
01-13-2008, 02:58 PM
I don't usually write short stories so I'd love to hear what you think about it and how it could be improved. :3
Dark Intent
Life is a mere dream, a fleeting shadow on a cloudy day.
The luxuries he bought himself were the only things that comforted him. As long as he kept telling himself that the things he bought justified what he did to get them, the guilt would hopefully never catch up to him. After all, that was why he was one of the best at what he did. He was a top notch prosecutor, condemning criminals to jail, or at least whoever was unfortunate enough to end up as his top suspect. He only had to convince twelve jury members that the man was guilty, that didnât mean he had to believe it himself. It was probably easier that way.
Jack Valentine was currently lounging around in his elegant living room, reading over the papers for another case. It was a simple room, which was composed of a sofa, television, table and lamp. Nonetheless, all of these items were either designer or at the very least very expensive. Neatly lying on his clear glass table was todayâs paper, which he hadnât looked at yet. He knew they would report about his last case, which involved the murders of three women. They werenât brutal per say, but they were far from tasteful. He needed to find the person responsible, and he wasnât about to let his perfect record get tarnished. And so, he had found some poor chum who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and got him convicted on the grounds that he had just gotten out of a mental institution, with the testimonies of a doctor who believed he was still unstable. In reality, the doctor would rather do anything than have word get out that he had been stealing drugs from the hospitalâs supply, which the man had swore that he would report. Nonetheless, it was his only chance to win and he had taken it. Otherwise, his case would have been ripped at its seams.
RING! RING! RING!
He cocked his head towards the phone, swiftly getting up and walking across the dark cherry floor to pick up the phone. âThis is Jack Valentine speaking.â He answered in his usual silky voice, one that had helped him get out of many sticky situations.
âJack, its Robert. Iâm afraid I have some bad newsâŚâ Robert was the current chief of police, whom he had close ties with. He was always there for him whenever he needed a favour. His ice blue eyes glanced at the circular clock hanging above the door, and he noticed that it was around eight. He wondered what this was about, as it couldnât obviously pertain to his current case. The victim was already dead, and he hadnât even started looking for witnesses. However, Robert sounded pretty grim. âWhat is it?â He asked, staying calm. What did he have to worry about?
âWell, it seems weâve found another body. And it looksâŚâ He didnât even have to finish. Jack somehow knew that the body would match the pattern of the other three women, which would not be good news for him. He had supposedly already put the killer behind bars. All three of them had âcommitted suicideâ, but there would always be some circumstance which would rule that out. They were only murders made to look like suicides. âWhat happened?â He continued without hesitation, as if he wasnât worried just yet.
âShe âfellâ from the roof of the building, there was a figure spotted by the people watching, andâŚâ
And? As if a few witnesses werenât bad enough. Heâd have to pull a miracle to stop from having his career crash and burn. If it was found that the killer was still out there and he had sent an innocent man to jail⌠it would be all over for him. Jack didnât dare answer this time, but instead waited to hear the horrible news.
âThere were signs of a struggle and there was a strand of hair found on her clothes, and once itâs analyzed, we should know who it was.â Then there was silence between the both of them, as if there was nothing left to say. âIâm so sorry JackâŚâ
âI am too, Robert.â He said with a tinge of sorrow in his voice, promptly hanging up. He owed Robert for giving him a headâs up, not that he didnât owe him already. His license would have already been revoked if it wasnât for him. But now, what could he do? He was trying his best to stay calm, but that wasnât easy. How could he cover this up? It was one thing to make evidence disappear, or to divert suspicion, but to make a few witnesses go away? He closed his eyes, trying to breath at a steady rate once again. His heart thumped loudly, which made it feel like his whole body was pulsing.
His eyelids slowly fluttered open, and everything seemed normal. He gently exhaled, feeling he had calmed down. He would find a way out of this, he knew he would. He had been in tough situations before. Slowly, his eyes fixated on the light lavender walls⌠They were⌠They were closing in on him. He hadnât noticed it at first because he had been focusing on the headlines of the newspaper, which seemed to mock him. The big bold headlines that praised his victory, but whom would love nothing better than to see him fall. The walls inched closer and closer every moment, as if they were on hourglass that was slowly ticking away. His face was white as a ghost, and his eyes seemed to curiously focus on one single object: a letter opener that was idly lying on the table. The table itself emitted a strange glow, and it seemed as if he could pass his hand right through it, as if it was thin as air. The knife, on the other hand, seemed shinier than any precious gem heâd ever seen, it glistened even though there was only a faint light on. And quite suddenly, he snatched it from the table, and it was as cold as ice but nonetheless it felt that it was his only means of defending himself. The walls seemed like they were about to crush him at any moment. His hand lunged at the wall, puncturing his painting. His original Modigliani painting that had cost what many made in a few years. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own, endlessly slashing the painting. There was a demon possessed within it, which was intent in having him watch the destruction of his most prized possession. He stood there paralyzed, utterly helpless and as pale as death. Soon the painting was completely in ruins and he gave out a pathetic whimper. No, it wasnât possible⌠Not his precious paintingâŚ
He gripped the knife tightly, as if his very life depended on it. He clutched it, even as the tip still lay inside the painting. And then, anger boiled through his blood as he began to slash at the painting once more, leaving it now nearly unrecognisable. He panted, trying to let his mind process these events. However, his mind was filled with only destructive thoughts. He wanted to punish whoever had destroyed his painting. He stood still as a statue for a few moments, his beady eyes slowly dilating. His eyes were blacker than a moonless night, utterly consumed with his maniacal rage. Slowly, he raised the knife to the heavens, as if swearing that the deed would be done. And then with a swift move, he plunged the knife into his heart. He didnât stumble, but instead just looked down at the wound. There was blood pouring out of it like a fierce waterfall, onto the ground. He stumbled backwards, landing on his snow white sofa. The blood flowed onto it, the white now turning into a deep shade of red. He began to laugh, a stifled quiet laugh at first, which quickly turned hollow and vain. He had won! Oh, how he had outsmarted them! They thought they could get the better of him? Well, they were wrong! Nobody, absolutely nobody got the better of Jack Valentine. He chuckled off into the night, enjoying his very last victoryâŚ
Justice had been served.
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