Forums » Art & Creativity » God Fails: Prologue

Slight mention of suicide

01:56
25 DECEMBER
CHRISTMAS
PETERBOROUGH
ENGLAND
CASE REPORT...

It was a late winter night, the sky coated in a thick layer of deep clouds which threatened to cry down on the small town of Peterborough. A town located an hour or so away from London, tucked away between back roads and julies. A town full of immigrants and drug dealers, where crime is around every corner. The streets are filthy, the curbs breaking with each step a person took. The cement was weak and cracked, with the odd flower having bloomed between each, some living if they were lucky enough to survive. The street lamps lined the bumpy roads, some on, some flickering, and some having their lights blown. Not a single road in the city was smooth, and all of them caused passengers in the cars that drove upon them to jolt and shift in their seats every time. People never bothered to clean up after themselves, dropping their litter every time they got too lazy. This allowed crisp packets, sweet wrappers, subway wrappings and much more to line the pathways, even with the bins half empty, no one cared.

A place where the government and council is bias and corrupted, and money is the priority… Detective Justin Loatia wished he wasn't stuck in the forsaken city. Any would have asked why he stayed, why he hadn't just left to Newcastle or America for that matter… and he gave the same response every time.

“This girl deserves justice. Her family deserves closure.”

Justin had lived in Peterborough for the last thirteen years after having moved there with his wife so he could focus on making a name for himself in a much smaller, low-key town. He had deep brown hair, which in its current state was abnormally shaggy and a pile of mess, when usually it would have been slicked back and glued in its place with his mint-smelling hair gel, keeping it from disturbing his handsome features and blocking out his gorgeous, emerald green orbs. His eyes were a lovely almond shape, with their green hue sparkling and almost glowing when in the sunlight. They shone through the darkness, still bright and vibrant in the dim hues. His skin was rough and dark, with wrinkles slowly edging their way onto his face with each year he gained. Especially around his hands: they are scarred beyond belief, the white marks running along the crevices in his skin and over his knuckles. He stood at 6’5, and weighed an average 10.4 stone, with a work-in-progress six pack thanks to him spending every Saturday at the local gym.

“This case is not closed!”

Around a year prior to the present, Justin had got word about a supposed suicide case about a female called Sarah Voxal. A 24-year-old single female woman who worked a near by cafe as a waitress. They had found her body hung in a tree in a forest a few miles outside of the city, with severe lacerations to the face, neck, arms, stomach and legs. They were ruled as self-harm indications, and the case was dropped as a simple suicide.

She was the headline for a week or so. And then she just… disappeared.

No one cared.

A month later something suddenly clicked in his brain, and the whole case fell apart. He began to ask himself questions as he re-looked over her autopsy and case files. He started to spend countless hours of his free days and nights studying every nook and cranny, every psychology book, everything he could find on murderous behaviours and tendencies and everything he could get his hands on.

Something wasn't right.

“...It wasn't a suicide!”

His work performance had decreased significantly and he had risked getting fired a few times. His wife felt distance, but continued to do her absolute best to support her husband's work and decisions, bringing him coffee and forcing him to bed and relaxing his mind. He had forgotten to eat, forgotten to drink, forgotten to sleep, and in some cases, he had forgotten to even make his way to his work place.

He was obsessed. And some said he needed help.

But he refused. This girl. This poor woman had been forgotten about in the matter of a week and he firmly believes she needed the closure she deserved. Her soul needed to be put to rest, her conscious needing to be settled in her resting place.

Or perhaps he was doing it for his own well being? He felt as if if he didn't finish this case, he would have his guilty conscious that wouldn't stop bothering him day and night, everyday for the rest of his life. He needed to do this otherwise he would die in vain. His work would be wasted.

“I can't give up. Not yet, at least.”

Everyone believed him to be insane. Even his co-workers had begun to question his motives and time-wasting, his humanity and his sanity. If he wasn't careful, he could lose his job. Lost his job, lost his wife, and lost his dignity.

“This girl deserves closure. I cannot deny the right of justice…”