I am trying to build a portfolio and boost my writing and honestly just get used to people reading my work :] I’m a huge narrative writer with a background in fanfiction from my teenage years that has adapted to writing poems or scenes about my OC’s and I’ve still be known to write some fan fic now and again… ;)
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For only $5, Kjsleb will write your oc or characters backstory or lore. | Have ideas for a D&D/book character or OC but having a hard ti
Her shoulders heave with each deep breath that enters and exits her lungs. She closes her eyes and slowly leans her head back till her face is parallel to the night sky. Sharing eye contact with the waxing crescent moon as her eyelids pull back apart. In this moment she and the moon as the closest two souls can ever be; forbidden secrets on display like a whorehouse in midday. Her eyelashes flutter as she bathes in the light. Then reality hits.
The ringing in her ears subsides and turns to crickets and cars careening down the nearby dirt road. A little close for comfort this time, she thinks to herself. The first thought after breaking the delusion always stings the most. “I’m not this stupid why did I do this here?” She mutters to the moon under her breath before reluctantly dropping her shaking gaze to the murdered carrion that lay before her. She feels her upper lip tug up into a sneer as she rubs her face with her sleeve. What was once human life is now no more than a deer carcass in the spattered woods, at least, to Kimya. She kneels gracefully, in a way only a trained dancer can, and leans her face close to the viscera. Her lips find the corpse’s ear, one gust of wind away from making skin to cold skin contact, and she grins. A whispered quote falls from her tongue to the body below; “I don’t respond well to ‘no’, ya know?” She stands back up slowly. Her body is fluid and separate from herself, thoughts and actions now no longer in correlation for the moment. It feels free. It does not last.
Backpack falls from her shoulders as she rummages around for the supplies. She was already wearing gloves but she pulls them off in the way doctors do as to not touch the contaminants on the gloves to your skin; the kind of method they teach you in highschool lab projects. She replaces them eagerly and takes a deep breath, vision tunneling to point out each misstep she’s made. She wasn’t prepared to kill him but sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them too. Kimya’s impulse control has never been very good; she rolls her eyes thinking about what Lincoln would say if he knew. He won’t know. At least not the whole story. Elijah either; he’s a blabber mouth.
Focus.
Right.
Despite not anticipating this kill, Kimya is always prepared. She pulls off her black puma sneakers and places them into a plastic bag, then into her backpack. She feels the dirt under her socks and shivers. Gliding across the dirt in the area, she smudges her footprints leaving no chance anyone could figure out what shoes were at the crime scene other than the victim’s. She places a slow calculated hand onto the grip protruding from the corpse and with one hard pull she dislodges a standard hunter’s knife, a gush of blood spitting from the wound before slowing to a stop. Kimya glances around the area as she places the knife into another plastic bag then the backpack. The air is silent save for the crickets and branches of a nearby tree swaying the the wind. Perfect.
Time passes and Kimya finds a familiar peace in her craft as she finishes doctoring the crime scene. There would be no time nor material to bury him nor chop him up so she left him to rot into the grass or be found. Picked at by the animals. But by the time anyone could come across him there will be no trace of her left, not even her vanilla champagne body spray lingering in the air; and that’s all that matters. ‘No one will miss him anyway’, she thinks in the back of her mind. She stands above the sad remains one last time, sharing a cold gaze with it. There’s a certain intimacy suspended in the thick night air; the humidity condensing in her lungs with each calm breath that left her lips. Her eyebrows knit together as her eyes search the corpse and her hands tighten quick to red fists at her sides. A silent scream radiating from her body as if her skin were to come aglow from the rage set deep within her. Yet not a word dare escape from the prison of her teeth.
