"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live. "
-Marcus Aurelius
The dark brown frame on the beige wall catches Dr. Roy's attention immediately. Scrunching his nose he lifts up his falling glasses on his deep, interested eyes.
"Death!" He mutters under his breath, walking close to it. The quotation is handwritten. The writer has a beautiful artistic writing pattern. He wonders who has written this.
Another click and the room has again lit up with bright glow diverting the psychiatrist's mind from the crafty frame. Images of reality are being taken at various angles by the photographers who work for the police.
A policeman walks up to him and taps his stiff shoulder when he turns around. The light brown eyes are scanning the wet, smeared thing which looks like a diary. "Hm, a personal diary," he states and nods looking up at the rather bored servant of the law. He smiles tightly in return and returns to his previous position.
The detective, Ms. D waves at him and walks closer. Then she says, "This diary has been found on the floor near the bodies. The blood has soaked it almost entirely. I need you to read it and give me a story tomorrow. I think this diary will be helpful." They converse about the whole thing and before she tries to bid her goodbye, Dr. Roy asks, "Can I see the dead bodies now?"
"Yes, of course." She replies, nodding in apprehension.
"Thank you. I'll read this later," he directs to the diary in his right hand, "I have to see them first." Then he excuses himself and departs from the detective. He goes straight to the basement where the murder took place.
There is nothing but two dead bodies lying. He walks up to them and sits down on his knees, scrutinizing their faces closely. The faces are badly mutilated with something heavy and wide. There is no instrument or weapon found which could be the murdering device. Only a hidden closet is found widely open; blood drops have started from there and ended where the bodies lie.
****
Dr. Sidhdhart Roy takes out his handkerchief out of his pocket. Then he places the diary on the table beside him and gently started to wipe it with the piece of cloth. Blood engulfed the white fabrics and the handkerchief is red in an instance. It is like a plague spreading and spilling blood.
The detectives called him when he was about to eat his breakfast like every day. He never holds the phone to his ear when he is in the home, so it was put on loudspeaker. The caller declared quickly, "Murder. Two bodies found. I'll text you the address. Come immediately," and hung up. It was Detective Drishti Banerjee, a close friend of him, in his dreams.
The food remained untouched; Dr. Roy drove off.
It is exactly what he thought it would be like: first, he had to wait for an hour or so, and then on the mutual agreement of the police and the detectives, he would be called out for help.
Now he has the heart of this death scene, the diary. After inspecting the bodies, he was unable to conceive what exactly has happened with them. So, to go beyond the mere surface, all he has to do is now, sit down and skim through the heavy pages. Calling out to one of the agents, he informs he is going to start reading it now.
He lifts the hardcover, and expose the bare scribbled inside of the diary. A raw bloody stink burned his nostrils as soon as he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Joining his eyebrows, he starts to read:
YOU ARE READING
My Fate: A Tragic Vengeance (#Wattys2018)
Short Story" Dear Diary, I am going to be killed tomorrow morning ... My death bearer is someone whom I can never intend to kill. And she is the only person whom I cannot either ignore, be it here or in Antarctica..." **** A gory diary is found in an old apart...
