Sup, I just wrote what I think is an okay short story. I'm posting it here as spoilers for your enjoyment. I don't write much and I'm not too good at it, but I didn't have much to do today and I was bored. Give me any advice you see fit, I can take it all. Thanks.
Spoiler
Well, just another day at the office. Or not exactly, as you'll find out.
I woke up at 6am yesterday, a Friday, took a shower, brushed my teeth, ate a quick breakfast, put on a white dress shirt, a colourful tie, conservative slacks and jacket, all the things professionals do. In these fields, it's all about appearance. I've often wished I could just come to work in a band t-shirt and jeans but nobody would respect me. A power dresser is immediately judged as competent and fit for success. I don't like power dressing, but I have to do it. One of the many sacrifices that come with the job.
I reached for my briefcase, put the briefs, forms and assorted documents I needed this day. A lawyer's work always travels with him. Nobody in my profession works just 40 hours a week like "normal people". We work massive overtime, and it's unpaid. Don't let all the shows about power lawyers winning crazy salaries fool you : if you break it down, unless you earn a truly massive salary, tradesmen usually earn more than you do per hour. They also don't have to deal with the fucked up shit we deal with. Lots of lawyers commit suicide. It's honestly not surprising.
I am a Crown attorney (for you Americans, that's a prosecutor) in the province of Quebec. I deal with criminal suits in the name of our glorious majesty the Queen, so most of life's fuckups and deadbeats come by me in their inevitable trek towards a full criminal record. I don't like the Queen, like most Quebecers. She represents everything I hate : hereditary privilege, aristocracy, leeches living off the taxpayers, so I don't like representing her. It's against my principles. But that's another sacrifice I have to make.
This morning, I was in the bus by 7:30am. I arrived at my place of work by 7:45am. I had a trial at 9 o'clock. Well, not exactly a trial per se, since it's verdict time. The trial was long done, without a jury, so the judge had finally finished deliberating by himself. That was a grisly case. The defendant had fought with his girlfriend, Marianne by name, and she broke up with him, then left his place to go get drunk at the nearest watering hole. He had drunk a massive amount of straight vodka. He then came back at his place, visibly pissed, and once inside, immediately tackled his girlfriend to the ground and stabbed her in the eyes with a screwdriver from a nearby toolbox, which was there since they were renovating. I'm not making this up. Neighbours had heard the commotion and called the cops. He was still there. He was arrested, and the girl died at hospital a few minutes after being brought in, from blood loss. I charged him for second degree murder and manslaughter. That's a terrible way for a person to go, and can only be produced by a screwed up person.
At trial, his defence attorney submitted an expert report in which it was written he was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia. A defence favourite. He wasn't on meds before and was never diagnosed. Anyway, the issue was basically deciding if he went off his rocker and slaughtered Marianne brutally because he was drunk, which isn't a defence for these charges, or because he is mentally ill, which is. During trial, I pointed out that he was voluntarily mad drunk with a 0.26 BAC, so he wouldn't have been standing if he hadn't had a massive tolerance to alcohol and such levels usually change people for the worse, regularly beat his girlfriend while wasted, and had just had a fight that night in which they broke up, by his own admission. Basically, that he had issues and hearing the voice of God wasn't among them. Those who knew him testified that he seemed to have no mental health issues, and had never stated he heard voices or hallucinated or shit like that, but also didn't know about his beating Marianne to a pulp or getting massively blotto on the regular, since he was kind of a recluse. I had an expert testify that he wasn't suffering from schizophrenia. Of course, the defendant testified to the complete opposite about the schizophrenia issue, saying God told him to punish her for what she had done to the chosen one, and so did the "expert", who I was surprised to learn had pretty good credentials and didn't seem like a hack, but aren't they the worst ones?
I was pretty excited at the idea of finally hearing the verdict. This guy deserved jail more than anyone I've ever prosecuted. I had told myself a few times that my entire career was at stake, that I'd just quit if I could not get justice, that I'd go crazy from the unfairness of it. I told you, I'm a very principled man. I care perhaps too much. I put on my black toga after removing my jacket, left it at the office and went back on the bus to go to court. People always look at me funny when I wear it. They are too used to the American shows where lawyers are dressed normally in court. We wear the black like the British do, but we don't have the wigs, thankfully. I arrived at 8am, met with Marianne's parents. I told them it's not advisable to calculate the odds, since they can't be calculated, but that I was hoping that justice be done. 8:45, we arrived in the courtroom and patiently waited. The defendant was brought in shortly after with his lawyer, seated on his side of the room, handcuffs on, but otherwise dressed normally. 8:55, the judge arrived. He'd be rendering his verdict soon. I hoped he'd give the correct one. There was only one correct option.
