The Secrets Within Pages

Portrait of the Damned

Time, seems to mock me. Guilt me. That I would be the one given the letter as though I must solve whatever mystery- tragedy that has unfurled, tainting every inch of my life with blood. Blood that was never on my hands.

"God, you look sickly." he chaffed, too calmly. I snapped my head toward him,

"Two people have died and youre sitting here joking?!"

He rose, nonchalance dripping off him as he sauntered toward me. His arm reached past me, grabbing his coat. Sharp eyes diving in my own, inviting me as he wordlessly exited.

Terror leading a trail of cowardice behind me, I followed in suit. Unsure of what staying at home would do and equally unsure of what mindlessly following him would do, beside doom me farther then I already have myself.

~~~

Gusts of wind whistle, waltzing with tree branches and like invisible paint strokes, brushing the grass below and kissing my cheek, teasing my hair out of its tight coil but swiftly leaving. The clouds knit above us, hiding the sun and casting a grey atmosphere.

Keeping close behind him, I attempt to organise my meandering thoughts. Osbourne was dead. He was found outside the globe theatre, in London. A photo of him years ago, with two other men, friends. A Mr. Vincent Fraser and Waylen Chamberlain. Now, another body was found, this time-

"The Radcliffe Camera. There." My rival, now somewhat confidante, spoke pointing to the swarming crowd in front of us. Flickering lights of blue and red intertwine, spotting my mind with purple as I gaze at the image before me, lost in thought- disecting every piece of information that has burdened my brain.

Through the swarming hive of people- pedestrians gathered behind the frail tape, dividing life and death. Reporters documenting the chilling news. Police tending to the scene, photographs and evidence, but as they part- a ghastly portrait has unveiled itself. A pool of the deepest crimson has engulfed the grass beneath, only a thin sheet of white atop. But even under the covers, it is visible. The cause of death. The sheet covers a long distance, the body, then dips at the neck, rising only to cover the rest. Horrifying gasps escape the audience, before the paramedics surround the dismembered remains of the corpse, of someone who was living mere hours ago.

A grim voice yells, "Move away! Do not come close to the tape!" I look to him. Officer. Hart's creased forehead and heavy brows were enough to convince me that neither he nor his colleagues were confident in this case. That was enough to send a jolt of panic and worry through me. I peeked at Silas next to me, whose deep set eyes revealed his own inspection. I grab his arm and pull him closer to the cobblestone alleyway we'd been standing in, "We can't let them see us." I whispered, suddenly aware of the lack of space between us.

"Who? Sherlock and Watson?" He remarked with a smirk, eyes trailing every inch of me. "Pushing me onto a wall was a bit harsher than I imagined you to be, Burroughs. You always did strike me as the gentle type, but I suppose the truth always does have a way of coming out, even if it is shocking." he bent down, finishing the last word in my ear. The warmth of his breath tickled my neck sending gooseflesh erupting all over my skin, a sensation I ignore,

"You are the most ignorant, self-centered arse! Are you truly so blind to the tragedy unfolding right in front of our eyes, that you have the utter gall to joke and flirt?!" I scold, a fire of outrage and anger heats me from the inside. His chin rises as he looks down at me, before grabbing my shoulders and spinning me around, so we are both staring at the heinous sight.

"You see the two paramedics placing the body in the black bag?"

I force myself to nod.

"That bag will now be sent off to the morgue, where they'll investigate every part of the body and report back to the police. What the people standing there don't know, what you dont know, is that this is nothing like mystery books or crime shows. The police won't exhaust every clue they get- thats even if they look for clues. Rather, they'll look at a couple witnesses, note a couple trivial pieces of information before deeming the case unsolved and adding it to the montain of other "Cold cases" which is just what they call "Work we weren't bothered to finish". Until two weeks pass, a month, and everyone forgets about it and moves on." He sneers, bitterly.

I wrench myself from his grip, "Do you have no hope? No faith? Think what you like, Golding. I refuse to bury myself in whatever darkness you have."

I turn to leave and with every step I take, I feel his gaze on me, heavy as an anchor.