Detective Monologue

So you want to know what I do. Well I’ll tell you a story. It happened the other week. It’s a short story, but still as depressing as some of the other stuff I’ve seen in my career. You might want to refresh your drink.

It was dark. It was cold too. A whole night outside would have killed a man. The snow created a pretty contrast to the harshness of the cold, a nice effect that would almost make us not dread winter. But we still do.

A gunshot sounded off far away, showing me that even in the harshest of conditions, people still need to work. Now, you can either be a criminal, or you can be anything else. There’s only a small fine line between the two you know. So I stay as close to it as possible. Anyway, the gunshot interrupted the quiet night where the only sound was the whispering wind, slowly intruding into any gap in my clothing, looking to chill the warmth. I was looking for someone. I’d been paid. I should’ve said no because of this damn cold but a guy has to eat. I didn’t know what this person looked like. I just knew her name. My client wanted me to deliver a message to her. My client said to get to her by any means possible. I didn’t ask any further questions. I’ve been charged to deliver a message. I check my gun is still there; bumping against my ribs. I didn’t even think my fingers could have managed to keep it level, let alone pull the trigger, such was the cold. It just provides me with a feeling of security.

This girl was said to be a prostitute. I’m not one to judge. People have to make a living in this piece of shit town. People have to survive. I’m lucky I landed a job as an investigator. The missing people, the murders, the kidnappings, the rape, the drugs; all my fields of work. In all the many ways I hate this city, I’m also grateful I’ve always got work. Well, almost grateful. I can’t say I hope for a paedophile to take a kid so I can justify putting a bullet in his head. We do what we must and move on. You know what I’m talking about. Hell your kind isn’t much better. You make money from despair and crime. But, like I said, I don’t judge.

Long story short, I reached the spot where the prostitutes usually were, waiting to offer their services to theatre goers and drunks. I asked around about the girl. “She’s in that alley there boss,” one of them said to me. “I’ll show you if you want?” I declined the offer and had a look for her.

I walked into the alley and saw her lying there, all swollen and beaten and pregnant and dead. It was a sad sight. She had two knife-holes in her stomach – two holes that had been put through a small bump. Her hair was wet with blood and melted snow and it glistened woefully in the suffocated streetlight. I looked on her for a moment, long enough to notice that she looked to be roughly fifteen or sixteen. I lit a cigarette and thanked some higher power for the small warmth it offered me. I thought about going back to inform my client of the news. But I did what I’d been paid to do; I got the job done. I told April that her mother missed her.


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