he does this three times before a he allows a crooked smile to gather at his lips, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.
❝ headin’ that way anyway , ma’am . besides , shit goes on out here - it’s late too . i’d feel a hell of a lot better if i know y’gettin’ home safe . ❞ the drawn out syllables is an unshaken mannerism, gruff vocally, yet there is a warmth that oozes out of expression. fingertips tap on the detective badge he had placed on the dashboard, a nod towards her as he clicks the button to unlock the passenger door. there is a small group of teenagers over by the side entrance of the building, they’re smoking and laughing loudly - the noise makes him uneasy, jaw clenches tightly. exhale is released, ragged and exhausted, although he responds quite quickly - only mildly intrigued by the woman in front of him. ❝ detective loki - david when ‘m off duty . i’ll crank the heat up a bit , freezin’ out , huh ? ❞
AN UNHEALTHY DOSE OF HOSTILITY & APATHY IS RESERVED FOR THE MEN IN BLUE . it’s not personal ----- it’s instinctive , habitual . born out of tragedy and a strange willingness to survive . or maybe it is . maybe it is some personal vendetta ----- maybe she blames all of them from lighting the match that set her whole wretched life ablaze . if only she were capable of such emotional depth . either way , that safety he wants to gently guide her to doesn’t exist ; she knows that . he wants to take her tiny hand & walk together into this dark tunnel ------ there’s no monsters in the shadows, isn’t that right ? off they would go , into the beaming light to the other side . but there is no light . there is no safety ; and the tunnel extends ahead into the night endlessly . she could wrap soft-lit body under satin sheets and still feel the dread of midnight creeping under her skin , the cold sweat and dark circles of exhaustion protruding from her paper flesh and the certainty that any minute now , the ground could open up and swallow her whole .
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