CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 725
What words would you like to see added to/removed from common use?
He rode home from the corner shop fast, slipping through the backstreets that he knew so very fluidly, turning corners sharply and passing through shadows without a care. He arrived home and put the goods he had bought into the fridge, fresh milk, a new packet of eggs, the same old things he bought every now and then, that he handled with care. Still young, he finished his chores, his homework, and sat on the couch that could not afford to be replaced, ignoring its suspicious stains, while a silent but very violent anger burned inside him, a bright and horrid shining light. He had left them alone, and somehow, somewhere, it was he fault that they were gone. If his father had had a few more seconds to get at his gun, if he hadn’t been pressured into the back of the couch, right where he sat.
The music shook in his ears, loud and reverberating an inner beat within his chest as he twirled and shifted, arms and feat strung into perfectly synchronised motion via his brain. He raised and lowered himself, went up and crouched down, twirled around, this way and that. He danced, passionately as some higher class critics would describe him, using their own proffered words, that were of course, so long in common use that they seemed almost empty and hollow. There were no critics to describe him though, and or would there ever be. Why would there ever be, in the first place?
The case reports were flung across the break room table, and organised orders of paper spluttered from within their manila folders, spilling across the table in a case of autopsy and evidence findings, photographs, diagrams and typed out documents. They didn’t go far, but the effect was enough as he snarled at the other CSI’s incompetence, lip curling with barely suppressed and perfectly played rage. It worked, though, because that CSI never made another grievous mistake like that again. So what if he had earned another enemy, it was just another CSI on top of half or the entire rest of the lab who already disliked him. It didn’t make much difference to his life at all, if any.
The nightmares woke him up at night, or they kept him asleep and trapped, a gun pointed at his face, his mind in someone else’s body, murdered, violated, slain, over and over and over again. Decades of nightmares he endured, and they were always the same, always the deaths he had never been able to help. He played through, over and over, the occurrences he had hardly a chance of being able to prevent or avoid, because they were so far beyond his control, so much removed from his ability to influence their course. It would never stop, and he knew it, and kept such a secret close to him, because he would not seem to be any lesser of a man for what he had been through. He would be stronger than the rest of them, than all of them, because he was better and more determined to succeed at whatever he desired to obtain or work towards.
Conrad Ecklie danced, walked, and boxed his way through his daily life as always, as he had always done since he was eight years old and his life had changed forever. The people around him, those that he worked with, knew who he was, what he symbolised, and they hated him, not for that, really, but for the way he acted. But he preferred it because they feared him, and fear, kept people in control, prevented them from making mistakes as they did not want to experience the consequences, again. Outside of work, people saw him, and believed what he wanted them to see, or indeed, believe. Kindness, in his world, had the same effect as the detraction of kindness, and being unkind was far easier and more fluent to him, the occurrence of which was never a big issue of worry to him, or one that existed at all. It was easier being strong, and ruling with an iron fist, and in the first place, it was more correct. He was strong, he wasn’t weak, he would never be weak, ever, and nothing would ever change or remove that, at all.