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RachelThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Christopher Bush | |
| Thursday, 26 June 2008 | |
Sleep. I just need sleep.
So goddamn tired. Tonight was the first time I saw my bed before 3am in almost a month. But no sooner do I get my head on the pillow. The phone.
You have to get down here. There's something you should see.
Goddamn. I lay in my bed for a moment, lying to myself. Pretending the phone had never rung. After a moment I convince myself that I didn't really need the sleep, and I climb out of bed. As I slip on my trousers I consider just ignoring my orders and getting back in to bed. It seems that there's always something I should see. Why me? Like I don't have enough going on.
I button my shirt and head out the door.
My eyes are closing as I try to stay focused on the road. I pop the last of the caffeine pills I've been taking to keep me alert on the job.
Yeah right. Like anything could help with that.
The last thing I need is to be the result of a pile up.
Given my luck, it'd be me lumbered with all the paperwork.
**** it. They'll have to wait just a few minutes more.
I pull over at the first 24hour diner I lay my weary eyes on and grab myself a coffee to go.
It's either that or vodka.
After spilling boiling hot coffee on my legs an infuriating amount of times, I reach my destination.
Of all the goddamn places in the ******* world. This is the last place I wanted to see tonight. Filled with caffeine pills, a coffee in my right hand, cigarette in my left, not in particularly high spirits, I'm confronted with the monotonous blinking of a half dead neon sign that subtly implies that I am standing at the entrance to the one and only Palm Field motel. If ever you needed your next fix or a quickie hand-job for a ten and thank you, this was the rock to look under.
The Palm Field.
This god forsaken place has haunted me ever since I started this piece of **** job way back in the day.
And it just will not leave me alone.
I look around and automatically see where I'm heading. The blue lights and police tape give it away. I walk to the door and show my badge. I am greeted by a stern look from both officers guarding the scene. I ask if there's a problem. They tell me I should really see for myself. I enter, but soon want to leave.
2 corpses. Male and female. Shame. Damn shame. A man hunched against a wall sobbing, restrained by police cuffs.
I ask someone, anyone for an update.
What in the **** has happened here?
Is that who I think it...
Christ.
Clay Methers, 24 lays on the soiled bed of the motel room. His arms visibly broken, snapped bone protrudes the skin of his forearm, making a break for freedom. His abdomen, beaten so thoroughly the stomach acids leak onto the bed adding to the array of bodily fluids already collected on the sheets. His face pummelled. The offending metal rod still interrogating his gray matter.
Never stood a chance. Never deserved one.
Rachel Werner, 25 lays in the corner of the room naked, her clothes, torn rags strewn across the room in an all too familiar fashion for the Palm Field. Blood is still pumping from the open wound on her head. Her breasts, beaten and bleeding. She is hunched pathetically, legs draped open. Bruises engulf the thighs.
Raped. Posthumously. Posthumously? Christ.
The dead can't fight back.
The suspect, Richard Stern, Sits sobbing, looking almost as pathetic as the woman laid naked and used in the corner, except for one thing. I pity her. I kneel down and stare him straight in the face, the way you would if someone looked at your wife the wrong way, fight back the urge to spit at him, and coolly ask him what happened.
Boy meets girl. Girl fucks boy. Girl meets boys best friend. Best friend fucks boy's girl. Boy finds out that girl is ******* boy's best friend. Boy finds girl and best friend *******. Loses it. Boy kills girl and best friend. Boy fucks girl. For old times sake.
I tell him he can fill in the gaps at the station, and I give the order to remove this sick **** from my line of vision.
They take him. Still sobbing like a *****.
I should be in bed now.
I stand alone. Just me and the bodies, except for the two outside guarding the area. I sit down by the one I've just been told is called Clay and take stock.
Deep breaths. In. Out.
I force myself to take another look at the girl. I stare deep and long.
Y'know, take away the bruises and the open head wound, and it's clear to see why she was so popular. Tight little ass. Always had. I want nothing more than to go home, but it's my job to wait for the coroner's.
Again...
Child bearing hips. Loved those.
Coffee's cold.
I go to the dank little wash-room and fix myself a glass of water. I sit myself back down to continue the waiting game. I wonder just how many AIDS ridden prostitutes get in these sheets before they get changed. I wonder to myself when hypodermic removal day is.
Pert Breasts. Minus the bruises.
I feel a migraine coming on. Stress probably. I've been so pushed lately what with work, lack of sleep and my separation. I can barely catch a minute.
Nipples like bullets. Still standing to attention. Years on.
I suppose I should just be grateful of the fact that I'm alone now. No phone calls. No wife bitching about child support. No blood sucking lawyers wanting to bend me over and **** me out whatever savings I have left. No. Just me.
Peachy little...
The dead can't fight back.
I stand up to face the girl. All the time trying not to think bad thoughts.
Easier than it sounds.
I look up. And down. It wouldn't be the same. You used to put so much effort in. That is until you decided to direct your efforts elsewhere.
Rachel. Used *****, in death as in life.
I kneel down in front of her. You always liked it rough. Well it don't get rougher than this.
The door.
It's The coroner. I tell them to do their thing.
Sorry sweetie.
I take another look at the two bodies. I glance at the male, I stare at her. ****.
I knew you were ******* around, but with two of them. I'll pick up the kids from their grandmother's in the morning. I assume that's where they are Rachel. Right?
I leave.
Goddamn. Tight little ass. I'm gonna miss you.
I'm going back to bed. Copyright 2008 Christopher Bush |
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| Last Updated ( Monday, 30 June 2008 ) |
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