BloodLust
- Reads 52
- Votes 5
- Parts 3
Ongoing14m
Last published Fri, May 31, 2019
When is the last time I hold onto something?
It's something called "love"
Damn, It always starts at stupidity and ends up being clever.
Disgust and hatred rules the heart of the fallen and blood is the result of vengeance.
Where have I gone wrong?
It is an unusually warm night in July but I'm shivering badly as I stand on the substantial gray stone terrace outside my apartment. I'm looking over glorious San Francisco and I have my service revolver pressed against the side of my temple.
I can be as logical as hell. but I am also highly emotional, obviously. That was my strength as an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department.
I lightly brush the barrel of the revolver down my cheek and then up to my temple again. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I am reminded of that murder case again.
This is so hard, so bad, so wrong. It's very unlike me. I keep seeing the John and Melanie Brandi, the first couple who were killed in the Mandarin suite of the Grand Hyatt. I can see that horrifying hotel room, where they died senselessly and needlessly.
Discover the truth about the lies of romance and the romance behind those lies.
That was the beginning.
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The door opens and closes thirty times in five minutes, the table clutters endlessly. What's happening? Why am I being held by two officers in the corner of a counseling clinic? Is this an interrogation ground now? Shadows race past me, like mirages in a desert, faces flicker into view only to vanish the next second. The officers speak, but I can't hear them. My senses are failing me. Something inside me is taking control, and I might faint. If I wake up in a hospital, will this still be a nightmare, or something scripted? The city woke to devastation. The news spread like wildfire-Dr. Nadia, a champion for human rights, had been murdered in this very clinic. Yesterday, she voiced her fear for her life; no one listened. Now, she's gone. The press churned out articles minute by minute, TV channels broadcast live updates, and the internet roared with outrage. Police teams haven't slept. Top agents were deployed. That's how I met Inspectors Carla and Javed-while being held as both the prime suspect and the sole witness to this chaos. Dr. Nadia wasn't just a leader; she was a symbol of hope. She fought tirelessly for the oppressed, for justice, for rights the government ignored. Yet, she seemed to know her time was near. A week ago, she hinted at it but continued her fight. Yesterday, she paid the price-her life. Now, the city mourns her loss, consumed by guilt for ignoring her cries for help. The last time I saw Nadia, she was here, in this clinic. She didn't want to live. She seemed tired, desperate for respite. How does someone so adept at convincing others to hold on end up wanting to let go? Her death feels like a betrayal. She trusted us, and we failed her. I failed her. Now, it's on me to prove this was no accident-a cold-blooded murder. Or was it?
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