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Category:
Horror/Thriller › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
755
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Life is worth losing
Life is worth losing
“How many times have you had these visions?”
My therapist asked with slight concern, he stared at his notepad as his glasses hung at the
bridge of his nose.
“Almost twice a day, but its’ not like its recurring memory, just bits and pieces until I
blank out.”
I responded with little concern of my existing problem. I did not want to seem crazy just
wanted to know what was happening to me, it drove my mind insane. The curiosity spiraled
through thoughts of suicide and murder, confusion of mental disruptiveness. At nights I would
sit in my bedroom contemplating death, the pistol would be cocked sitting under my chin as I
resisted to pull but anxiously waited to. I drown into visual thoughts of my bullet piercing my
skull, flaring light in the dim room, the back of my head spread onto the wall like preserved jelly.
Large and small chunks slide down all the same. At times, I would feel the pulsating and
pumping heart enlarging and slowly feel as if it were to burst through my chest. It was my fear
ripping through the empty shell of loneliness.
“After you awoke from your coma, was it worse?”
“What would be worse the constant dreaming of reliving that same day for 3 weeks or
the constant voice reminding you’re a living dead?”
“Well, what I meant was…is it worse awake? Is it better to feel that you might make a
change in your ‘mistakes’ or could it be that being awake is the dreadful realization that the
‘mistakes’ made were at fault and hence could never be resurrected.”
“Look doc, you could make assumptions that may lead you to think that I may be…
‘Suicidal’ but I am fine. I get visions of death, but maybe that’s just normal. Maybe...maybe, it’s
the acceptance of death. Maybe I’m just the killer everyone thinks I am.”
“What do you mean by that?”
I was pretending to be delusional, my incentive to lead the therapist away from the pain.
All though my eyes drifted in and out of reality, my eyes fooled their audience. I could only
hope to be freed from my memories. Memories, only what used to be in the present. However,
what are the memories that remain until the future? I am troubled by haunting thoughts of
“mistakes”. When will they end? More so when did they begin?
“The coma isn’t your enemy when you awaken. It isn’t your friend. The truthful curtain
unveils your status in your newly awakened world. Your hope is to find your family by your
side; I guess when you haven’t been with the living for so long the one thing you hold is to
awaken to a familiar face. Your wife is not by your side and your child is nowhere to be
found…”
As I express myself, I grip the couch that I lay upon; the leather stretches with every
finger digging into it deeply.
“..And when you have no one there, you lay there crying. The pain doesn’t drive you, no
the pain was already there. Pain doesn’t control you anymore, so much of it becomes agony, your
life begins to twirl into an empty vortex of hate, and anger; where you lay is surrounding
shadows that enter and leave the room. Questions asked and nothing answered until they
disperse into a fading darkness and the one figure enters the room. The voice too distinct to not
attend to…”
I pause; the pain was not there at first. It brewed itself so much that anger overwhelmed
my existence. My fist tightens until my blood begins to boil and blush my hands and face in
complete disgust.
“…And as you lay there hopeless and fragile, that little hope of good news crumbles.
Slowly you’re told everything in your life is dead. Your 2 year old child’s arms were severed from
his body, your wife who was bearing your child was shot in the head against the wall, the same
wall that had your smiling picture. The baby she bore ripped from her stomach, and so
sadistically placed in the oven on high broil.”
The face of my therapist began to lose color, Horrified by the thought. He grabs a hold
of his composure. However, I could not; I was entranced with the continuous thoughts of my
lost family. The past pain and agony of this fallen soldier quivers down his withered body.
“Its time, I should head out.”
“Where?”
My beeper went off, the number 911 appeared. Then the number of Captain Blake
appeared. I dialed his number, as the phone rang I began to reminisce of the conversations we
had. He told me of the death of my family, he saved my life from the Honduras mobsters, and I
could never forget the quote he gave me when I awoke from that nightmare.
“We all live in a game; our movements are made by our choices that is how we
determine our death and how we determine our life.”
He told me I chose to live, and so his choice was to keep me alive. This was all a game I
guess, and I am going to play it to my advantage. My choice was to continue in this life of clue.
Captain Blake answered the phone.
“I know you got this therapist crap goin on, but I need you off to the warehouse. You
ready to go? Cause if not…”
“I’m ready I’ll go and head over to the place.”
I was “needed” at the warehouse, the exact same warehouse I was killed, my life
drenched in a pool of blood. The clashing thoughts of horror and fear melded together like
loose liquid. The thoughts settled in the back of my mind. The city lived behind the gun, its city streets were filled with the blood of men who swore
to serve and protect. It streamed through the streets as if they were creeks. The Big apple is a big
joke.
