The Kind Die Quietly
1354 Words
As the second point of light shattered, a new image slowly unfolded before Bruce's eyes.
It was the first time he had, for real, seen what single mom Claire Whitmore looked like in reality.
She was no more than twenty-seven years old, not stunning to say the least, but with soft features. There was always a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, and at first glance it was easy for people to remove their defenses and feel good about her - she seemed to be the kind of woman who was naturally kind.
In the scene, Claire, dressed in her pajamas, looks with a slight frown at Logan, her drunken neighbor, who stands staggering in the doorway.
She glances hesitantly at the second floor and eventually chooses to assist him inside. She thoughtfully poured Logan a glass of water and fed him, then put on her coat and seemed ready to go and inform Logan's wife.
But did not notice, in the moment she turned around, Logan's original drunken eyes, quietly turned into a greedy light.
The first image, shattered.
Bruce clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
He vaguely guessed what would happen next.
“Damn ......” he cursed in a low voice, his chest pressed with monstrous anger.
Good people, why did they always have to suffer this kind of bad luck?
He remembered himself, who had also been forced into the dark abyss by life.
A second image surfaced.
Inside the bathroom, the cold tiles reflected the light.
Claire's face was bruised and swollen, the jacket and pajamas she was wearing were all gone, the whole person collapsed on the ground, naked, tears slipping out of the corners of her eyes, her hands knocking on the ground, constantly kowtowing towards the black shadow in the doorway, her lips moving slightly as if she was begging.
The black shadow is Logan, who is topless, leaning lazily against the door frame, his eyes teasing, seemingly indulging in the feeling of domination that comes from trampling people underfoot.
Outside, a vehicle drove by and the lights flickered.
Logan finally nodded impatiently.
Claire wipes away a tear, stares blankly in the direction of the second floor, then bites down on a towel, slumps to the cold floor, and closes her eyes.
The scene ends.
Inside the white space, Bruce was silent for a long time.
Only after a long time did he let out a long sigh.
The truth of the case, he had pieced together.
Unfortunately, the images were too brutal and sickening.
He didn't want to continue thinking about it in detail - otherwise, he was afraid that he would really go crazy.
“Ahhhhhhhh!”
He violently threw his head back and roared, letting out all his suppression in one burst.
“f**k you! Old me is mentally ill don't you know! And still using these things to disgust me!” He roared, roaring towards the void, “Get me the hell outta here!!!”
The white space collapsed with him.
Just before his body dissipated, an extremely subtle light quietly merged into his spiritual body.
The alarm clock sounded shrilly.
Bruce sat up violently from his bed, covered in cold sweat.
He looked around until he recognized the familiar room and breathed a slow sigh of relief.
It wasn't a dream.
Everything about the white space lingered in his mind - the points of light, the images, the pain ...... all horribly clear.
“Those two points of light, in the end is not ......” He frowned and touched his temples, his consciousness finally clear:
They, too, should be part of the feed.
Only this time, the feed was not physical, but spiritual.
“But it seems like ...... it's not that obvious?”
Bruce shook his head, not bothering to look deeper. After experiencing it a few more times in the future, he would naturally be able to distinguish it.
At this moment, it was as if he had lifted a thousand pounds of burden.
The depression that pressed on his heart was swept away, and he felt more alive -- like a truly living person.
It was after nine o'clock.
After washing and changing, Bruce kicked open the still-unfixed door and raced downstairs in high spirits.
Early morning congestion in Los Angeles as usual.
In order to accommodate the commuter rush, the Bureau of Forensic Medicine has an ad hoc flexible commute system.
Bruce always chose to go to work at 10:00 and get off at 18:00 due to his health, and tried to miss the rush of visits to his foster parents on weekdays.
Half an hour later.
He swiped his card, greeted his colleagues with a smile, brought a cup of coffee and sat at his workstation, flipping through the newspaper.
At a quarter to ten, the supervisor called a meeting for routine arrangements.
Bruce mingled in the last row of the crowd, skillfully touching up the fish.
It is important to mention here that in the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner's Office, of the five departments, the Medical Examiner's Office is the only one that is the true centerpiece.
Bruce is an ordinary skilled laborer under the Forensic Science Division.
The real front-line work is basically this group of unassuming, thinning hair, but all the top forensic scientists.
Half an hour after the meeting, Bruce changed into a full set of autopsy clothes, ready to start a new day's work.
He wheeled the two female corpses that had been brought in last night and walked into the designated autopsy room.
Ten minutes later, a yawning bald white man arrived.
“Yo, you're the one taking my shift today? Great!” He smiled and rubbed his hands together, “That used car you introduced last time was pretty good, but it's a shame I got tired of driving it. Any more new stuff?”
Bruce was helpless, “Work first.”
Henry, the bald forensic scientist, shrugged, “Fine, but I'm sure you won't let me down.”
Then he narrowed his eyes and said, “By the way, the Bureau is forming a new department, and the pay is generous.Bruce, you'll be the lead surgeon today, and I'll watch from the sidelines.”
Bruce glanced at him and didn't refuse.
Two hours later.
Claire Whitmore's body was cut open in the standard “Y” technique.
Bruce reported in a low voice, “27 years old, white female. Lacerations to the lower body, no semen residue. Teeth are broken in several places, presumably from biting into some kind of fabric - a towel, initially. Cause of death is blunt force comminuted facial fractures and fatal asphyxiation.”
Henry looked at him in surprise, “Man, your analysis is almost flawless. Seriously, you could very well be picked for the new department.”
Bruce smiled bashfully.
He was just cheating.
“What do you know?”
Henry answered briskly, “Before the end of September, the City Z will come in and pick someone to form a crime lab team modeled after CSI in New York. You have a chance.”
Afternoon.
Rooftop.
A cigarette burns slowly.
Bruce looks up at the skyscraper, his thoughts churning.
Everything from last night, corroborated with this morning's autopsy, the truth was calling out.
Logan, that asshole ......
“Claire Whitmore to her death, even to the point where she'd rather gnash her teeth than utter a sound to protect her child ......”
Bruce took a deep drag on his cigarette, the ashes drifting away as he let the burning cigarette burn his fingertips.
“This world, it's f*****g ugly.”
Suddenly, he missed the moment when the screwdriver pierced through flesh and blood again
That kind of, pleasure from the depths of his soul.
*****
Author’s Note:
Thank you so much for reading and being part of this journey!
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- Writer