Eyes closed, she leans her head back to face the moon once more. With unfurling fists her eyes flew back open, a glaze of tears shining in a film over them. The moon stares back without answer and Kimya composes herself, releasing her anger in a breathing exercise burned into her memory from years of dance; the memory of her practicing in her room flutters by… enough. Focus. Her dark eyes distance themselves from their home in her body and she steels her gaze straight ahead, Hello Kitty backpack slung back over her shoulder, and she walks. Miles back. The darkness of the city wrapping her in embrace and adrenaline armoring her skin as if it were stone. She is untouchable on this walk back and she loves it, no, needs it. It fuels her spirit. Any man or woman that passes her by would be gone in a moment if one dirty look flew from them. Hate radiates off of her like a sticky fog that repels even the menial cat callers that usually give her a shout here and there as she travels down the sidewalk. Loose gravel rolls underneath her pink and white polka dot socks as her hands search to pick lint in the pockets of her faded pink zip up jacket, hood half settled over her hair. Her feet ache. She pays no mind.
Eventually she finds herself standing at her front door. She stares straight ahead, summer bugs flying across the door in the porch light, paint cracked and peeling on the doorframe. She blinks, expressionless, hand now grasping the doorknob. Are my hands sweating?, the thought echoes somewhere in her head. They are. Sometimes things feel like they never change. As she turns the knob, she briefly hears the shouts of young kids as she walks in but she snaps back to the present once she opens the door to a quiet, dark house. It’s hard to get used to a quiet home. She drops her bag by the door, turning the lock firmly. Lincoln and Elijah must be in bed. Or also out doing crimes… or whatever it is they do…
She rolls her eyes and breathes out, tension releases from her body like a shackle now broken. She brings herself to her shower and lets the sins of the day wash from her freckled and bruised skin. She remembers that water signifies purification and here she is indeed pure. Clean and next to God. Finally. She dresses.
A small smile cracks her lips as she skips down the hall to her room quietly and embraces her bed once again. Nothing matters anymore, just this feeling.
The detective rolled into town on personal business. His department had no idea he was there, in fact he was meant to be off duty. Like all true crime detective flicks, however, they never find the good stuff unless they’re snooping around off duty on a personal hunch.
Salvatore could hear his partner bitching about him breaking procedure again but he thought himself the Lone Ranger or something of the sort. A Clint Eastwood protagonist ready to catch a bandit and be named sheriff of the humble town…
Under his delusions there lie a driven voice alarming his nerves. Something was here. He felt it.
He exited his car and adjusted his worn cowboy hat and the collar on his loose button up. The warm breeze brushed against his skin in a welcoming embrace. Gentle and soft; comforting. Like sitting close to a space heater in a breezy winter home. His amber gaze darted around to the fiery leaves raining at a snails pace to the ground, and the dark bark plagued with a grey, petal like moss that creeped around every other aged trunk. The wind whispered seductively to him through the fragile and cracking leaves. Something is here.
An ice pick panged into his chest, a soreness spread through his rib cage. He let out a ragged breath and cleared his throat, closing his eyes for a moment, then heading into the forest. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, he just knew that there was something to be found and he refused to leave empty handed. He wandered for hours. He began to lose hope. Maybe too much time had passed since the unknown assailant(s) had struck and the evidence had washed away from rain or been eaten by local fauna. Maybe his hunch was just wrong. Bile rose in his mouth for a moment.
Then he saw it.
——
“Lo, you need to stop randomly showing up here I have a life you know.”
Alo paid the strawberry blonde no mind and threw himself backwards onto the couch, crossing his long pencil legs on the coffee table before him.
“You know this place is kind of depressing, K.”
Kimya rolled her eyes, giving up, and seating herself in the worn armchair Elijah insisted on getting from a local goodwill that sat next to the couch.
“You’re tellin’ me!! I hate it in here but the boys won’t let me decorate how I want. It’s whatever.”
She touched at one of her braids absentmindedly, turning on the tv in front of the two. The black screen switched on to one of the local news broadcasting stations. Lincoln often monitored the news channels to clear his anxieties of both cult and killing activity being investigated or discovered.
“Maybe we should change the channel I don’t really like the news.” The blond man’s body grew a bit tense as his eyes widened a bit.
Kimya froze and slowly turned her head to look at him. “What did you do?” She turned to the news and then back to him. “Come ooooon Bear.” She whined a little before continuing. “Don’t bring me into your fuck ups.”
“Ahhh…. Well… it might also be…. Your problem…” the man hesitated out, fidgeting with one of the tunnels in his earlobes and keeping gaze away from Kimya. He’s an incredible liar but found it hard to lie to the woman. They’ve shared too much in their lives. She sits up high in his heart and there are just some things he can’t do to her. He resents it.
