Be quiet.

I wish that it didn't have to be like this.
Quiet mind, stop talking, paging my brain like they're two different things.
I feel fragmented and cold, my thoughts drift to opposite extremes and my heart whines about things I can't control.
Why can't we have a do over?
New game plus please let me start again with knowledge intact.
Lessons learned far too late, eyes opened years after their usefulness is passed.
Everything is not going to be ok and everyone pretends like it can be.

Let me be ignorant to it, let me think it'll all be fine.
Shut up.
Stop talking.
Be quiet.

The little things.

Try to hold onto the little things, all the people say.
Hold onto them and all of the sleights and downsides will melt into nothing.
So we hold on and wait, cling to the small morsels of happiness we manage to accrue. The slings chip away at our small bastion dangling on a string and occasionally snip the string itself, sending us plummeting into the miasma of filth below.
Minds click and pop with questions always unanswered, a query often asked but never explained.
How could this be? How could this be all that it is? My little castle on a string grows with pride and the small joys, turrets reaching towards the eternally blue sky, so beautiful yet so far out of our grasp.
The castle gets too big and I manage to break the string myself, falling from the weight of too much hope.

Once a man build a castle in a swamp, it fell down so he build it again only to have it fall a second time. In defiance he built a third which sank so he build a fourth and that one stayed up.
Lucky man.
Probably very poor now though.

Time.

Time is ticking.
As quickly as we find some time to ourselves, to do as we please, it ends.
I wish it could be night until the end times. Night is quiet and safe.
I'm not tired, I don't want to go to bed yet.

Let me free.

Hearts and minds, they burn to win
Electricity crackles on the tips of his ears and down to my toes
Blood pumps with passion and fury, fuelling the rockets of flame which propell it toward its desires
No logic guides its step, its goal is all that matters, blinding white pure happiness it what it seeks and the consequences are irrelivant.
The mind approaches with caution, but blasts back with power as well, the air is full of tension which the brain cuts through with a jolt of lightning
Synapses click and pop, giving power to the ever growing storm of indignation, spurring the grey twist of flesh to greater levels of propulsion

A man stands in the middle, blue chain wrapped around one hand, fiery sinew around the other
He was fine, he held the two forces in check, made them work together when necessary
But he's tired
They pull with an ever growing intensity and he doesn't know how long he can hold on for
'Stop fighting' he thinks
The mind scoffs and the heart doesn't listen, they continue to clash like two brothers intent on proving one is better
They will tear him in two, he knows this, but he can't decide

Which one should he kill?

Dark.

It's dark.
Paris sits, slumped over in the black.
The shower is running, he doesn't remember turning it on but it's warm on his neck.
He can't see. At least not well. There's a light from next door shining toward the window, dimly lighting the room.
Paris' hands are turned up in front of him, his arms heavy and numb, swimming in the small pool of water slowly growing between his legs.
He can hear music. He turned it on, he remembers.
The tune isn't haunting or melancholy, it's one of his favourite jazz groups playing. He would usually sing along but his lips are weighted and his throat is closed, his chin clamped to his chest causing him to take shallow but long breaths.
'Where am I?' he wonders to himself. He tries to open his eyes but he can't bring himself to. His mind pulls him back and won't let him use his body.
'We are at rest,' his mind protests 'Let us be.'
So he does. He breathes deeply and his chin cracks with the rising chest, water blocks up his nose so he opens his mouth wide, his mind will let him have that much at least. Sipping small drops of water is almost unavoidable.
Paris is tired and his mind agrees.
'I can't.' he repeats this again and again.
'I know we can't. Just sit. This is fine.'
'But...' he stops trying. The water drops hard on the back of his skull so he lurches forward and lets it pummel his back for a while. It feels good on his neglected body.
It feels good to let go and be. He is fine. He is there.
And he can't think.
He can't go.
He isn't there.
'No,' he tells himself 'No we're not.'

Nindo

And he'll stay quiet.
He'll listen and he'll nod.
He'll do what you ask,
Even if it's wrong.

He'll meet your expectations,
If he falls short then he'll stop,
Approach it from a new way,
Until your mind has calmed.

He doesn't ask for much,
When he wants something he deals.
He knows that if he wants it,
It clashes with your style.

It not because he's tired,
Or cause he doesn't care.
It's never done on purpose,
Malicious isn't his style.

He hates the passive comments,
But never says a word.
He hates it when you judge him,
But never says a thing.

He doesn't kick,
Or scream,
Or fight.
He nods and stays out of sight.
Cause the further he stays from outside the gaze the less his brain will hurt.

He doesn't want to hurt you,
Cause your way is yours to have.
He just wants quiet, and peace.
Something he's rarely had.

He doesn't do it to hurt you,
He wants you to have your best.
So he'll bottle all his frustration,
And burn within himself.

