Page 109 of Jagged

Surrounded by half a dozen men of varied ranks, and one female patrol officer, we headed up to the unlit home. My heart beat faster, pounding in my chest to give me the jolts of adrenaline I needed to clear the haze of disdain from my mind. I glanced at Zay as he approached the front door, and he nodded as he gripped the knob in his gloved hand.

"Traps?" I mouthed, glancing at Stiles who loomed over my shoulder.

He shook his head, though his brow wrinkled with a hint of concern. I drew my field knife, concealed in my boot, and once Zay cracked open the door, I ran it around the edges the way I saw Sali do when she broke-and-entered into the garage of the last demo company we harassed. Nothing caught the knife, no tug or tweak. I looked back at them, then pointed to the floor when Zay beamed his flashlight downward.

"Pressure plates?" I whispered, but then Stiles shook his head.

"Squad confirmed no explosives detected."

"How?"

"Technology." He nodded for us to follow, as he shoved his way to the lead.

My comfort in allowing his charge settled the rest of the leftover agitation that gnawed at me. Zay followed, his gaze now ahead instead of looking to me for concordance.

A few paces into the place, dark and dank like somewhere that'd been closed up for some time, and stacks of cardboard throttled our progress. With our lights focused ahead, the towers of water-damaged, or aged banker boxes created a small city for us to navigate. Despite the clear footpath, it was not easy to sneak through, in a single file, let alone clear the area. The breath sounds of my colleagues annoyed me as much as the obstacles, but as soon as I found a set of stairs, I flicked my flashlight in the direction to warn of my separation from the group. Stiles nodded, and Zay followed.

Foul odors met my nose, mostly of trash, like rotten bananas or sour milk. Beyond that, the many layers of mold trickled in to make quite the mix. However, as soon as my feet hit the landing of the small staircase, the wafting stench of putrefaction overpowered all others.

"Body somewhere," I muttered, close to Zay's ear.

He nodded, his expression more serious than I'd seen it before. He followed me now, as I forced my way between a narrow crevice created by a fallen bookshelf leaning precariously against more boxes. His light didn't follow mine, and I stole a moment to glance back. He couldn't fit, and so the curve toward the attic space belonged only to me. In the darkness, hardly any shadows birthed from my torch due to the mountains of objects, but at the end of it all, a fattened pinkish-green hand came into view by the window ledge. I froze, the light reflecting back at me from the dirty glass, until I angled myself to see blood curdled on the wooden planks just out of reach of my shoes. I lowered my weapon then, when the sodden pages of a composition book lay open on the floor between me and the body. I didn't touch it, just crouched down to read the nearly-microscopic scrawl…

Most of the time people begin notes like this with an apology. I'm not one to believe I've affected anyone so deeply that an apology is necessary.

The truth is, I'm not sorry.

I'm not sorry at all.

My mind, deep on the inside where I've let no one, has always swam in darkness. I can't remember a time when light penetrated so deeply that it made a difference. In fact, with time, I grew to hate the light.

It bothered me.

When a person is surrounded by darkness, not of their own liking but one forced by circumstances with no means of escape, it seeps into the soul and you find yourself an inauthentic hypocrite surrounded by assholes.

You're all assholes.

Selfish and guided by egocentricity.

Every day I put on an act.

I never really cared. I meant it when I said it.

I know this note sounds laced with anger and impulsivity, but let me remind you, I'm writing from a place of peace and well-thought out determination. I've had this day in mind since birth.

Since the days of the red dress with white lace.

Since the days of everafter.

So, with a solemn nod from the cliffside of madness, I take my bow.

I won't be watching. I'll have better things to do.

When I looked up, Zay stood over me, having found his way through, with his lips pursed as he gazed down at the exposition before us. A final statement, an act of ending, one in which no justice would be served.

I holstered my weapon, clicked off my torch, and made my way out of that place on memory alone.

Chapter Sixteen

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