He saw the news break and went to her because he didn’t know what to do.
Kimya turned her attention back to the tv with wide eyes. Her heart sank as she saw the banner under the anchorwoman scroll across the screen.
“NEW EVIDENCE UNCOVERED FOR STRING OF MURDERS IN THE METRO AREA…ONE STEP CLOSER TO FINDING A SUSPECT?…”
The pit in both of the young adults’ stomaches grew heavier and heavier with each word and as kimya glanced back up above the words to see the news woman transition the screen to live footage of the scene. Caution tape strung taut around several trees, droplets of misty rain reflect off the neon yellow. Crime scene investigators wearing protective gear comb the scene, flashes of people walking and writing down information, then one interview with a detective who seemingly made the discovery.
Kimya noted his bizarre appearance in her mind. ‘Not a lot of cowboys in Oregon’, she thought fleetingly.
“Well I, uh, was off duty today and was just going on a hike but I can’t get a day out of the office because of course I found a very important piece of evidence on my trek through the woods.” A rough but gentle chuckle escapes his lips. He’s proud of himself but also nervous. He didn’t expect to be on camera. He seemed conflicted in if it was the right choice.
“Now Detective… Teresi? Is it?” The interviewer responds.
“Sal is fine.” The man replies with a humble smile, fidgeting with the rim of his hat.
“Sal,” a smile, “what exactly was it you found?”
“A severed phalange. I almost walked past it but luckily my detective sense kicked in.” He joked before continuing. “It was carelessly left in plain sight, so these investigators behind us are combing for more potential leads. This is a major discovery for us as evidence to these cases have been very slim. And from what I can tell, the markings on the found evidence are not commonly correlated with animal markings.”
“Fascinating. More on this at-“ The TV abruptly shuts off.
The tension in the living room was so thick it could choke someone to death. The utter rage radiating from the woman’s small frame was insurmountable. The disappointment she felt near brought tears across her eyes. She turned to look Alo in the eyes with an indiscernible expression and stood up slowly. The blond man put up his hands and sat up straighter, feet planting on the floor.
“Hey- Kimya come on. Kim? K?? Come on babe you know I didn’t mean-“
Before Alo could finish Kimya lunged at Alo, planting her knees on either side of him onto the couch cushions and slapped him across the face. She balled his sweater up in her manicured hands and brought his face close to hers, their noses near touching.
“You ruined everything. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her tone cold and quiet but sharp as a Hatori Hanzo blade. Her agile frame shook with intense emotion as she kept his sweater in her hands. “I should fucking kill you.”
A shit eating grin spread across his pink lips.
“Been awhile since we’ve been this close, huh Kim?”
“You’re consumed by the memory of fruit and candy. Can’t you see we need you here?”
His stern thick voice shot a dagger into the Double Yefreitor’s throat. He opened his mouth but nothing came from it but the stale rotten scent of cavities soaked in cheap liquor. Him and Jean held eye contact for a long quiet moment; mental tug of war.
The younger man threw his hands into the air and spun to face away from his partner, hands eventually moving to cover his face. An exasperated dry sigh leaves his throat. His shoulders fall like cinderblocks dropped onto them. His body ached all over. Lack of sleep and proper meals starting to take their toll on the satellite officer’s body. Harry stayed standing, unmoving, and watched his partner stand opposite to him behind his desk. His pale eyes scanned the sea of paperwork stacked and scattered across the mahogany desk. Sticky notes posted in almost every clear space with quickly written harsh reminders. The Detective watched as a few papers quietly floated down onto the carpet.
Their job was not an easy one to put it simply. Precinct 41 covered the greater Jamrock area and between the high crime rate and understaffing of officers, they were doing the work of 3 precincts alone. The distant ring of the phones constantly purr on the other side of the door followed by the robotic scripted opening by one of the radio receivers. Another murder. Another domestic dispute. Another OD. Another…. Always something. Even now Harry could feel Jean thinking that this was a big waste of time and he should be knee deep in organizing his case files. A strong pang of guilt pierced his heart. He wondered if Jean felt it too.
