Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 3)

December 12th,

I saw him again today, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. He never see's me, but I always see him. I see him when the sun stains the sky red in the morning and when it stains the sky red at night. He is always guarded by me, unlike how he never guarded me. I took some me time last night and paid a young lady back for her years of being a whore. It felt good. It felt like mom. The red took me home again. It always takes me home. It's comforting. I left a note for her, written in red ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. It had his name on it. He will pay attention to me now. He will see that I am being a good boy and doing what he should be doing. What we all should be doing. I see another one right now. She looks like she wants to paint. She is looking at me as I write. Does she know that I am writing about her? Does she know that I will be writing about her in red tonight?

There were five more murders after the Detective and his family were slain, each one done in the same fashion as the one's before him. The Sargent was made Lead Detective on the case and was trying to find a clue hidden somewhere in the book that was left for him. The ravings of a madman, he thought. Each page went deeper into a psychosis that was terrifying to say the least. This man killed for reasons that he couldn't even start to comprehend. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, trying to turn the tide on the pounding inside his head. He had been reading entry after entry for days now, and each day, the body count was growing. The killer was slick. Despite all the fingerprints around the area's, all were from the victims. He felt his body relaxing as sleep was pushing forward into his consciousness, but felt the shock of sudden alertness as the phone rang next to him. He picked it up and listened. Another murder. Another body. Another note. He froze, the blood solid and unmoving in his veins. This time it had his name on it.

Poetry: I Just Had To Mention You

I just had to mention,
in briefest of passing,
that of all the men worldwide,
I happen to be the luckiest.
I know she see’s this,
she knows I’m true,
all the words I say,
I just had to mention a few.

Writing: Moment in Time - Red (Part 2)

July 5th,

I can't live in this house any more. She is making things unbearable. I want to run, go where the red sun falls beneath the horizon and fades away for hours and hours. I want to face for hours and hours. She did it to me again. The dress. The fucking red dress. Again and again she puts it on me. Again and again she hits me. The bitch. I want to hurt her. Every time it happens, I imagine something else happening to her, worse than the time before.

The Sargent lowered the journal and took out his pen and pad, jotting down an few notes. He had found the small book tucked under the jacket of the Lead Detective of the Red Murders case. Each entry was getting progressively darker.

July 29th,

I surprised her today. She didn't know I saw my father after school. He always comes by and she never knows. He gave me $400 for clothes and food, but this time I didn't buy those. I was never going to. I hate lying to him, but he can't understand how much I hate him for leaving me here. With her. Always with her. His red car always driving away and never with me in it. Saving me. I came home with a bag and she demanded to know what was in it. I wouldn't tell her. I told her to fuck off. She hit me. Red stains on the carpet. New and old. The house was always coated in red these days. She told me to strip. I did. I was ready for her. The scars and cuts were still there from last time. She put the red dress on me, but I said nothing. I didn't scream or cry when she started hitting and cutting. I surprised her. I smiled. I kept on smiling. That bitch couldn't understand. She stopped. I stood there, reached in my bag. I showed her what I bought for her. Now the room is really red, but justifiably red. She deserved it. He deserves it too. All of them deserve it.

The Sargent put the book down and looked at the year it was written. Why hadn't he heard about a murder case like the ones happening now? He flipped the page and saw that the writer had taped pictures inside. The crimes were identical, then and today. He glanced at the clock and decided to call it a night. He was only forty pages into a two hundred page journal, but he would wait until tomorrow to try to get into the sick mind of this poor child.

Writing: Moment In Time - Red

Red. Red, red red. The walls were red. Why were the walls red? Why was the ground red? What is on my hands? Red. Red, red, red, red. I can't see anything but red. Honey? Why are you dressed in red? Come on, get up. Get up. Get the fuck up! I gotta wash the red away. Red. Red is bad. Bad. She was bad. She earned her red dress. Just like her and all the ones before her. I will make them all wear red. You think me crazy, Detective? You think me insane? You think I do what I do for no reason other than insanity? You couldn't be further wrong. I will decorate this world in red. Red hands spreading the red. I will cover your life in red, Detective. I will cover you in red until red is the only thing you will ever see again.

The detective lowered the letter and glanced back to the form of a man, slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. It took too long to catch this man before he made his mark in history, he thought. He had received ten letters just like the one that was delivered to him this morning, but now he knew that this was going to be the final letter. He was dead, those poor souls of the women and officers he killed in his insane quest to "coat the world in red" were finally able to rest. He walked closer to the body and knelt down, his trench coat scrapping along the trash strewn alley, and looked into the still open eyes of the man he chased for the past two years. The lights from the squad cars flashed across that blood covered face, illuminating the sadistic smirk he still had, even after death. The man was nondescript, An every day sort of man, he thought to himself. He wondered if he ever walked past this man on the streets, completely unaware that a madman like this was looking right into his eyes. He lightly chuckled, knowing that would be something that this sadistic bastard would do just because he knew he could.

He filed the paperwork and waved goodnight to his partner. As he drove home, he was full of mixed feelings. Happy that a serial killer was finally off the streets, but sad that he had to go through an astonishingly long list of people to tell them that they can finally find peace. As he pulled up to the house, he noticed the door open and every light in the house turned on. He stopped, stepped from the car, and called the station to get uniformed officers there fast. He drew his service pistol and stepped through the open door, a chill running through his soul at the thought of something happening to his family. As he stepped through the door, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head that drove him to his knees, his weapon skittering across the floor until it slowed and stopped in a pool of blood. He focused his eyes and saw his wife and children, covered in blood. . .red, just like the walls were. He felt cold steel touch the back of his neck and felt something slide across his shoulder. With shaking hands he took the letter and opened it.

Now you see the red. It will be the last color you ever see, Detective. The red. Red, red, red, all will be covered in red. I'm not finished painting. I'll never be finished.

He closed his eyes and felt breath against his ear. The voice told him that he was clever, but not clever enough. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at his family lying there. The voice told him words he never expected to hear. The voice stopped and hesitantly said, . . .I love you, father. Father? He was in the act of turning around and looking into the face he had known since it was born, but as he turned, he heard the familiar sound of a bolt striking just before a bullet is fired.

Poetry: Cascading Dreamer

I could dream one
night alone again,
but I
awaken.

Writing: Moment In Time - Cool Spring Night

He waves goodbye to his co-workers and heads to his car, feeling the heat from the day wash off his body, thanks to the cool air outside. He glances to the cloudless sky, his eyes seeking the moon as they usually do when he is outside at night. Watching the pale ghost move ponderously across the cosmos, his thoughts fold inward. He made a mistake today. Not at work, though. His managers said he did a great job and thanked him for his hard work on a busy night. It was his personal life where he made the mistake. He unlocks his car, steps inside and turns the ignition, though not moving from the parking space. He opens the window and lets the cool spring air flow through the drivers window. He never meant to scare her, he silently tells himself. His head tilts back as the overhead light dims. He was thinking birthday gift, nothing more, when he was taking about getting her some jewelry. He winces as he see's how that could be misconstrued.

He finally, after a long five minutes, leaves the parking lot. He drives home, letting the cool air wash away his mistake. He won't make it a second time, he thinks. He turns on the radio and switches to his CD player. He sings along with the music until it reaches a song he can finally make him smile tonight. It's 3AM and I wanna go to bed, I got a lady runnin' through my hair. . . He loves her, he says out loud to the musician coming through the speakers. He won't scare her away. He won't let himself hurt her, because she means so much to him. He thought those words all the way home, even as he sat down to write a short story about this cool spring night.