Fascinating Villains

{52} - Dramatically Naked

I lock the door to my apartment, lifting my sports bag and coat off my shoulders.

I gained some insight about Cheryl tonight, without actually learning anything concrete or factual. That is often the case with her, though.

Admittedly, I had made up a plausible narrative to explain my friend's lifestyle. I believed she began working as a stripper, then moved up the ladder thanks to The Bull's interest in her. I am glad that my point of view has been challenged, but only more questions are arising because of the discoveries and observations I have made. We rarely sit down and discuss our past, especially since it was established early on that the vigilante can read me like an open book. Our mental bond makes her access to my memories even more effective. I intend to get to her level of telepathic strength and reciprocate this, one day. Meanwhile, I must settle for ignorance.

I turn on the central lights of my living space, and my eyes are attracted to the plastic wrapping around Colin's rose. I anxiously scuffle to the countertop, swearing in Spanish as I contemplate my boyfriend's gift. The blue rose has died, its petals are slightly rotten and its stem is dark and visibly limp.

I grunt, staring up at the ceiling. Already?

That is unfortunate, but I should have known better... I am sure the dye in that flower would kill a small ant colony and I thought the plastic could shield the poor severed plant from the bad air quality, but alas. No sun, no carbon dioxide and artificially colored arteries... Darn it. Even watering it will not bring it back to life, now.

It isn't like I asked for a gift, but I feel terrible, the blue rose was beautiful and heartfelt.

Sighing, I toss the transparent packaging and the rose's corpse in the garbage can.

~

Scott and I are dispatched together, he is driving us in our assigned ambulance to the scene, while he tries not to create too much distance between us and the police car that follows. Its occupants appear overly motivated to investigate the violent crime's features before we tend to the victims, to the point of repeatedly attempting to get ahead of our vehicle on the road. Unluckily for them, the streets' poor and icy conditions have prevented them consistently from achieving this.

"Scott, I think we lost the cops," I comment, nervously amused.

"Argh! When'd that happen? Now, those try-hards are gonna call us again..!"

"Over by the garage, when we turned the corner, a truck pulled out and cut them off. Anyway, we'll be there in a minute, it's no use calling..."

My sensible opinion is interrupted by the frantic beeping of the ambulance's radio. Seriously?

The officers' voices fill up our cockpit once more, yapping about their necessity to inspect the area before we communicate with our future patients. My colleague motions at me to activate our microphone.

He speaks with forcible manners. "Negative. This is 74-1. Please stop, we'll discuss at the scene. Out."

The redhead may have the occasional outburst of untethered rage, but his stereotypical fiery personality shines brighter through his explosive enthusiasm than in anger. One of the characteristics I appreciate the most about him is that his fire does not burn to destroy, he kindles it with a heavy dose of optimism. Not unlike Colin, he exudes warmth and safety, even if he has witnessed unspeakable human pain and is no stranger to bloodbaths.

The straightforward character of the crime does not make it any less disturbing. Any detachment I feel has been relentlessly constructed during my years of training and practice. There are two victims in the alley, but only one that we can still help. This individual is the one our pestering law enforcement partners have declared as a "witness". However, the main difference between the two victims is that one of them has not perished from the harrowing sexual abuse and the physical wounds surrounding it, unlike her friend. As for the main similarity, it resides in a clumsily spray-painted symbol on their battered faces: the crossed out sign for "female". Dark paint tainting their blood, dripping inside their cuts and abrasions. An image that ignites undescribable distress in my mind and stomach.