“Look Harry…” He spoke finally, and although his accent was coarse, he was softer now. “You’re a great officer and a better partner but I can’t keep doing this.”
Turning to face the disheveled man again, the satellite officer grabs two handfuls of paper and shakes them towards Harry. “I’m losing my fucking mind.”
“It’s Hell without her, Vic.”
“Well it’s Hell without you.”
Jean’s face crumbled with tension as he searched the other, looking for any answers that would help this. He wanted to fix this. He wanted his partner back. His mentor. The man he admires crumbled into a disgusting pile of garbage and incompetence by a woman.
“Six years, Harry. Six years. When will you stop killing yourself over her?.”
Harry could almost smile. Jean has always been blunt when it comes to emotion like this. He’s felt it all and he’s survived. Harry couldn’t be so lucky. Feel so deeply with no way to contain and process it, just a disaster contained in a jar that’s been rolled down stone steps. He knew the younger man was right, it’s been far too long to lament over young love gone wrong but every night she found him in his dreams and every night he begged her to stay… every night she left him again. The ouroboros of love and heartbreak over and over and over like an old skipping record.
But the Double Yefreitor could not muster a response that would make his other feel better so he said nothing at all. So Officer Vicquemare gives up. There is an understanding between them that’s indecipherable to everyone else. Not a lot of conversation but they both know where each of them stands and the stakes. Comes in handy in dangerous cases.
“We have a case in Martinaise. Dead militia officer hanging publicly behind a Hostel building. We’re making the trip tomorrow.” Jean tosses a file into Harry’s hands and begins to leave the room, pausing at the last moment but keeping his gaze forward out the door. “Don’t let me down again, Harry. I don’t know if I can take any more of this.”
And he left. Harry stayed standing in the center of the office, feeling the smooth Manila folder in his hands. Somewhere a body sways in a tree and two children lob stones at it. A woman with a thousand yard stare sits in her room smoking a cigarette and watching her window glass being replaced. A street backed up with lorries and angry workers. Harry grips the case debrief tighter and takes a deep and determined breath. Something is coming and this time he wants to be ready. Although, everyone knows disco beats determination.
Under the blankets like a child hiding from the fictitious monster that lives in the closet, Kimya sat. Criss crossed on her plush white sheets, one hand gripping her pajama pants desperately for comfort. Her other arm rested against her chest as her teeth ravaged the nubs of her finger tips as there was no more nail to bite down. She had ripped off her acrylic nails just to bite them. The points of her fingers throbbed with her quick heartbeat.
She resented this. So childlike. Infantile. It disgusted her in the back of her mind but the compulsion was too strong for her to stop.
A sharp gasp escapes her as she bites too hard into one finger and tears a chunk from a layer of skin by the hangnail. A film of blood begins to pool from the side of her nail and her eyes laser focus to it, watching it eventually form a full drop spill slowly down the side of her finger. Her breath shakes as she tries to force herself to breathe through her nose. It makes her lungs feel heavy.
Her eyelids flutter out of control till she squeezes them shut and puts her face in her hands. Finally she opens her mouth and yells out a loud growl of a whine. Anguish and defeat and genuine rage communicated so concisely in a string of random noises. Eyes open like an old house’s shutters and suddenly the blanket is off her head. Her overhead light now overstimulating to her strained eyes.
“Why? Why would he do that?”, she spits. The first ‘why’ brought acid to her lips but the second held a voice crack that struck her like lightning.
Embarrassing; her brain comments.
Lincoln came home shortly after Kimya; she didn’t notice. Too busy stuck in her head. Rationalizing is so, so loud. On the parallel, he also thought he was alone. He sat himself down on the worn down sofa that came with the house when they moved in. Elbows rested on knees, his hands hold his tense face. Lost in thought as well, eyes darting around the room but not seeing the interior of their quaint little living room. Thoughts moving a million miles a minute as flashes of images arrange and rearrange in his mind. Why was he wrong before? He’s never encountered anyone as flighty as Cori before and it kept his thoughts very occupied. He may as well be a detective in a cheesy cop flick with the cork board of images and documents all attached by strings of red yarn and old rusty tacks; papers and the like scattered on the floor stained with a whole pots worth of coffee. Luckily for Lincoln, being a very composed man means this stays in his head at the least.
