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Post by TOMMY "THANATOS" KRISTOFFERSON on Sept 28, 2011 21:51:48 GMT -5
Thomas hadn't meant to kill so soon after that woman who left her baby in the dumpster. He really hadn't. But that man who smacked his two boys just for doing what kids do best, playing...that had set him off again. Like every time, it was like something had snapped inside of him, unleashing some sort of horrible creature that destroyed and found relief in the death of others. Thomas hated that part of himself. The part that loved tearing others down and relishing in the feel of their bodies hitting the floor. Thomas hated that.
He hated killing after the fact. Thomas couldn't deny though, that in that moment, his blood rushed and he was drugged by endorphin's. It was a high but like every high it was followed by a low. This low was lower than any of the others. The man had been killed by a plastic bag over his head, strangled to death. It wouldn't have been any worse than the others if his 12 year old daughter hadn't texted him.
Pls cm hm Ddy. I made dnnr
Thomas had checked the phone in a moment of idiotic insecurity and then saw that after her face flashed across the screen.
He broke down. Thomas ran for two blocks, fist pressed against his mouth to silence his sobs. He didn't stop until his legs gave out and he collapsed against a building. What had he done? Some little girl was waiting for her Daddy to come home. She had cooked him dinner. She just wanted her Daddy to see what she had made for him.
God, what sort of monster was he?
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Sept 28, 2011 22:14:50 GMT -5
“What’s your name?”
“Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade. First day on the job.”
“Lestrade eh? Well I’ve just got one suggestion for you – Don’t screw up.”
Lestrade walked along the back streets of Manhattan, trolling the area for anything amiss. This wasn’t the job of a detective inspector, he was above questioning teenagers about their after-hours whereabouts. But it was his first day, again, and they’d wanted to start him off easy. He supposed it might have been the boyish voice and Irish accent that had perhaps made the police in New York City doubt his skills, to put him on night patrol for the first week of his new job, but he decided he didn't, or wouldn't, mind too much. Nice to take it easy for a bit, he supposed. But... Maybe too easy. So far he’d told a man off for speeding, assisted an elderly lady in bringing her groceries across the road, and reminded a child to look both ways before crossing the road. After murders and mystery and thrill, this all seemed so very tedious.
He was stopped when he saw out of the corner of his eyes a man, leaning heavily against a building and…crying? He couldn’t tell, so he walked closer. His initial and slightly shameful first reaction was to think, ‘Oh good, something interesting perhaps.’ As Lestrade grew closer, he could see the man appeared to be about the same height as he, had sandy coloured hair, and looked absolutely broken at the moment. Lestrade instantly felt shame in his selfish want for something bad to happen, and strode over to the man who looked a bit too cheerfully dressed for his current position.
“Oi,” Lestrade voiced loudly as he drew closer. “You, are you alright there?” ‘Obviously not,’ Lestrade thought quickly after. But it was a valid question, are-you-alright. The kind of question everybody except the drama queens say ‘fine’ to, always, so many times that it’s just a reaction, and not a reflection on how ones feeling whatsoever.
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Post by TOMMY "THANATOS" KRISTOFFERSON on Sept 29, 2011 22:51:58 GMT -5
Thomas sobbed harshly, leaning heavily against the wall. Like a broken marionette Thomas slid down the wall and landed in a crumpled heap at on the sidewalk. His fist pressed harder against his mouth, cutting into his lip and drawing blood. God...oh god...What if...that girl. That poor poor girl. What if he had ruined her life by trying to make it better for those two boys?
What if he had killed her by killing her dad?
Thomas didn't know what their situation was like. Maybe that man raised the kids all by himself. Maybe they didn't have anyone else. Maybe they were fallen angels now, forced from heaven's gates by the uncaring hand of Lucifer himself, the first of the fallen and the eternally damned.
That made him Lucifer and the girl who sent the text message an angel who's wings he clipped without a thought.
The thought was sobering and destructive all at once. It put what he did in perspective and should have made him calm down but it simply brought another wail and another round of gasping, wracking sobs. Thomas was such a mess that he didn't notice the man who approached, asking about his well being. It didn't even register that he was in public.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Sept 30, 2011 17:51:37 GMT -5
Lestrade moved closer, growing increasingly concerned when the man did not answer. Rather, he began to sob even louder and sank in a heap of himself. Quickly pacing over to the poor man, Lestrade knelt next to him and put his own hand on the man's shoulder, worried. He squeezed it tightly, trying to get the man to notice him.
