Photopathy

Prologue- A Picture of Sam

The sun was escaping over the horizon as the car slowly crept down the pot-holed road. I was in the back seat crushed between two men with guns on their hips. The grips were digging into my sides so I attempted to block my ribs with my arms, but the men were too bulky, too solid formed for me to move so much as an inch. “Here?” Matthew asked from the driver’s seat.”Is this the place you saw?” I nodded, but he couldn’t see it, so he turned his head as I answered with an even smaller nod. There was an overhanging bridge devoid of traffic, a strange sight until lately.  Below it was small knee-deep river. Tarpaulins were set up and the homeless looked on at us warily from their shelters. We drove past, farther into the empty part of the city. It was just ahead, A feeling washed over me. Cold dread. A sense of smothering darkness. Claustrophobia so bad I began to sweat. I suddenly wanted out of the car, but I said nothing and we kept going. We were so close, but I feared too late. Too late by minutes, if not seconds. “Almost there.” I said, my voice wavering. I looked down at the picture held in my hand. A young girl, maybe sixteen. A school picture, she was smiling. Healthy. Breathing. As I looked  I began to choke. The air trapped in my lungs, begging to escape. I closed my eyes and it became real. The suffocation, the feel of thick plastic. I choked and coughed and the car stopped dead. I pushed Ryan on my right with all of my force. He opened the door and jumped out. I followed, falling to my knees on the wet pavement. My hands on tiny, pressing rocks. I drew a strained breath. “Here,” Was all I could say. I threw the picture back into the car as Matt stepped out of the driver’s seat, gun in hand. “Where is she?” I pulled in a breath of fresh air finally and pointed. A small grotto-like place was set into an old cement pillar and a giant boulder. She was in there. I hoped she was still alive. I had never met her, but her name was Samantha. The pretty young girl in the picture. The closest I had ever gotten to her in the real sense was the picture, although I had been there with her for unspeakable torments. Things that made tears spring to my eyes on thought. In the darkness we had shared visions...and pain. So so much pain. Terrible acts that I cursed God for, because he had turned away. The four men were out of the vehicle, cautious. I managed to pull myself up on the open door and sit on the edge of the car seat. They didn’t need me for this, and I could not move my shaking legs enough to stand. The horizon was turning a deep red, the color of blood. Wispy clouds moved across the sky as the detectives approached the grotto. My head was throbbing in pain. I took out my bottle and popped one of my painkillers, hoping it would take soon. I had nowhere to snort it, not with them around, but it was my preferred way of taking my morphine. Originally it had been for my leg, hit by a car and broken in eight places. It still hurt, but the picture hurt more. It hurt deep every time. I could imagine myself going mad in the coming years. It was only a matter of time. I saw the men disappear into the darkness and I put my hands on my head. I waited, knowing the answer before they returned. Too many minutes went by until they returned with grim faces. Guns holstered. Matt was on the phone, talking in low tones of regret. Ryan’s eyes met mine and I knew. Sam was dead not one hundred yards away. Strangled and stuffed into a body bag. I began to cry, the tears burned. This was my last time, I told myself. It was going to kill me if I kept on like this. I couldn’t stomach the feelings as I dry-heaved, then screamed. It was my eighteenth birthday.

Chapter One

12 Years Later

The knocking on the door had an urgent force behind it. It surely wasn't my sister's weekly stop with groceries and other things for her recluse brother, no--this was a cop. I whipped off the sheets, I had been lying awake for two hours already, staring at the bare ceiling and walls adorned with no pictures, mirrors; nothing. Quickly, I pulled on a pair of dirty jeans from the floor. My image never mattered much to me. I hardly went out, I didn't want people to like me. I didn't want relationships. I knew who I was, and I was the sort to be alone. I wore the shirt I had slept in, and had been wearing for the past two days. It would do just fine for a friendly visit with the police, and whatever they needed me for this time.
I descended the twelve stairs separating the two floors of my house in seconds, almost bounding down them like a child at play-time.I hit the floor running and was at the door in moments, a little winded, I opened the door, and was greeted by Cal Holloway, the Chief of police. A respected, dignified man in his early fifties. He looked younger, though. He had a boyish air about him, his eyes almost sparkled with a youthful mischief hidden somewhere, an aspect I noted was serenely absent from him now. His hair was salt-and-peppered, and his hands rested on his belt, the casual police waiting posture. His face was a bushy beard, and the lips hidden in there were turned down in a frown.
"Hey, Cal. Chief." I said, hand brushing my hair down. It wasn't working. It was sticking up everywhere. I needed a shower.
"Hey, Danny. How's things?" The frown turned neutral.

"I'm living. Pretty low, like always. Haven't been to the bar in six months." That had been a big step for me. Not going to the bar, not drinking. The Photopathy had taken so much from normal life I tended to live life in a bottle for years. Now I was four months sober, and bored as hell.

"Yeah, I know. I never see you."

"That's the idea. Come on in." Cal tipped his hat and took it off as he entered from the scorching heat outside. The sun was on full blast, and the mosquitos were ravenous being so close to the marshes. 

"Glass of water or O.J. Anything?" I asked. He waved the question away.

"I'm fine. There's a matter, though. It's just come up and we're going to have to talk. Officially, down at the station." I stopped and gave him a quizzical look.

"Why? What's going on?" Cal seemed unsure of himself, as if he were debating whether or not to tell me details in his mind. He seemed to come to an agreement with himself.

"There's been a murder."

"You know I don't do the photopathic stuff for the law any more, Cal. I just can't handle--"

"Nothing to do with that." He said grimly, cutting me off. "There's a note at the scene of the crime. Left by the killer."

"What about it?" I felt my hackles rise.

"Danny...it's addressed to you."

To Be Continued..

x

Would you Like Make Videos, Get Paid?

I am looking to begin a new online video series. What Can it be about? Something good with a twist. It might be a simple fun venture that can take off into a pay-check. Being a youtube channel these days is the new hot-spot for finding your voice, doing what you love to do, and making a lot of money. Hit me up! This is the new job anyone can do and make a lot of money with. With the right idea and partners.

Using Inspiration When You Are Not Inspired

If you wait for inspiration to write, then you fail. This is such as my predicament has been Inspiration strikes, and I ride along as long as I can before I fall into not writing again. The hardest thing about writing is repetition, to keep practicing and writing whatever you can. Doing writing exercises. Keeping yourself spry. Lately, I have been trying to get myself out of the whole 'wait for inspiration to strike ideal' and into the 'write as you go, and do it even when you don't want to' approach, which is harder, but only at first.
If you have that 'drive' to write a story and need it to get told, or just have the bare bones of a story you really like, then you need to work on it ALL THE TIME. This isn't some busy-work you do. You have to make yourself write those damn chapters, even when you don't feel like writing, which can be the hardest part about writing. The ability to pick up that ink and keep writing your story, even at those times you feel uninspired.
If you only wait for inspiration you will either be really good for a moment or two, or you won't have anything at all that is finished to show for it.
Inspiration should be the first thing you find about something you are going to write, and each sequential time you write in that story, you have to remember the sensation you had when you had started, that feeling of inspiration, draw it not only from the inspiration itself, but from the feelings you had when you felt the inspiration. Remember what that felt like when you first came up with the idea. Chances are, the greatness of your idea or plot or character will get dull to your senses after a time, dealing with it all the time, but if you can only re-capture, even for a second, the sheer exhilaration you felt at the original time of the inspiration, maybe that can be a light for the future for you.