The only thing that could break him from his perplexing trance was the muffled sound of a deep groan and something he could hardly make out. His body tensed, eyes acting accomplice to ears to trace to source of the sound. He thought maybe Elijah was back to his dramatics or playing an online game and yelling into the mic again. But no, he couldn’t be home, it’s too obvious when he’s there. Elijah’s presence changes the air in a room. Plus he’d be whining louder than what Lincoln was hearing now, explaining to a 10 year old why they weren’t playing the game in the most efficient way possible. Lincoln almost rolls his eyes just thinking about it.
He thought harder, body still frozen in place, then more mumbled talking followed by a glass voice coming to shatter.
Kimya.
“God, what now?”, the words escape under his breath as he stands. He waited, for what he didn’t know. Maybe to hear crying if any. He wasn’t very equipped at comforting emotional people, not to mention Kimya’s tendency to not be very keen to accepting the comfort.
There was no sob he could hear.
Soon, a light knock on the door, stuttered and unsure. Kimya’s body grew rigid as she was now very aware of her body. Her spine stretching to perfect posture as her eyes locked onto the inside of her bedroom door.
“What!?” The word barely escapes her bear trap of a mouth and with more contention than she admittedly anticipated. A scoff could be heard through the door though it still did not open. Her shoulders droop slowly back down to a slouch. In this moment she’s not different than a dog, scared, hair standing up all down its back.
“…Come in…” eventually she speaks again. Moments after, Lincoln enters her room, still stood respectfully (uncomfortably) in the doorway, her plush carpeting brushing the edge of his foot. The air stays thick with silence.
“I thought no one else was home.”
“Yeah, well, me too.”
They both had the habit of talking like a viper with poison on the tongue; a defense mechanism perhaps. Neither of them meant it nor did the ice the other spits affect them in any real way. Fake recognizes fake.
Silence again.
This is where, if he was here, Elijah would jump in with some stupid comment to break their faux tension. But he wasn’t so the two shared their silence a moment longer.
Lincoln’s gaze was locked on kimya, criss cross on her bed, hair frizzy and unkempt from the blanket rubbing all over it. He examined her closely, grasping for any information he could possible ascertain without having to ask out loud. His eyes locked onto hers but Kimya’s eyes were set, almost unblinking, at her hands. She looked tired, he thought, hurt.
Kimya was the one to finally cut the silence, eyes still frozen to her hands.
“My hands are shaking.”
More silence
“…okay…”
She let a sharp breath escape, had she forgotten how to breathe?
“They won’t stop fucking shaking.”
She keeps her eyes locked onto her red hands.
Lincoln doesn’t respond right away. He brings his eyes slowly to her hands, as if her noticing would set her off. He saw the little trickle of blood dried on the side of her finger. He saw her new set of acrylic nails laying in a disorderly pile on the carpet. He saw how she had chewed any millimeter of white nail she had off on every finger. And he saw her hands were in fact shaking.
Being a thorough man, he brings his eyes back to hers only to find that they weren’t even looking at her hands. Maybe physically, yes, but she was a million miles away.
“Kimya…” he breaks the flood of silence at last, “you know, you don’t need to-“ he pauses for a moment, considering his words. “-you can tell me things. You know?” He swallows the spit that fills his mouth and it goes down like a rock. He could’ve just left her alone to wallow but something tugged at his brain and his heart to see her so obviously deflecting the point. She was like an annoying little sister. Lincoln resented this feeling of letting someone too close without plan or expectation; it was dangerous. He couldn’t help it.
Kimyas body tensed once again and for the first time since he walked into the room, she brought her eyes his. Her hands lowered into her lap and her eyebrows knitted together to study his face. Is this a joke? No. Lincoln’s not that much of a jokester. Her eyes held an ocean of sadness in them as she looked at him. They studied the man’s visage, trying to discern whether he was to be trusted. Her heart weighed her down further into her mattress. Was he expressing real concern for her? Her eyebrows softened but her gaze stayed intense on his icy eyes.
She looked down to the floor.