"Hey, hey! Just calm down now, tell me what's happened," Lestrade ordered comfortingly, his voice just loud enough to rise above the sound of the other man's sobs. And - God, was he bleeding? Perhaps just a little, he'd split his lip somehow. He looked so broken… At that moment, Lestrade did not give a flying toss whether or not this man was a saint or a devil. No, he just wanted the man to stop sobbing. Seeing the poor sod crying his heart out in public, so utterly gone, was breaking for Lestrade himself to see.
For a moment he remembered another man, lying on his bed with his mouth steadily clasping a loaded gun in his mouth, his heart and nerves shattered to pieces…Perhaps that same man was here now, the only difference being he had taken another form. It didn't matter the cause, because true sadness - the breaking kind - it very quickly became all the same feeling. The falling and falling and never being caught, and the miserable dampness that follows you everywhere, and the hallucinations that you know are real only in your mind, but you desperately need to believe in…The cause was eventually lost and became only a detail.
It was like a mirror that had been shattered and there was no light to make rainbow coloured shadows from the pieces - the mirror could have been broken in any number of ways, but all that really mattered was that it was broken and there seemed to be no possible way to fix it.
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Post by TOMMY "THANATOS" KRISTOFFERSON on Oct 1, 2011 13:01:57 GMT -5
Thomas gave a wet shout when a hand was placed on his shoulder. He whipped his body around, lashing out instinctively to defend himself. Thomas managed to stop his arm, though, before he could actually hurt the other guy. Thomas forced himself to quiet down and, hiccuping, wiped at his face.
"I'm...I'm fine really. I just...emotional..." Thomas sniffled, scrubbing at his cheeks. He would cry later, when he wasn't out in the open. This man, though, he seemed nice enough, looking into him like that. Not many people did that. Thomas gave another loud sniffle and began to clumsily rise to his feet. "Sorry, I uh, I just got a phone call that my Gran passed away. She practically raised me," Thomas lied too easily. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.
Spinning lies like some careless spider spins its web between two branches that are just a bit too far apart. It would tear and break if the spider wasn't too careful. Thomas didn't like having to be like that about his lies so he tried not to. It was easy to forget one corner of the web, the lie, and it would disintegrate and everything else would be weakened and fall apart.
Thomas figured, this one time would be fine, since he would probably never see this good Samaritan again.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on Oct 4, 2011 20:37:45 GMT -5
“Sh--!” Lestrade almost-swore as the man swiveled around and nearly hit him in the face. Thankfully for him, the guy had enough control of himself to manage not to smack the sense out of Lestrade. So he was quite easily able to stay sympathetic when the man attempted to rub his tears away. Lestrade gave a soft smile at him as he stood; the supposedly hardened police man decidedly did not think that the notion was more cute than pathetic.
His smile disappeared as his look took on one of pity, as the man admitted to his closely related gran’s passing. ‘Poor sod,’ he thought sadly. ‘I’d cry too. Well, if I cared about my gran. And she wasn’t already dead.’ He patted the man on the shoulder comfortingly. It was slightly clumsy, but soft enough.
“I’m sorry she’s gone,” Lestrade said sympathetically, “That’s really too bad.” He paused, before continuing with, “I’m sure that she wouldn’t want you to be crying over her so though. I’m catholic, well, by the accent you’re probably thinking ‘obviously’, or well, maybe not. But, anyway, wherever you believe she – her self – is, right now, I’ll bet she’s happy. But would be a lot happier if you weren’t sad.” He was babbling now, he tended to do that when he didn’t know what else to say. He doubted that this man really wanted to talk about his dead gran, after all, people did view death as such a tetchy subject, but he supposed he might be at least some comfort to the guy. Right now Lestrade wasn’t really playing police; he was the friendly, perhaps too much so, guy on the street who everyone likes and hates respectively.
“Sorry, I’ll be quiet,” Lestrade finished guiltily.
"Didn't mean to go off on you there. Do you, uh, need a ride home?" He quickly realized that that last sentence could be taken completely wrongly, so he quickly added, "No, I mean, I'm with the police , don't worry." He wanted to add more, because now he was just sounding either completely creepy or depressingly awkward, but he resisted. He'd probably just make it worse if he tried harder. Lestrade wasn't usually such a bad speaker - well, no, he was, but usually he could at least get his sentences out correctly.
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