VI Red World

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Hate-filled screams ring ceaselessly around my head; from one ear to the other. My mind swirling, spinning, and twisting. I cup my hands, trying to hold off the puke. I plug my ears, trying to block those "red" words, but they swallow me up till I choke them out. As much as I try to hear color again, those red words kept on staining my senses. Suffocating me. I flail my hands up, as if drowning, but no one pulls me out. I'm sinking; weighed down by these red words.

Whenever I close my eyes, there is a different terror. Cold, guilty sweat drip down my face. There is a beautiful blue sky followed by a BANG, CRASH, and the distinct sight of flashing red and blue. A street is now splattered with blood and a powerful stench of heroin. That day, I saw a red string growing thicker by the day.

"Need a hand, young one?" A man's voice cuts through. He pats my head as I look wide-eyed at his golden smile. His eyes gaze at me sympathetically.

"You see red too, right?"

A bright light beams down and I rub my eyes, only to find myself in bed drenched in sweat. I lay there staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, contemplating the vivid dream. Why now? It's been 10 years but feels like yesterday. The thought of blood brings my mind to my recent case, the tragically short life of a teenager taken by a vicious killer. A case that may pass off as "random" had it not been for the countless slashes and the number "20" carved onto her forehead. But what does that mean? A kill count or possibly something more significant?

I pick up her case folder and browse through the photographs of the crime scene. The murderer killed her on-site, based on the amount of blood on the grass. Whoever the killer was, engraved the number 20 by a tiny blade, presumably the one that stabbed her. It's not unheard of that killers leave trophies of their victims on scene. But the way Casey Hong died would beg to differ from most murders. There was just too much blood; too much evidence left behind. One thing was safe to say; the murderer had no intention of concealing his crime.

"Almost everything," I mouth, catching the words before they leave my lips. Apart from the footage of Mr. Adam's SUV, there was no DNA or video evidence. He sure did his research; I smirk, returning my focus to the number. My thoughts resonated with 20, the only leading evidence in question, but a certain "ping" pulled me back to reality.

"Get your ass out here. We are leaving in a few." - Andrew Collins.

I look around but there was no sign of my black Levi backpack anywhere. What the heck? Except for my sneakers, which are lined alongside the bed, none of my belongings are in the room.

"Ping."

As if to play a petty game with me, Andrew texts, "Couldn't find your bag, could ya?" followed by, "It's with me."

I yawn while walking out, clutching our case file and fully expecting Andrew to question my out-of-control bedhead. Rather, I found him slaughtering a chair with his feet, whispering cuss words like "fuck," under his breath. My black backpack lies on the floor next him, knocked over with a clear footprint on it. It doesn't take a genius to know who he's angry at, I mutter and roll my eyes at that thought.

Andrew's scowl never goes away when he catches a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision. If looks could kill, I'm past reviving. He clenches his fists and shoves his phone an inch from my face, a tad too close for comfort.

I scan through texts between him and Chief Ford, a sizable lump forms in my throat. Yep, I definitely fucked up.

SMILING MAN POV:

I watched as the last garbage bag plunged into the deep waters below, now I know for sure she won't escape. I pulled out my phone and browsed through her multiple social media accounts. Photos of friends holding Gucci handbags and multiple shirts from Balenciaga. There was the caption, "Forever 17," under her latest post; a cake with the message, "Happy 17th Birthday, Elizabeth."

Indeed, Elizabeth, I chuckle as the last of the suds escape into the air. Officially gone.

I lean over the badly rusted railing, protecting the civilians from falling into the murky waters below; watching as the garbage bag drifts downstream. Or maybe I leaned too much, nearly overthrowing myself towards Elizabeth. The breeze rushes in, a bit too strong, and I lose my grip and fall.

My eyes shut tightly as I imagine the scene that was about to unfold. My untimely de*th. This is not a planned suic*de.

I can see the water getting closer, the water touching my face before I go under and stare back at the bridge where I stood. My entire life was flashing before my eyes.

"Hey man, you may have leaned a bit too much," a voice cuts through my racing imagination.

I am not... dead?

But... How?

"You're not dead, man! I just saved you!" the voice, now a bit more forceful and whiney, echoes into my head.

I open my eyes slightly, taking in the view of the water below, swishing back and forth.

"See?" A yellow-head puffs, his knuckles white from grabbing me. His blue eyes squint from pain as he heaves me over the rails and slams me onto the ground.

He reaches into his pockets, pulling out a piece of paper, and furiously scribbles a name and number.

But something is wrong.

It's like a predatorial instinct.

He isn't "normal."

It's like...

He is one of us...

____________________________________________________________

Sorry for the wait! I sort of took a break while I thought of what to write.

What do you think of this chapter? (totally not being insecure about my chapters here)! If you want to help me edit (I'm not good) pls dm me!

Also, pls don't forget this is just a story (i'd be in so much trouble if you do any of the crazy stuff I mentioned) (ಥ _ ಥ)

Anyways, comment your favorite food!

And if u don't vote, well, good luck sleeping tonight (❁'◡'❁)!


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