CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 578
"There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it."
E.M.Forster, A Room With A View.
The man breathed in a soft breath, his eyes darkened, dry and blank. He gazed into the bathroom mirror with an impenetrable, dark expression on his face, one so solid, strong and steady. Conrad Ecklie was a man who wore an expression of stoic indifference. He really didn’t care, and this motion of thought was painted clearly on his blank, expressionless face. However, if someone had been able to read his mind, been able to search through his deepest, darkest experiences, then maybe, perhaps, they would have been able to understand why such a tall, thin man, like him, was, who he was. Maybe then, they may have been able to understand why such a particular man, who could have been so full of life, at so many points during his existence, chose to put on a stony face of nothing, of no outward expression, of meaningful emotion, whatsoever. That was the thing however, the most poignant point. He did not care. He did not care at all, about anyone, or anything, that was remotely bright, or happy. He didn’t even care for people who didn’t care, or, who, like him, had no real interest in making meaningful relationships outside those that could advance a chosen career path. Such career driven people, were, anyway, most likely adversaries in the workplace, for people like him, and the last thing he needed was competition when he was trying to strive towards his best. He didn’t like other people getting in his way, especially when they slowed him down in some fashion, or somehow halted his way up the professional career ladder of a public servant.
Hands gripped tightly along the edges of the bathroom bench, the man glanced down to the sink and, breathing in once more, took a final look at himself in the mirror. The raging, sickening, depressing thoughts swirling around his head, were gradually pushed away, shoved, until they were hidden underneath a shimmering, transparent veneer of internal blankness of emotion, just like the one he was already firmly displaying on his face, on the outside. Shifting his feet, he left the staff bathroom, exiting out the door, and, shutting it behind him, he left, feet stepping quickly, down the hallway and back towards his office. Arriving at his location, he entered the room and sat down at his desk.
The thing about his emotionless state was the way he through, his specific thought processes about emotions in themselves, and, about having emotions in particular. Emotions, sadness, happiness, grief, joy, all that contrived, tumultuous bullshit, was not worth his time. He did not need to experience feelings of an extended range, to function as an adequate, well working, human being. He functioned well enough, as he was, as he were, just, as he always had been and always would be. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine, he was fine. Opening up a book that rested on his desk, the man took out his bookmark and began to read quietly. However, his eyes did not register the words completely, nor did his brain. He just took them in, one by one, and did not bother putting any significant meaning to them at all. He did not feel like reading at that very moment, but, if he looked busy reading some large tome about forensics, and forensic psychology, then, people would leave him alone. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine, he was fine.