Harrison Bell

A

(1st POV)

I paced, exhausted, through the cramp, miniature home of mine, stretching throughout my journey as fatigue racked into my body.

It wasn't long until I ended up in my living room.

It was dimly lit by the small trickling flame, famished from kindle and logs like a crow. Though the light was weak, it didn't stop the illumination of many objects.

My creaking wooden chair was stilled to a silence, practically stuck in time since the last use, while a hefty stack of letters, mailed by relatives or employers, was dropped sloppy onto the stand which neighboured next to the chair.

Many pictures tip-toed on the overhang of the brick fireplace, displaying many pictures of families, friends and descendants. Their frames were dusty, yet exquisitely carved into swirling vine patterns, with a couple of birds and flowers put sparingly in-between.

The wallpaper complimented the old-like aesthetic as the crimson-tinted walls with gold markings hugged the room's enclosed spaces.

It looked exactly the way I left it, except the abnormal flame that his wife had been feeding...

I shrugged, pulling out a pen from my pants pockets and an 'ancient' notepad from my younger days. I've been denying time to this, as I was supposed to put this as the first priority yet miscommunication throughout my second career had stomped it into the lowest priority.

So once I got it off my chest, I was rushing with adrenaline and energy though I was bound to collapse in a matter of seconds.

Quickly, I rushed towards the chair, legs buckling under me when I got to it. I did surprise myself as I felt it rock, forgetting it happened to be one of those chairs. Didn't stop me though.

Hunching forward to halt it, I supported my upper body with my elbows dug into my knees, hands tenderly flicking through the first pages of blubbering nonsense and doodles my son had stashed onto it. He would be 26 by now...

I wanted to review a couple of cases I had done when I was a mischievous detective, or so my colleagues had described me, to re-think on my past behaviour.

Many I cringed at, as my writing was a terrifying breed of stylistic calligraphy and bold which a kid could've done better at. 

I can see what my wife meant now at "It seemed like you put it through a woodchipper!".

Straightening my frown into a line, I continued down the paper book, stopping to look at the memories.

Hey! It's me and Gary! I thought, pulling out a small photo that was pinned onto a certain page.

We were posing for the camera with a familiar man. I was so focused on the joyfulness that it struck me a cord when I identified him...

Y'know, as a retired detective... I can now pinpoint my curiosity down onto one of the many cases with clients I've had.

It wasn't unnatural for unique cases to be put on my workload, though I had voiced my frustration of being the Sherlock Holmes of the modern world, but the failure of such cases was always a brain twister to me.

Never in my career had I failed until the dawning day, July 8th, with Harrison 'Harry' Bell...

And it really stuns me when I even remember his face so clearly, from the fringe to the smile?

D-did he even really smile? I don't even know myself.

Hell, I don't even know if his name is truly Harrison Bell. 

All I know is, I know what I am going to be doing now.

I am finally going to solve that god damn case, even if it kills me.

-----

I wrote this at night. Now watch as I see all the errors in the morning and question why I wrote this.