“It’s not that serious”, she lies.
“I’m not going to sit in the other room and listen to you wail. Just tell me.” His voice was stern but caring. He meant what he said… but he also knew not knowing what’s wrong with her would eat him alive. She looked at him again for a long, long time. A few times, her lips parted but she couldn’t get a word out. Lincoln crossed his arms across his chest loosely and leaned his weight against her doorframe. He turned his gaze to his watch obviously to lighten the mood a little. In any other situation she would’ve found it silly.
“He doesn’t like me. He lied.” She turns away from him again and lets out a dry laugh, her eyes wide and pointed down to the bed. Without the laugh it would’ve came out as a cry. Lincoln’s face softens ever so slightly, eyebrows raising the gentlest amount. She glances up to him quickly, then back down to her sheets, wringing her blanket in her sore hands absentmindedly.
“Do you… do you know Rachel McMiller? She’s a suck up so she’s in all the clubs...” A sneer crosses her lips “… so you probably know her.” Flashes of anger and hurt and rage and disgust flash between her eyes as she gathers her words.
“Anyway- whatever- she’s uh,” she pauses to let another dry laugh pass her chewed lips. “She’s dating Finn right now.” It leaves her mouth like a hairball from a cat’s. Her breath stutters as she turns her head back away from him. Suddenly she felt like a dying animal being circled by a vulture; exposed and vulnerable. She hated it.
Lincoln’s face softened and he felt the pang of her pain strike him momentarily. He dropped his arms to his sides, still leaned against the door. It was quiet again for a moment but eventually, Lincoln opened his mouth again only to be interrupted again by Kimya’s meek voice.
“He said- “ she clears her throat. “He said that thought she was a pretentious suck up.” A misplaced grin sat frozen on her lips as she spoke. She drops the blanket in her hands and fidgets with one of her rings.
“I just- I thought-“ her body loses its fight and tears begin to form on her waterline. She turns to him, eyes wide like a sad kitten malnourished and abandoned by its mother.
Lincoln leans away from the doorframe and sits on her bed next to her, leaving a foot of space between them.
“I understand”, He cuts her off. She doesn’t flinch as he takes his place on her bed next to her. She looks at him earnestly, without speaking. The stare at each other, quiet once again fills the space though it’s a silence of comfort now. They have a thorough chat without words as their eyes lock. She leans her body over and lets out a long sigh, her forehead making gentle contact with his shoulder, tangled hair falling forward with her. A few tears stream down her face, he feels a few pass his bare arm.
“Lincoln…” she holds her position and he stays unmoving. He keeps his body rigid to support her leaning on him. He looks down at the top of her head leaned against him quietly. Eventually his hand raises and plants itself firmly on one of her shoulders. Again, she does not flinch. Her tears fall faster. “It hurts Lincoln…” she squeaks out no louder than a baby mouse.
“I know,” he replies gently. His mind races, grabbing for the right thing to say. He so badly wants to start planning to kill Finn; or at least beat the shit out of him. He shakes the thought, not worth his time. Kimya wouldn’t like it either. He’s so angry for her, because she won’t be. Cori flashes in his mind momentarily and a gear of sympathy turns in his heart. He continues, “but you know… Rachel is not going to be able to handle him the way you do.”
He doesn’t really know what he’s saying but it feels right. A sad laugh falls against his shoulder before she responds. “There’s no way she’ll ever love him like I do.” A malice rests on her words. Lincoln smiles sadly and bites his tongue once again. “You’re right” his words are firm, tangible. She leans up to look at him, his hand falling from her shoulder. Her eyes are red and glossy but her breathing is no longer heavy and staggering.
Kimya studies Lincoln’s face with a distant bittersweetness before leaning back into his chest, his heartbeat soft in her ear. A different air of sorrow hangs around her in the air.
“You make me miss my brother sometimes.”
“Oh.”
Seconds pass.
“I think I’d rather have you here, though.” She glances up at him, his eyes locked onto hers. She sits back up on her bed. Lincoln stands.
She wipes her tears into her skin, residual make up smudged around her eyes.
“Now get out of here no one is supposed to see me when I’m ugly” she laughs weakly.