At 9 sharp, he started reading. I blocked out the first parts. I only cared about the words. The magic words that would see justice be rendered. Themis' sword striking down the guilty party. I always loved that moment.
"Not guilty for reason of temporary insanity."
I froze. Part of me wanted to jump and scream, not words, just a scream, an anguished scream. I had become so invested in the case, too invested, Marianne had a future, was educated and pretty, but as it often goes, ended up with a deadbeat boyfriend. Her parents were sweethearts and I really, really had wanted to see things be made a little bit more right. Nothing could bring her back, but punishment does mean something. But I just froze, with goosebumps. The rest of the verdict seemed like an eternity. The man was going to be ordered to a mental institution upon sentencing, that was a matter of course. Maybe he'd be released from there, maybe not. Even that seemed too cushy for him, especially through my eyes, who were sure the guy wasn't sick at all but had just managed to cleverly manipulate the judge. In other words, a sociopath. Marianne's parents sobbed and sobbed. I finally unfroze, told them I was sorry and that we'd appeal, and I took French leave (I'm tasteless enough to write "pun intended"), which must have seemed really insensitive at first, but I just couldn't bear staying in a room where such a travesty had been committed. I wondered what happened at first. Had the judge been bribed? Was the defendent just that good at social engineering? Other victims needed justice to be done, so I blocked these thoughts. To my credit, I went on with the rest of the day, which was uneventful. A few thieves, a drug dealer, normal shit compared to that morning.
I went home at 8pm, by bus, as always, and entered my apartment. I don't like houses, they are too big, so I live in a small apartment, which has the benefit of making me have lots of scratch for other things. I took my grinder, dropped a bud of some potent stuff, and went to town rolling. I also got some kief from the catcher, since I wanted to get as massively high that night than the guy was drunk when he killed his girlfriend. When he killed Marianne. Yeah, yeah, I know, hypocrisy and irony and all that, I don't give a shit. I had the weekend to myself, my girlfriend having arranged a girl's weekend with her friends, so no harm done. Alcohol isn't my vice, weed is. We all need a way to blow off steam.
One massive toke, 5 minutes after it, I was high. Another long draw, I was now high like a kite. This shit's fucking strong. This should do it for a while. Minutes stretched into hours and I was only getting higher and higher. My heart raced, I had tunnel vision, and I giggled just like a high school student smoking for the first time. I'm pretty good at harnessing my blazed mind so I did not think of Marianne further. 30 minutes in, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the light show, but quickly got bored as people do when they're baked, went on Netflix, put on headphones and watched some Malcolm in the Middle. Seriously, that show is great when you get magical, and even when you're not. All the shit these kids come up with is uproarious, the episode with the massive slingshot being my favourite. I watched a few episodes, toked some more then fell asleep from the humongous potency of the weed.
I'm sorry for the long background, I like to be thorough for your benefit, but now it becomes interesting.
When I'm sleeping and high, I get very vivid dreams, and I can remember them to the letter. They're usually some happy hippie stuff like rainbow bunnies racing after a floating carrot around the CN Tower, one catching it and sharing it happily with the other bunny and they make me feel energized and in a good mood when I wake up. That night was different. I woke up in my leather couch, distressed from the dream I had. Here it is :
I dreamed that I had waken up at some point, Netflix stopped playing, the whole apartment was dark and silent. I remembered a slight buzzing sound breaking up that silence. "Maybe that's what woke me up", I thought, so I looked for my cell, and found it on my nightstand in my bedroom. In fact, I did have a text message. Groggily, I thumbed the notification to go read it, thinking it was maybe a drunk text from my girlfriend. It happens to the best of us.
The text said, and I quote from vivid memory, "i know u did ur best. i rly thought u had him. no hard feelings. thnks 4 caring." That's translated from the original French.
My first thought was "how the Hell did Marianne's parents get my number?" Lemme tell you, even though I was still baked in my dream, I sobered right the fuck up when my cell said it was from Marianne, number being "(514) ?? ?-?? ??". Of course, everyone knows "?? ?-?? ??" isn't a number a smartphone would show you, as a text recipient, and it shouldn't give you the name if you don't have the number in your contacts. So that's what I went to check, thumbed my contact list, scrolled to "M", and there it was. "Marianne, cell. (514) ?? ?-?? ??". It's impossible to enter that as a contact, and besides, I obviously didn't know her contact information, since it was irrelevant to my job.
So there I was, my cell phone in hand, with a strange text showing up on the screen, but I didn't become hysteric, scream, run, leave my place or smash my phone to bits. None of these things. I answered, albeit I was quite unsettled. Part of dreamthought, I suppose, where you do stupid shit. Note that all texts are translated.
