3:21 AM. A chill, autumn breeze flows through the night air, rustling the tall grass of the surrounding fields. The wind passes by a thin, lone road that stretches out far into both directions, a promise of ending, still yet to be seen. This morning, the smell of sulfur and rubber permeates this entire road, and a quiet crackling punctuates the slowing sounds of the still blowing winds.
3:30 AM. A fleeting grasshopper floats into the path, before it's quickly picked off by the shadow of bird, its iridescent feathers shining in the orange light of a broken car before disappearing into the dark. The car is mangled, nearly unrecognizable, wrapped against the unmoving form of a old, worn oak. The wheels still spin and the sheet metal burns. A body lays in ruin inside the car, pointing in several different directions all at once. The eyes of the corpse bulge, and blood streams down its face from torn flesh. The clothes it wears are singed at the edges, but they're otherwise untouched by the fire.
3:33 AM. Pulling himself out of the car, Norman starts his long trek home. The smell of sulfur permeates the air.
With a long, wheezing inhale, Norman finally takes the last steps towards the front door of his home. His large frame shudders with each tired breath, and he runs his hand through the greys of his hair, accented with a few ginger streaks. He tries the handle, only to find it locked in place.
"Oi, someone let me in."
His frustrated pleas are only met with the silence of the neighborhood around him. He knocks again, this time with more urgency.
"Come on, I've been walking for ages, for crying out loud!"
Still, silence. Norman starts to pace around the porch. Then, out of the blue, he smacks his own forehead, and fumbles his hands into his pockets. Why he hadn't thought to check for his keys yet was a mystery to even him. But when he pulls out the contents, he's met with everything except for the object he needs. He finds a box of cigarettes, an accompanying lighter, a wallet, and finally, a police badge. Norman stares at the badge, and flips it over in his hands. It's dented, and the back of the badge is blank, only two worn prongs where a pin would have been remain. Norman slips the badge, his identity, into the dark of his pocket. For a short moment, he forgot what he was even looking for, until his eyes drift back to the shining metal of the door knob. He scoffs when he sees it. Of course he wouldn't have the key, it's probably melted into the frame of the car. After pounding on the door one more time with no response, he gives up. The side of the house is decorated with a rock bed, and two conveniently placed windows right above it. He uses these decorative rocks to shatter the glass, and then carelessly hop through the frame. Norman swivels his head around as he walks into the lounge of the small building. The only sound that accompanies his footsteps is the distant hum of a new-fangled vacuum cleaner.
"Too busy cleaning the carpets to let me in, ay?"
Norman gets no response. The house is bright, with nearly all of the lights flicked on. It's as if the people who inhabit this place hid out of sight in a moments notice. Norman walks past framed pictures of a man in a suit, standing next to a woman in a pluming white dress. The house is scarcely decorated otherwise, the plain white walls feeling nearly oppressive in tandem with the droning hum of the vacuum. Something isn't right. Norman starts to quicken his pace towards the sound of the machine, his walk closer to a hobble. He hastily shuffles through the tight halls of the small home, turning into the master bedroom only to find his wife, Olive. Olive Statler. But this wasn't his wife, his wife was entirely different. She was a strong woman, well built. What lays on the floor in front of him was nothing short of a mummified corpse. Her hair was wispy and thin, her eyes, once so brilliant in the ways they caught the light around them, are now sunken and dull. Her clothes now seem to be three, four times too large for her. Norman stares at the body, studying every wrong aspect. But he doesn't stop to mourn. He just stares, and his mind races. And the moment his mind drifts to who else was in the home, he spins on his foot, and dashes out of the room. He checks every space in the house, every bed, every closet, and he finds nothing. No signs of anyone or anything. Not until he checks the pantry in the kitchen. He approaches the pantry, and reaches his hand out for the handle. Slowly, he wraps his fingers around it, and pulls open the glorified cabinet. Inspecting the contents, he finds something peculiar. Inside are two hollow husks, small and frail, but barely do they fit. They're stuffed to be held in the crushing box of the pantry, their sunken eyes twisted to fit behind their arms. It takes no time at all for the father to recognize who these husks were. They were his two daughters, Rose and Barbara. The bodies of the girls are in a similar, if not identical state to the one of his wife. Their hair, once so wild and free with that childish energy, now falls out of their scalps with ease. The subtle chub of their young faces has thinned out to leave nearly nothing but bones and papery skin. He once again stares at the two bodies, and without any sort of urgency, slowly unfurls them from their hiding place. He lumbers down the thin halls, making sure to carry the children with the delicate strength only a father can. He carries the two girls to the master bedroom, and lies them beside their mother. What could have possibly done something like this? Norman stands over his family, now all neatly lined up, and continues to blankly study each one of the corpses. He needs to know this. He's seen it before. He's sure of it.
The inhabitants of this small village love when the night falls. It's the best time to go out and make mistakes, make memories. Live life to its fullest. Darkness isn't something to fear, it's something to look forward to. This night was the pinnacle of that mindset. The city streets were buzzing with people, many of which were less than sober, many of which having the times of their lives. People laughed and made the most of the short night they had. It was a fleeting moment of love, joy, and time spent with others. Above the light of the town and the alcohol-induced mistakes, was a single Life. It had lost the abilities to make memories. It had lost the ability to drink, to make those mistakes. It feared losing the dark, and now lives only inside of it. The Life drifts above the crowds, unable to interact on its own. It glides over heartbreak, deepening connection, awkward conversations, until it's left those memories - that existence - behind it. The Life has done this countless times. Drifting, yearning, and being able to do nothing about it. The Life continues to float, the sounds of the people of the night slowly fading to nothing. Until it found something different.