Dead Bullets: Cold Street

I've decided on a name, let's do this

Dead Bullets

Chapter 2

Cold Street

The night walks by, the usual song and dance when the cops show up. All bluster and pomp, yellin' in my face trying to get me to confess to a crime they know for damn sure I didn't commit, stomping their feet and bouncing through their text book of how you should treat a "suspect". They never take me in though, know they couldn't even if they tried. I'm not sure why they continue to hound me when they know they'll eventually end up with a broken arm, or a smashed face. Cops in this town have learned to stay out of my way.
That is, until I tangled with Detective Mullin.
She...
Well. Interesting Dame. Maybe not the right word. Dame implies an air of frailty, a desirable woman who is in way over her head. I know plenty of dames in my line of work, but Mullin, she is something different. I've known of her for quite a while, but this is the first time I've seen her with my own two eyes.
She stands out among the sea of dark and light blue cops, her outfit showing of flashes of red and orange, her coat reflects the light trickling down the alley behind my office and she kicks at a nearby bin, a seemingly useless effort which yields a small used brush which she picks up and inspects. She hasn't seen me yet but I know she's aware of my presence. Judging by her record she's the only cop in the whole precinct who's worth the money they pay her and she didn't get to be a detective on her looks that's for sure. All to often you see broads climbin' the ranks for no good reason, end up getting good folks killed.
Different times after the world rotated on bullets for so many years.
I suddenly feel nauseous. Tired. Hung over? The cop who I've been ignoring picks up on my blank stare and, with a sigh, simply walks away from me muttering to himself. Finally. I look at my watch, 5:30am. Damn.
I lean on the wall, suddenly awash with dizziness. I reach for a cigarette, my new habit crunching down on my brain and sucking out the healthy juices, replacing them with tar and smoke and fire. If I'm ever going to catch this killer then I need to stop thinking like a man, start thinking like a beast, an animal, the piece of shit who tortured a little girl for weeks then stuffed her in a drain to suffocate or bleed out or be eaten. Sick.
I breathe deeply, my cigarette lights up and reveals the top of her head. I look down to meet her gaze. Her eyes size me up, unwavering and determined. I can't quite tell if she's intimidated or impressed, either way she's very good at hiding her emotions. First time for everything I suppose, woman who can mask herself well. My initial theory holds true, I am not looking at a dame.
"Hmmm" She hums, her voice was not what I expected, hint of irish in her tone "Who are you again?" I'm unconvinced, she's feigning ignorance and she knows damn well who I am. But she's trying to get under my skin and it's already working.
"Law" I say, folding my arms and blowing smoke above her up done hair.
"And your first name..." I see a flash of fire in her eyes.
"You know my damn name." I spit. I realise how tired I am and make a mental note not to lose my composure again.
"Hmmm." She hums again, the irish sprinkle rearing again. She writes something in her little note pad and returns the pen into the back of her hair. She taps on her pad and stares me down. "What are you doing here Mr. Law?"
I refuse to reply. I just stare at her, mapping out the features on her face. Red Coral Lipstick, Orchid Eye Shadow, Apple Red Rouge, Nail Polish too. Her Jacket is expensive, definitely something she would have had to save up for on a detective salary. Her hand is red, bruised and raw.
"Well?" She insists. I blink.
"I live here" I reply coldly, I'm not going to give her anything she doesn't need, they screwed this case up, I'm not giving them any reason to red tape it up again.
"We know you live here, up in apartment 204 Mr. Law." She flips her pad over a few pages revealing a rather lengthy scrawl of information, assuredly about me. "We know you're a licensed private investigator, we know your mother lives up north, we know you're three payments late on your rent and we know that this killing has something to do with you. Did you remove any evidence from the crime scene?"
She's sharp, her intelligence is bad though. I transfer the weight of my shotgun to the other hand, bouncing it as a move it across my chest. The piece of paper left by those goons shuffles further down into the barrel and out of sight.
"My mother is dead" I say abruptly, locking eyes with her.
She seems taken aback and consults her notes again
"I... I'm sorry." She looks down as she responds. Good, I struck a nerve.
"Also, I'm only a single payment behind. Maybe you should get the guy across from me to do his job better, then your information wouldn't be useless?"
"Oh." She seems lost for words and looks over at the guy who's been watching me from across the alley for months now. I look up and give him a short nod, making sure to look as menacing as possible. He's not seen anything worth sharing with them anyway, he's just picking up errant information I've been feeding. Writing letters to dear old ma' upstate and mailing them to an abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere. The rent is at least in the ball park.
I return to studying the detective as she fumbles through her notepad. She wears what look like Converse runners, strange for a lady, but upon further consideration make sense for a police officer. Her jacket begins to sway in the wind as the rain picks up. Her gun, a large pistol. Custom 38 Special maybe? I lean in to get a better look and she perks back up, stepping back and closing up the front of her shiny shirt. She looks taken aback.
"Mr. Law!" she starts, indignant "Could you at least be a little professional? I tho..."
I cut her off.
"I was looking at your gun" I point at her hip and roll my eyes. Take another long drag from my cigarette and drop it to the floor, letting it smoulder at my feet.
"What about it?" She gets defensive, but she knows what I'm about to say
"It's too big for you."
"No it's not!"
I don't have time for this.
"Look at your hand, it's beaten up to shit. Every time you fire that it's damaging your wrist and arm as well. You should stop using a custom job and switch down to the regular 38. Heck, even something smaller?"
"I'll have you know..."
I really don't have time for this. I let her talk and stare through her head.
My mind swims and I remember that I'm very tired. I blink and she's still talking.
I rub my face and she's still talking.
The evidence left for me runs away with the falling rain as this woman probes me for information I don't have. Maybe the reports were false. Maybe she isn't all she's cracked up to be. Or she figured it out in the few minutes before she approached?
Maybe I need to leave.
She's gone. They're all gone. I'm in the alley alone.
It's 7am.