Detective Keith Mulch stands in front of his bathroom mirror. He turns on a tap, scoops up the flow of water and brings it to his face. Slightly crouched over the sink he pauses, taking a moment to reflect while watching beads of water roll down his face. This is a moment of confusion and remembrance because he realizes that he turned the tap on with his right hand. What Colin once said to him now stands out in his mind.
'Funny that, I always thought you were left-handed.'
Keith Mulch, detective or otherwise, is left-handed and always has been. For some time now he has been favouring his right hand, more out of instinct than anything else and this fact is only hitting him at this particular moment in time.
Unfortunately, asking Colin as to whether he knows or could know of any reason as to why this may be so, or even potentially provide some sort of insight, is something Mulch cannot do. Six months have passed since Colin was buried in the town cemetery. Colin had noticed something back when Mulch had him in an interrogation room. How Mulch wishes that he didn't have to do what he did. He was justified in his actions, still, it gives him nightmares every once in a while, ... or a little more often than he is willing to admit.
Finding that he favours his right hand now when he had been left-handed all his life is no big deal, right? As strange as this may be, it is no big deal, is it? Maybe Mulch actually has been somewhat ambidextrous all his life and is only realizing such a thing now.
If that were true, if Keith Mulch had always been ambidextrous, then surely, he would have discovered such a thing long before now. Sure, switching the hand with which he signs his name is not something that will change his life. Then again, maybe it is. This might be the beginning of something else.
There is something else strange happening as he still stares into that bathroom mirror. For a split second, and more than once, he is sure that the reflection staring back is not his own. For those split seconds, the reflection staring back belongs to Colin. With the split seconds being so short, Mulch soon shakes his head and speaks out loud.
'Damn, I am in need of a holiday.'
***
On the other side of the hill ... it is dark, so dark that it would be most difficult for one to see his or her own hand if one were to hold it out right in front or their very own face. Over the high hill so far away ... from the perspective of darkness ... there is light slowing beginning to rise, a bright white light, a light so strong and pure that no darkness could possibly ever dull its glow. Darkness, however, being what it is, wants to consume that light, the darkness wants to destroy that light, eat every single ounce of it up until there is no more of it left.
The march begins in earnest up along that dark side of the hill, quickly at first, slowing only when it begins to get close to that light. Once the light has been reached, the darkness will continue to march. It is a crunching march, a march that grows and spreads, multiplying with every step. It will take that light and make it dark then continue forward until there indeed is no light left anywhere at all. The marching line is as wide as it is strong and is next to impenetrable, one world is looking to penetrate and conquer another.
This cannot be allowed to happen. It must be stopped at all costs. The light does have an advantage; it has someone within it who can counteract the darkness. He may be the difference maker. If light is to prevail then the difference maker will need help, getting through to that help may not be such an easy thing.
***
On a dark evening, a particularly dark evening, a man in his mid-thirties wakes outdoors not knowing where he is or how it is that he came to be where it is he so happens to be. With great difficulty, it takes this man a moment or two to stand. He pats himself down attempting to assess his own physical condition.
