Guns & Whistles | Victor Zsasz

CHAPTER | 3 |

❝ Train of Thought ❞

Having settled into routine at the GCPD, Detective Bullock plans to meet with the new artist at a closing crime scene, although questioning his motives. Jovie finds herself face to face with a certain gun for hire while on track to meet the Detective.

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Billowing pillars of placid brick, overlook an even more billowing room. Booming with foot traffic, jamming the entrance through narrow iron gates. Feet get louder as more people come through stairways, rustling and rushing under attack from sudden start and stop rain.

The drips and plips echo into a chaotic noise in the station, and sleek damp trails slug over the floors.

Noises scatter and bounce in against harsh walls. Chilling the air with a chiding voice, people search for train times while an overly static announcer tries to alert the public where to go.

Hung in the air like a thick fog. You could feel the adrenaline pumping through the veins of the crowd, as they pushed and jostled their way through.

Amongst the myriad of people, Jovie navigates the crowds with a delicate gray gaze, scanning the plethora of train facts and figures to try and locate where the closing crime scene was stationed.

Three weeks of work had passed since Ms Galloway's arrival at the GCPD, and Harvy Bullock wanted to show the sketch artist her way around her first on-location crime scene.

Most days, such tension would make her head pound, anxious and nervous. She doesn't know how else to feel.

But Jovie's most recent routine, for once, has left her feeling on top of things. She doesn't want to fall and lose the little stability she's managed to scrape up.

An all too familiar, nerve racking static, spreading without care or caution. To put simply, she hasn't had the time to give a damn otherwise.

Every morning was the same.

Every morning, she walked into the bullpen, and threw herself into work.

This morning, she grabbed some coffee, took an unholy amount of Naproxen to try and take the edge off her falling high, from the night before, then headed across town. For once, the train station was perfect. The only place in the city where her tremors would go truly unnoticed.

Going to work half high isn't her ideal work week, but she hadn't expected to be called in for a shift so early the next day.

Stereotypes about artists are far and few between, well known. Yet, last night with trembling fingers, staring at an unfinished mess of wet paint thrown half hazard on a canvas. She sat, straining her eyes to recognize something.

Through rotting enthusiasm, she forced creation to slip out of her with every new piece. Works became duller - less interesting, but she was the only person who'd been able to see it.

Ready to rot away herself and be swallowed by something?

All the same.

Jovie's drained down to a point where she's struggling to even explain her own thoughts.

Yet, here she was, validating such vivid rumors, that someone such as her was a lost cause.

Holding her knees close to her chest, resting her head. She is trying to find some comfort deep inside. Away from that intrusiveness that had taken over her mind.

So, she moved, who knows how many pills, up to her mouth the night before, and the medicine disappeared without so much as a thought.

No one ever said people were wired to make good choices.