CuiousPages - fiction and nonfiction
CuriousPages - fiction and nonfiction
Throughout surgery on Monday, he recalled that new sense of legitimacy. He wished his patients away, wished his day to be over, and then, at the end, hurried, on foot, back towards the object of his illicit desire. And as he passed familiar faces in the street, he wondered if these were some of the people he was slowly poisoning, or were they perhaps relatives of his victims. All around him, the people seemed like ghosts in waiting, beclouded with the shadow of death, whose hand he had ushered their way.  And as he saw them, his guilt and turmoil resurfaced; those poor souls had appeared before him, wanting relief from pain or anguish and he betrayed their trust. He could have stopped sooner, when he began to suspect he was doing something wrong, but he was too weak to stop; he just continued doing the same, and now there was nothing left for him, no other option. He increased his pace towards the bridge.
As he walked onto the bridge on Monday evening, he stood by the wall surrounding the tower and watched the gorge below for a moment, as if transfixed, when he heard a voice from beside him:
“It’s a long way down.”
He looked up and saw a woman. She was vaguely familiar and seemed concerned, worried, as though she were sitting before him in his surgery, about to unburden herself.
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
“You look like a kind person,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Can I tell you something?”
To him, her face seemed to be wearing a particular shade of guilt and worry which reminded him of that look that was brought into his surgery more and more frequently over recent months by the steady stream of his victims who returned to confess they had stopped their “medication” and now felt so much better. They would sit there and apologize for deceiving him; they felt so guilty about it, him being such a kind doctor; and they could not live with themselves until they came clean; yes, looking at the guilt and worry in her face, he felt like waving her away and saying he already knew; there was no need to say anything.
Primrose Jones was the chairperson of The Perception Residents’ Committee. She sat in her flat at 9B Festering Resentment Passage, waiting for Francis Meeke (the committee’s secretary) and Thomas Smithe to pick her up on their way to the MP’s house.
The most noticeable feature of Primrose’s home was her coffee table, which was piled high with back issues of her favourite magazine: The Vindictive Person’s Weekly Magazine of Hints and Tips on How Best to Get Your Own Back on Absolutely Anybody.
She sat on her sofa before the coffee table, holding the committee’s completed petition. She vindictively scrutinized its thickness and contemplated the joyous prospect of getting the constabulary back for their incompetence.
She recalled her one and only encounter with a police officer. He stopped her car, leant in her window and said, “Never mind the driving licence, madam, just lift your skirt for a moment while I try my truncheon out… Oh yes, no problem there; it’s a perfect fit. Right, on you go, madam!” Then he stood back and waved her on.
She thought this procedure odd at the time, specially that curious smirk he wore as he waved her on, but after a moment’s consideration she simply shrugged the incident off (—They are professionals, after all; they must know what they’re doing). But this experience, combined with all the other stories she heard while compiling the petition over the past two weeks—stories of the police rolling up their trouser legs and dancing in village duck ponds while singing. “Where, oh where have all the criminals gone,” and stories of them reversing road signs at crossroads and laughing at the frustration and worry scurrying about the faces of the misdirected motorists, chasing this way and that but unable to find their destination—all this left Primrose Jones in considerable doubt about their ability to apprehend the mass murderer. And on top of all this, when she read that day’s news, her malice towards the police become so great she found herself spraying the newspaper with (what, to the casual observer, might have looked like) an involuntary squirt of venom.
This latest news was leaked to The Perception Daily Chronicle that morning by a uniformed constable, one P.C. William Grass, who was working in Bright Spark House, the constabulary’s headquarters. He took a telephone message from an anonymous witness who gave a description of the murderer, and he placed the message in the in‑tray of a certain Detective Sergeant Humbug (whom we shall have the pleasure of being fully informed about later).

 

Fiction and nonfiction by Fletcher Kovich and also classic writers.

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