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(as of yet untitled series) part 1

June 15, 2013

(as of yet untitled) 1

“I’m not who I had expected to become.”
I throw the car into park and kill it.
It wasn’t a bad part of town. Hardly sub-standard. This was a relatively dense residential area with sizable lawns and even more sizable windows.
“When I was younger, I had expected that despite my situation, I would rise above it and do enough with my life to ensure that, at my death bed, I could look back and smile. I could tell myself with confidence that I had made my mark; that I had done well with what I was given.”
This is the seventh victim in just under a month. The whole city seems to be at my throat. I can’t walk to my mailbox or to grab a coffee at the corner store without feeling holes being burned into my skull.
I let out a sigh and leave my vehicle behind.

Jonathan is waiting for me behind the tape. I don’t need to hear him utter a word. It was the same deal as the last half-dozen.
The scene was in pristine condition. There were no signs of struggle whatsoever. A television was airing a family-friendly program in the living room. Two half-finished plates of food were lying on a foot-table in front of the couch, and sitting on the couch was a man in his early thirties.
He was expired.
I squat down next to the arm of the couch and rest my chin on my palm.
“Same as the others.” says Jonathan.
“I can see that.”
“No signs of a struggle.”
“His body was left in a peaceful state.”
I don’t know why they bother with this guy.
I raise my gaze to Jonathan, who was standing with one hand on his belt and the other beaming a flash-light into the cold face of our lifeless company.
“Don’t fool with me, alright?” he says to me, his green eyes and green expression shining brighter than the torch in his hand.
“Do you have any idea?”

It was strange. I won’t try to pretend it wasn’t. But people are strange creatures.
“I can understand maybe not robbing the guy. Maybe they weren’t after the money and it was just the spur of the moment. But how come there’s no signs of distress?” Jonathan questions.
I return my attention to the lump on the couch and study his peaceful, close-eyed expression. I let out a grunt to let Jonathan know that I’m not ignoring him, but that I had no answer worth sharing.
“Two plates. Doors unlocked. Windows open. Television sitting on a family-friendly channel. Was our guy or gal holding him hostage? Making him play out a charade?”
I let out a sigh and stand.
I reach into my back pocket and stretch on the pair of gloves that had been resting there.
“I know you don’t have much, right? I mean, clearly there’s some reason you guys can’t-”
I shoot him a glaring look.
“Some reason?” I repeat in my head.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t, Jonathan.”
He quietly nods before coming over to shine a light on the victim as I look him over.
“I get the killin- I mean I don’t get it… but I get how some people might do it. I get going after single, middle-upper-class victims; but where’s the signs of struggle? And where’s…” he trails off.
I gently tilt the victim’s head to the side, revealing a large gash.
“Where’s the blood?” I finish his question in my head.

“When I was young, the world seemed endless; housing an untold number of possibilities. As you grow however, you see that the world is a pretty small place, and the types of people you find within it are even less diverse.”
I didn’t have an answer.

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