The wind was whistling and the leaves hanging above the trees danced to its hums but there was something sad about these sounds. They didn't feel like the normal wind in a forest, they were more like sad cries tainted with blaring sirens driving in and out. They were more like trampling feet against dead leaves and jamming of metals, clicking of cuffs and locking down of a crime scene.
This was Kara's fourth point of view of a crime scene. First, she had appeared in crime scenes as police in uniforms, handling statements and reports, transporting suspects.
Second, she had appeared in crime scenes as the detective in charge. These were her glorious moments, the moments she thought she read each scene as clearly as possible. The detective with states recognition and honours.
Third, she appeared in the crime scenes as the victim. Unlike most of her victims, she had not turned dead. She was very much alive and able to na
“Do you swear to tell nothing but the truth?”“Yes, I swear.”“proceed.”“My name is Paul Marshall, also known as Jones Brandon. I am the poetic killer but I was never alone. I had a partner, Andre Green, real name, Benjamin Miller. I am responsible for for the death of thirty young girls including Sarah Martins and Becky Gibson and my parents Mr and Mrs Green.Benjamin and I grew up in the same orphanage know and we had promised to get to each other no matter what separated us not even adoption. We had sworn an oath to stick with each other till death did us part and my only regret is death came too soon.”“Why did you kill those girls?”“In a staged accident to get away from his adopters, Benjamin lost a part of him which later became Andre, with every girl I killed, he sent a response kill and that was how we found each other.”“How did you communicate?”
It was just a month since he had done it. A month since he had locked up the man who he supposedly spent his teenage with. The poetic killer. He was the poetic killer and he lived with him. He was the poetic killer, he had killed men, women and scribbled poems on them. Poems like the one he was staring at. Port Harcourt was a big city and also known for its notoriety. Jones is pacing around his room, his hand arched above his head as he stared at the screen.Breaking News!Rising Model found dead in her apartment.It was not possible. He was sure he had the right man in jail. His father. He called the prison immediately, it was late, but he didn't care. It was more than just any crime. It was a reputable killer. The killer the world hid from and some had called the face of death. It was the face of death again, hopefully not death itself.He pulled his reports from the pre
It was just a month since he had done it. A month since he had locked up the man who he supposedly spent his teenage with. The poetic killer. He was the poetic killer and he lived with him. He was the poetic killer, he had killed men, women and scribbled poems on them. Poems like the one he was staring at. Port Harcourt was a big city and also known for its notoriety. Jones is pacing around his room, his hand arched above his head as he stared at the screen.Breaking News!Rising Model found dead in her apartment.It was not possible. He was sure he had the right man in jail. His father. He called the prison immediately, it was late, but he didn't care. It was more than just any crime. It was a reputable killer. The killer the world hid from and some had called the face of death. It was the face of death again, hopefully not death itself.He pulled his reports from
Roses are red,Violets are blue,You, my love, will die.You smile with sparks,Heal with a touch,But cut with the sword.I love you but,You are just a masquerade.Andre squeezed his hand tighter against the whiskey glass. It would crush in his hand with just a little more force. He bit his lip hard before taking another gulp down. A drink should ease the pain—they say—but it doesn't. A gulp should drown the pain further into profound depths but it doesn't. Rather, he recounted all his aches down till the break. The accident, the rejections. His eyes stung from the tears he fought. Trying to hold his visible pain from the further display, gradually became more of a Herculean task. Red blazing stream of pain, boiling agitation and regrets. Was it anger, grieve or hurt he felt, either way, it wasn't a new feeling. He swirled his hand into
Andre wakes up with a buzzing head and a distant fuzz. No, not the creaking noise from the roof of the house. It is the pain he feels when he has another episode.He grunts as he stretches his arms wideout. He gets up from his bed wondering how he got there, last he remembers, he was staring at Becky's picture which is now a mixture of torn canvas and debris glass.He pressed the alarm down before it began to buzz.The sun was out early and the whistles of leaves can be heard from the distance. The peace and segregation from the main town remind him of the reason he chose to leave on the outskirt.He hates the business of the town and the noise that came with it. The continuous screeching of cars, dogs barking and girls flooding the streets at night.His mind drifts back to last night. Last night when he was engaged. Last night his ring finger was coated in a beautiful metal ring since he
Andre's POV:It is not every day you get accused of killing your ex, one week after you broke up, but no matter what life throws at you, you gather your shattered pieces and move on.Moving on. It is a simple task for everyone in the office, bath, dress up, get some coffee and straight to their desks. But for me, I wonder what it will be like sitting in midst of people who already loathe me for no reason and now they are handed one in a plate of gold.A sheep in lion's den.The city was crowded, as usual, humans, always in their never-ending struggle to fit in, struggle, work. I couldn't help but wonder, to what end did life even lead us? Forcing us to make decisions that shouldn't be there in the first place. The fear that you might go to work today and get fired, you might stay home and get burnt in an unpredictable accident, you might leave to get some drinks
The stalker is everywhere,And nowhere.The stalker gets stalkedThey sit in our seats And feed our children They walk in the streets like us In the end,We are all stalkers.****The door swung open and his hazel eyes were the first thing I noticed, then his white shirt and black trousers. His steps feeling gracious like he was the king of the world.Wait!Did he just walk into the office expecting the world to greet you welcome back? No, he is a damn killer, a thief and a damn liar. He was just worst than the other men—a scum bag. Why do I even hate him this much? Why does the sudden urge to commit murder rise when I see him? He disgusts me.He grinned widely at the people shaking hands with hi
Knock knock!The monster knocks on your door.He brings a gift, One you would not reject.He brings pain.There is no saying no once the door opens.Run as far as you wish,In the end, you find out you accepted this gift.****Even as a boy, Andre knew pain. No, not the kind of pain every child met in the hands of their parents. It was the kind that left a stain in your life. A stigma that follows you everywhere you go. The kind that messed cute little Andre into a rejection, made him a freak in the society. Pain is built in different phases—shades.Andre stared at his mother obliviously, she looked fragile and broken, too broken that even death had refused her. Her grey hair laying weakly on her so