I arrived at the warehouse, there were vehicles; unmarked and untraceable. Black
Lincolns with FBI plates. Men in suits walk in and throughout the murder scene; I was
approached by an agent and asked to follow him. I exited the car slowly, coincidentally my right
leg and arm begins to shake in agony. An enormous pain begins to quiver up and down my right
side. I quickly reach for the prescribed medication in my pocket, placing several pills in my
mouth. The pain dies down and my head drowns into an inebriated state, movement is subtle
although it is at a normal pace. The floor begins to spin and people move with an echoing trace. Blinking slowly, allows me to begin to function better, and the world
settles to my comfort. Diluted, my vision settles and I can feel "normal" again.
The warehouse has a stench of stained blood, not of old stained blood but of recent. I
follow the agent to a mutilated body. His abdominal was sliced open, his intestines stretched
tremendously. As you stepped back from the scene, the intestines shape the island of Manhattan.
Blood dripped from the body; the fluids seeped out from the bullet holes, the stench of old semi-
digested food smelled of heated feces and rotted soggy meat. His face skinned; it bled onto the
ground staining a dark maroon color.
“Hey detective?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t what we called you down for. We have to show you something.”
“Yeah sure.”
I could barely breathe as flies hovered above the rotted flesh. In an instance, I began to
remember something from my memories. It was blurry; the sounds of metal moving around
intrigued me, a buzzing noise from above was constant not that of a fly. I could feel hands
holding my wound together as a needle entered one side and exited the other. My face
scrunched as they repaired me, like some broken machinery. The mumble of voices arose, one
stated.
“She had something down by the bay...a red case or something like that.
It couldn’t have been far...Breacher street…past 149th in the Bronx.
Tommy Dervin...Hispanic working at ‘Broadway diner’ in the upper west side.”
The information was in pieces but they had a connection to what I saw today. We
approached a lightly lit room; the only light was from the sun bleeding through the cracked
windows and old bullet holes. Under my foot was an old bullet casing, as I blinked I could still
hear the gunshots. This warehouse was still under investigation after 2 years the crime lab is still
trying to discover missing bodies from the crime scene. Since the warehouse is close to the bay,
they could not determine the body’s whereabouts. The city has become a joke, a comical relief
for the faint of heart. The city is missing bodies of officers from the failed drug bust and now
cannot recover them.
In front us was a streak of blood, drawn by a hand it led up to the wall. Coincidentally or
purposely, the streak led to writings on the wall with the blood of the victim. Under it is the
skinned face of the victim, a face recognized by myself and two other retired officers. Bret
Spalding, a narcotics officer who went missing a year after the drug bust, he was working on a
case that pertained to Pablo Manuel, the father of Rico Manuel. The writing on the walls wrote.
Welcome to my game Detective John M. Carter.
Please be aware of the rules, they lay on the breast of Breacher.
Away from home. Your clues to find me start there.
“How many times have you had these visions?”
My therapist asked with slight concern, he stared at his notepad as his glasses hung at the
bridge of his nose.
“Almost twice a day, but its’ not like its recurring memory, just bits and pieces until I
blank out.”
I responded with little concern of my existing problem. I did not want to seem crazy just
wanted to know what was happening to me, it drove my mind insane. The curiosity spiraled
through thoughts of suicide and murder, confusion of mental disruptiveness. At nights I would
sit in my bedroom contemplating death, the pistol would be cocked sitting under my chin as I
resisted to pull but anxiously waited to. I drown into visual thoughts of my bullet piercing my
skull, flaring light in the dim room, the back of my head spread onto the wall like preserved jelly.
Large and small chunks slide down all the same. At times, I would feel the pulsating and
pumping heart enlarging and slowly feel as if it were to burst through my chest. It was my fear
ripping through the empty shell of loneliness.
“After you awoke from your coma, was it worse?”
“What would be worse the constant dreaming of reliving that same day for 3 weeks or
the constant voice reminding you’re a living dead?”
“Well, what I meant was…is it worse awake? Is it better to feel that you might make a
change in your ‘mistakes’ or could it be that being awake is the dreadful realization that the
‘mistakes’ made were at fault and hence could never be resurrected.”
“Look doc, you could make assumptions that may lead you to think that I may be…
‘Suicidal’ but I am fine. I get visions of death, but maybe that’s just normal. Maybe...maybe, it’s
the acceptance of death. Maybe I’m just the killer everyone thinks I am.”
“What do you mean by that?”
I was pretending to be delusional, my incentive to lead the therapist away from the pain.
All though my eyes drifted in and out of reality, my eyes fooled their audience. I could only
hope to be freed from my memories. Memories, only what used to be in the present. However,
what are the memories that remain until the future? I am troubled by haunting thoughts of
“mistakes”. When will they end? More so when did they begin?
“The coma isn’t your enemy when you awaken. It isn’t your friend. The truthful curtain
unveils your status in your newly awakened world. Your hope is to find your family by your
side; I guess when you haven’t been with the living for so long the one thing you hold is to
awaken to a familiar face. Your wife is not by your side and your child is nowhere to be
found…”
As I express myself, I grip the couch that I lay upon; the leather stretches with every
finger digging into it deeply.
