The Man in White
I find myself in the swirling world of the night time. Once again I do not understand how I came to be here.
This is becoming a regular occurrence it seems.
The clock tower in the distance strikes 3. It is oddly displaced amongst the quiet of the world. I look around to try and take stock of the streets which are devoid of life.
People fear the night and rightly so. At a round midnight, even 1 or 2 o'clock in the morning you have to be wary of the street monsters that seem to emerge from the cobblestones, looking for the foolish or the naive. But at 3 o'clock even the monsters sleep and the only company you
have is in the form of your own thoughts, bouncing off the walls of your own head.
I am safe here in this lonely desert of the night. I meander down an alleyway, moving aimlessly and breathing in the city air.
As I walk into the shopping boulevard I spot the man in white. I don't pay him any mind.
I have tendency to get confused between what is real and what isn't. I see things which aren't there. I'm not insane though, because unlike the majority of people I choose to question my delusions rather than simply accept them. I'm certain the man in white is a product of my mind.
Strange though. He's not normally this animated.
I realise to my horror that the man is murdering someone in a violent fashion, beating a person on the head constantly, till their skull caves in. I then begin to realise this is not real- it is a dream. I am remembering this murder.
The man in white is real but I'm certain no one will believe me. That as my thought as consciousness envelopes my senses and I return to reality or rather, what I believe to be reality.
After dressing and shaving I pour myself some alcohol. I need something to drive the images from my mind. As I search for some whiskey my partner walks in.
Let me introduce you to John Walker. A stocky built man in his twenties, exceptionally intelligently and perceptive. He is able to pick up small details that I would overlook. He is a regular Sherlock. Sadly this is also his flaw. His attention to detail overrides his ability to understand the human aspect of a case. He can build quite excellent theories based on a smashed vase, a packet of cigarettes and a broken toilet but he can't always place them within the context of humans, which tends to foul things up.
Still he's great for pointing out those things I would normally miss. He also makes sure I don't forget to take my pills.
I pour him some and he tells me some bad news. There has been another murder. A man named Taylor. Apparently there was quite a struggle. But that's not the worse news.
"I had look over the crime scene and happened to find a bit of fabric that I believe got torn off in the fight." He holds it up. It is white.
It shines as if it may wink out of existence at any moment.
In the silence that follows we both look at each other and stare. John knows about the Man in White. I also know that he doesn't hallucinate. This fabric is real.
He also knows that I have to prove that something that is supposed to be a figment of my imagination is killing people.
Still I've had tougher cases.
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For the Wordmongers' Masque