3:32 AM. The Life descends.
Squad cars surround the Statler's home, a dozen different officers and forensic scientists buzz around the whole house. They check every nook and cranny of the homestead, dusting every surface in hopes of finding something incriminating. The large cameras that the officers lug around flash the bodies over and over with large plumes of incandescent light. Norman stands in the middle of the room, his long trench coat singed at the ends, and most of his skin now wrapped in bandages. The once pristine white of the wraps are now stained with different yellows and reds. He stares at the officers, so desperately trying to find something new, the one piece they need to crack the whole case. His dazed stare ends the moment one of the officers taps him on the shoulder.
"Detective."
Norman snaps around, his bloodshot eyes settling on the shorter man who stands behind him.
After hours of searching the home, there's nothing that the department could find. They promised to keep looking, but for now, they just needed time to really sift through the facts. They packed their things, the bodies were taken, and Norman was left with nothing but condolences from his officers, and his own thoughts. Norman continues to stand in the middle of the room. The entire time that he's been watching, staring, staying perfectly still, his mind has been doing anything but. He's seen this, the lack of tangible evidence is actually the most damning thing by far. He knows what can do something like this. Only something like him could. He needs to clear his mind, needs to find any signs. He drags his feet towards the front door of his now empty home. He needs to do something about this, especially after seeing it so many times before.
Where does one even start, trying to find a man who leaves no evidence? Of course, Norman knows what did this, but he still doesn't know who. He shambles down the road, passersby whisper and stare at the bandaged man's strange gait. Word spreads fast in such a small town, so many just chalk it up to the mental strain from a car accident and his family's murder in the same night. One woman actually does walk up to him, however. She places her hand on his arm, and looks up at him with fearful, yet sympathetic eyes.
"I heard about your family. I'm so sorry to hear. If- If you need anything from me or the church or-"
Norman just stares down at her, something about the way he stares is entirely different than before. The once warm, lively look seems unbelievably distant, to the point that it seems impossible that he could ever even muster more than that blank gaze. He's lost everything, and despite walking and breathing, that even includes his own being. The woman pulls back her hand as her mouth opens to speak. She doesn't. Instead, her eyes dart away and she looks to the ground.
"Of course, you need time to process."
She pushes past Norman, and quickly walks away without looking back. Norman, in the moment, almost feels a sense of guilt, she was just trying to help. But there's nothing left to help. He had a chance to be helped long ago, and he chose to ignore it. The guilt dissipates quickly, and Norman returns to his walk, heads still turning to look at the broken man as he does.
Days pass, and Norman finds himself on another walk through the town. He's practically relying on luck instead of detective skills. It's disappointing, and frankly embarrassing, but when you have absolutely no leads, and you're your own biggest suspect, there isn't much detective work to do. As he ventures towards the south, the buildings that trace his path start to crumble. The dilapidated monuments that surround him are rusty, slowly falling apart from a lack of care. These buildings strike a chord with Norman. He remembers when they were new, the pinnacle of the village. People would gather in these areas, the city had so much more life. Now, there's nothing but a memory of what once was. Norman wishes that he could go back to those young, carefree days. He doesn't stop to mourn, he just stares, studies, thinks. The only thing that interrupts his thoughts is a sudden sharp tugging on his long coat. He jolts at the surprising tug, and spins to face where it came from. A sickly, dirty man lays on the street, his coat wrapped tightly around him. He's covered in scars, and tears well in his wrinkled eyes.
"Oh thank God, I found you."
"Oi, let go of my coat!"
Norman yanks the fabric free from the homeless mans grip. The man responds with a almost pained plea as he does.
"No! Please- I need to tell you something!"
The homeless man stumbles up from the cold concrete beneath them, and shambles towards Norman, placing his hands on the detectives shoulders.
"You're supposed to be dead. The car accident was meant to get you out of the picture. He's angry, Norman."
Norman shoves the man off of his broad shoulders.
"What are you yammering about?"
"Goddamn it, he wants you to find him!"
"Who's he?"
At the question, the old man's face goes pale. He has to take a moment to catch his breath. It's almost as if the question was like a physical blow to the man. Norman furrows his brow, and places his hands on his hips.
"Come on, out with it."
The Old Man takes a hesitant step forward, and places a card in Norman's hand. He then looks him deep in his eye, their shiny whites, stained pink from emotion, stay unmoving from Norman's. He doesn't speak, but his mouth constantly moves, like he's nearly there. Norman snaps his fingers in front of the old man, his brow still furrowed.
"Get ahold of yourself!"
The Old Man starts to sob silently, his eyes still don't move from Norman, and his face doesn't change at all. He stares at the large, bandaged man, with an expression like stone. But his eyes, they spoke. His eyes glistened in a way that almost seemed as if he were silently pleading for help. His shoulders jump with each sharp inhale and exhale. Without as much as a whimper, tears start to streak his face, staining his cheeks, and he takes a few small steps back. He then turns around, and walks away with a quiet urgency in his footsteps. The gravel scratches beneath his boots, until those sounds fade into the rest of the downtown atmosphere. Norman watches the homeless man, and kisses his teeth as he rounds a corner.
"Bloody brilliant."
The detectives focus switches to the card in his hand, and he slowly brings it up to his face. On it is an address. The handwriting is scratchy, making it clear that it was written with shaky hands. With fear? Worry? Anticipation? Flipping the card to the other side, their was written a short note, one in the same handwriting. The note simply said:
You live a life you cannot possibly deserve.