“..And when you have no one there, you lay there crying. The pain doesn’t drive you, no
the pain was already there. Pain doesn’t control you anymore, so much of it becomes agony, your
life begins to twirl into an empty vortex of hate, and anger; where you lay is surrounding
shadows that enter and leave the room. Questions asked and nothing answered until they
disperse into a fading darkness and the one figure enters the room. The voice too distinct to not
attend to…”
I pause; the pain was not there at first. It brewed itself so much that anger overwhelmed
my existence. My fist tightens until my blood begins to boil and blush my hands and face in
complete disgust.
“…And as you lay there hopeless and fragile, that little hope of good news crumbles.
Slowly you’re told everything in your life is dead. Your 2 year old child’s arms were severed from
his body, your wife who was bearing your child was shot in the head against the wall, the same
wall that had your smiling picture. The baby she bore ripped from her stomach, and so
sadistically placed in the oven on high broil.”
The face of my therapist began to lose color, Horrified by the thought. He grabs a hold
of his composure. However, I could not; I was entranced with the continuous thoughts of my
lost family. The past pain and agony of this fallen soldier quivers down his withered body.
“Its time, I should head out.”
“Where?”
My beeper went off, the number 911 appeared. Then the number of Captain Blake
appeared. I dialed his number, as the phone rang I began to reminisce of the conversations we
had. He told me of the death of my family, he saved my life from the Honduras mobsters, and I
could never forget the quote he gave me when I awoke from that nightmare.
“We all live in a game; our movements are made by our choices that is how we
determine our death and how we determine our life.”
He told me I chose to live, and so his choice was to keep me alive. This was all a game I
guess, and I am going to play it to my advantage. My choice was to continue in this life of clue.
Captain Blake answered the phone.
“I know you got this therapist crap goin on, but I need you off to the warehouse. You
ready to go? Cause if not…”
“I’m ready I’ll go and head over to the place.”
I was “needed” at the warehouse, the exact same warehouse I was killed, my life
drenched in a pool of blood. The clashing thoughts of horror and fear melded together like
loose liquid. The thoughts settled in the back of my mind. The city lived behind the gun, its city streets were filled with the blood of men who swore
to serve and protect. It streamed through the streets as if they were creeks. The Big apple is a big
joke.
I arrived at the warehouse, there were vehicles; unmarked and untraceable. Black
Lincolns with FBI plates. Men in suits walk in and throughout the murder scene; I was
approached by an agent and asked to follow him. I exited the car slowly, coincidentally my right
leg and arm begins to shake in agony. An enormous pain begins to quiver up and down my right
side. I quickly reach for the prescribed medication in my pocket, placing several pills in my
mouth. The pain dies down and my head drowns into an inebriated state, movement is subtle
although it is at a normal pace. The floor begins to spin and people move with an echoing trace. Blinking slowly, allows me to begin to function better, and the world
settles to my comfort. Diluted, my vision settles and I can feel "normal" again.
The warehouse has a stench of stained blood, not of old stained blood but of recent. I
follow the agent to a mutilated body. His abdominal was sliced open, his intestines stretched
tremendously. As you stepped back from the scene, the intestines shape the island of Manhattan.
Blood dripped from the body; the fluids seeped out from the bullet holes, the stench of old semi-
digested food smelled of heated feces and rotted soggy meat. His face skinned; it bled onto the
ground staining a dark maroon color.
“Hey detective?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t what we called you down for. We have to show you something.”
“Yeah sure.”
I could barely breathe as flies hovered above the rotted flesh. In an instance, I began to
remember something from my memories. It was blurry; the sounds of metal moving around
intrigued me, a buzzing noise from above was constant not that of a fly. I could feel hands
holding my wound together as a needle entered one side and exited the other. My face
scrunched as they repaired me, like some broken machinery. The mumble of voices arose, one
stated.
“She had something down by the bay...a red case or something like that.
It couldn’t have been far...Breacher street…past 149th in the Bronx.
Tommy Dervin...Hispanic working at ‘Broadway diner’ in the upper west side.”
The information was in pieces but they had a connection to what I saw today. We
approached a lightly lit room; the only light was from the sun bleeding through the cracked
windows and old bullet holes. Under my foot was an old bullet casing, as I blinked I could still
hear the gunshots. This warehouse was still under investigation after 2 years the crime lab is still
trying to discover missing bodies from the crime scene. Since the warehouse is close to the bay,
they could not determine the body’s whereabouts. The city has become a joke, a comical relief
for the faint of heart. The city is missing bodies of officers from the failed drug bust and now
cannot recover them.
In front us was a streak of blood, drawn by a hand it led up to the wall. Coincidentally or
purposely, the streak led to writings on the wall with the blood of the victim. Under it is the
skinned face of the victim, a face recognized by myself and two other retired officers. Bret
Spalding, a narcotics officer who went missing a year after the drug bust, he was working on a
case that pertained to Pablo Manuel, the father of Rico Manuel. The writing on the walls wrote.
Welcome to my game Detective John M. Carter.
Please be aware of the rules, they lay on the breast of Breacher.
Away from home. Your clues to find me start there.