He lends a gentle nod her way and grins.
“I’m tired of looking at you anyway.”
The door shuts behind him and she’s alone again. She lays on her back, eyes glued to the popcorn ceiling. A small smile sits atop her lips and eventually, sleep washes over her like the tide to the beach. She needed that. They both needed it.
The lieutenant is uncomfortable standing in place. You feel his jaw clenching as he looks on past the city of Martinaise, almost avoiding your gaze. His feet shuffle frequently against the splintered cobblestone beneath you, arms folded behind his back and fists clenched. You can feel the static panic in the air around him. He needs to do something. The Lieutenant has never been one to stand still.
There is a palpable desire in the air around the Lieutenant. It’s hard to pin down with all that’s transpired but it seems even the lieutenant is capable of succumbing to his vices.
Electrochemistry (high: success): He wants another cigarette. Who can stand to be bound to one sweet burn of tobacco a day? You surely cannot. Give him what he desires.
Shivers (impossible: success): Somewhere a man slides a slender hand rolled cigarette from his jacket pocket. The wind of the city blows harsh against his face as he tries to flick on his lighter against the unforgiving gusts of Revachol wind. Leaves rattle against their branch before they steady above the man who looks to his cigarette. “One a day”, he reminds himself out loud. The bent, off-white paper leaks tobacco as it falls against the grass and is claimed by the wind again in a blink. The man turns and walks back through the door behind him.
“Precinct 57, how can I transfer your call?”
The melody of a receptionist’s young cheery voices passes through the door as it opens and vanishes as it’s shut again. Another lifetime. Another world.
A sudden plague of goosebumps comes over the lieutenant next to you. He grimaces almost unnoticeably.
“Uh, Kim. You look like you could use a cigarette.” A hand reaches to your disgustingly deep pockets to procure your last smoke, holding it towards the lieutenant.
Electrochemistry (trivial: success): Don’t you dare give our last cigarette to him! You need it and you’re worthless without it. Don’t you feel the itch crawling up your throat as you hold it in your pathetic hand? Don’t trade your last inhale of peace for someone else. Even him.
Kim: He brings his gaze over to you slowly, inspecting your face and the cigarette in hand. He says nothing for a moment, as if trying to decide between his morality and his personal pleasure. Or there’s something else… He turns his head back to look over the Horizon of the cold, now nearly empty, city.
“No Detective. I only smoke one a day, and I’ve had mine.” He nods, and whether this is for you or himself if unclear to you. He doesn’t seem to know, himself.
The lieutenant stands a little taller and takes a few steps forward.
“We have a case to solve Detective.”
You place the cigarette back into your pockets. There is a sudden relief in your brain chemistry.
You look up to the Lieutenant who’s began on a path once again. He keeps his gaze off of you and your eyes don’t touch his face for a few moments of walking.
Eventually, this moment is gone to the wind.
Endurance (high: success): The Lieutenant’s resolve is moving to you. You know it was difficult to turn down the only vice he has after his near death experience. But it comes with the territory of working in the RCM. You should be more like the Lieutenant.
An air settles over Revachol. And the investigation continues.
I’m tired. I don’t want to go to work today. My head hurts. Am I sick? No, just get it over with. Alright.
My bones creak as I turn my stiff body to roll out of bed. My feet ache before they even plant on the wood flooring. I can’t focus my eyes, it’s like my whole body is trying to betray me and just lay back down. I’m not human in this moment as I slide my feet across the cold floor beneath me, I’m just a parasite, a fungus that’s controlling my brain. No, I suppose I am human, just a shit one. Go to bathroom, avoid the mirror, take a piss, feel your thighs melt down over the porcelain. Feel your calves struggle under your weight as you stand. This time glance at the mirror, but your eyes can’t focus still and you’re just a blob. This is preferable. This is every day.
Making my coffee is usually the high point of my day, something about the warmth of it when my skin is rubbery and cold. Corpselike… But the smell, even the cheap shit, I can’t help but love that smell. It does more for me than the caffeine or the taste, it’s livening. At least there’s something I can still enjoy, something about my personality I can grasp onto. I love the smell of coffee. Add that into the small talk folder. This is every day.