"Whoever this is, it's totally not funny. Perhaps you're trying to make me feel better, but I don't need dead people speaking to me. Please stop."
I had trouble thumbing that, as one often does in dreams, but it somehow came out all right. Almost instantly, I got the answer back : "im not joking. this is rly marianne."
"It can't be. Marianne is dead. Stop and let me go back to sleep."
The next text, always in that eerily instantaneous manner, was chilling. It was : "i kno u smoked weed tonight n watched a show. is dat enuff?" First alert in my mind, stalker. But no, I have very thick blinds that make it impossible to see inside my apartment, and my place is so small I would have noticed anyone entering without my knowledge right away. Maybe it smelled like pot outside, but I watched the show with headphones. Nobody should have known what I was doing. Occam's razor shifted in, and the most logical explanation was the simplest one : dead Marianne floating around in my den. And what was up with her "number" in my contact list and the fucked up number?
I don't know what I was thinking in my dream, but for some arcane reason I felt compelled to play ball. If she was really there in my apartment, I figured I best not offend a spirit. Who knew what she could do? Plus, she didn't seem hostile. So play ball I did. Translated conversation follows.
"Alright, I'll bite. What do you want from me?"
"jst wanted to reconfort u. its not ur fault."
"It kind of is. I must have done something wrong. I wish things had been different."
"i guess if u rly wnt, they can b."
"What? How?"
"cant tell u, but ur gonna have a price 2 pay. i knw u did good, n i dnt blame u, so i leave it up 2 u. its ur choice. but i rly wnt to leave."
I told you before, I care. I care too much. I cared about Marianne most of all in regards to the cases I've prosecuted, even though I had never really known her. She sounded like a sweet girl with potential who got in with the wrong guy. I'm in love with stories like this, they are the epitome of my work. She was likable and personable, even in death. I had questioned her parents at length about her temperament and deeds, and everything came out glowing, albeit perhaps biased, since they were her folks after all. This case had me by the heartstrings, and I really wanted to see things made right. So I texted okay. I'll pay the price so you can rest in peace, Marianne. So you can leave this place and go to a better one. After all, it's just another sacrifice in my line of work.
"lex talionis." That was the last text.
And I woke up, in a sweat. My couch was drenched. I didn't think I sweated that much in my dream. I felt strangely energized, my mind at peace, even though the dream was pretty fucking weird. That quickly vanished when I realized that wasn't sweat on my fucking white dress shirt. It was blood. Fucking blood caked on my shirt and my hands, and my sheets. Indeed, I do have special couch sheets. My shoes were on the mat next to the door. I checked the soles, they were bloody.
What in the actual fuck?
I got up from the couch, which was next to the entrance. My cell phone was on the nightstand in my bedroom where I left it. My first reflex was to throw out everything, clothes, sheets, shoes in a big garbage bag. I didn't know where that blood had come from, but I didn't want it on me. I could think about it after. In the shower, my dream snapped back to my brain. It went haywire.
No. It can't fucking be.
I got out of the shower like my ass was on fire and went on the computer. I typed in the address of my favourite news website.
"Infamous "Screwdriver Killer" found dead in holding cell" was one headline.
My heart started racing. What? I quickly scanned the article. Cause of death : blood loss from deep puncture wounds to the eyes. No other comment from the police, other than the investigation was underway. Already there were some comments from the public, usually along the lines of "poetic justice" and "he got what he deserved" and all that stuff.
I searched my tiny den for a bloody screwdriver, thankfully I found none. I should be receiving an update shortly from the office, it's my case after all, and I can follow it more closely than almost anyone through the police. Somehow, I don't think the murder weapon will ever be found. If what I think happened did happen, Marianne wouldn't fuck me over like this. But is that the price to pay? No, sounds too obvious. I don't know. We'll see.
Most of you must have been wondering how I got all these texts right. Most people can't read in their dreams. I sometimes can, but it's blurry and usually hard to remember. As vivid as it must have been, it's a dream. That's because I checked my cell phone and it's all there, including the contact information. All there in real life.
The guy's dead. Lex talionis, in other words, an eye for an eye. Well in this case, it's two for two I guess. Once the terror of waking up covered in blood abated, I still felt pretty much peaceful. Deep inside, things had been made right. Marianne's resting now, she's gone, and although I'm not particularly religious, her murderer should be burning in Hell by this point, and he deserves it. A price to pay has been mentioned. The only caveat. I'm waiting to see what it is, but I still think the right thing happened. I hope it'll be worth it.
