Kill Your Darlings

The ripped metal hinges on the door suggest a broken entry. The doorstep looks like it has scratches from some mythological beasts. On the first look, this is a crime scene. Literally. Like walking into a bloodbath but you know you’re too late, my friend. There’s no saving anyone. Ever.

“IT, what do we have here?” I say, nodding at the rookie. The Bureau loves its acronyms. I step into the living room. The brown, beige sofa looks like it was taken from the trash and should have been burned years ago but at the same time it has the edge of coziness. If you were lying there with a warm blanket, you could be dead to the world. And now, you may as well be…

“There’s an intimate photograph, in some very peculiar position.” The rookie nods, losing interest already as if telling me that it’s not really that important. Naked photos, and at this time, that’s pretty much all you have… people like to keep their memories visual, and it is indeed a visual. What this noob is overlooking though is a very important detail. I rub my gloved fingers against the photo paper, ruler in my right hand, checking the angle. Yes. It’s perfectly torn in half.

“Have you noticed that it’s completely straight?!” I say, bagging the evidence into a thin foil, “that’s an anomaly, you can’t achieve that unless you’re using a straight, hard object.” This is very peculiar. Why would you tear it like this? Is it staged? Is it supposed to be a puzzle of sorts? Riddles are fun but it doesn’t add up with the forced entry.

“Boss, you should see this!” The living room is small, the couch eyes the coffee table like it has a personal vendetta against it. With black streaks over the glass. Black ink it is… In the mess lay broken reading glasses cases with playing cards, bent and scattered over the table, the sofa, the carpet. You must have been angry. Losing in poker does that to you, huh? Maybe next time, play solitaire.

The kitchenette is very small, taking the biggest corner of the apartment, with a steel sink where the water drips small drops every other second. There’s also an old as hell microwave, probably even older than the disgusting sofa, it looks like almost a time traveler lived here.

“The apartment belongs to an agent from the Bureau,” the rookie reads from the database. “Her name was Kavanough. Callsign Killer.” The Bureau never chose its nicknames subtly. So, a lot of fieldwork. That will be classified, I’m sure. But why were you living in this, Killer? The Bureau pays well… Especially if you’re risking your life for the pride of the country. What were you doing with the money? Saving? Gambling? That would explain the cards.

“Um, Boss, the system found something…”

“What is it, newbie?”

“It says that Killer was ordered off duty for six months.”

“On what grounds?” They were being investigated by Internal Affairs.

“Internal Investigation request.” That’s what I thought… Killer, what the hell did you do? Stole money from the top dog? Or creating your own operation… against…

“Noob, look if that’s the only apartment she owns. I’m gonna look around.” Even though the rookie seems uninterested in everything, his eyes sparkle with joy just because I gave him a task. I love that for him. At least he’s useful for now.

I walk through the kitchen to the bedroom doors. The smell of dried blood carries out my way; it’s been a few weeks since Killer died, at least. You have been in a fight with someone? Who was out to get you? As I assess the streaked walls with fifty shades of red, I close in on the queen bed. There’s so much blood but no bodies. The pillows are ripped apart, the white sheets became stripes, nobody would know that this was something a person could sleep in. In the middle of the bed, a dagger knife is stabbed into the mattress, covered in the chaos of vengeance. The sharp edge of the knife sparkles from different angles, by little speckles that aren’t covered in the human liquid. The black handle has two initials carved in silver inlay. D + K. Of course… Killer! But who is the other initial? Did you have a lover? An enemy? Who were they? Are they your killer, Killer?

“Rookie!”

“Yes, boss?!”

“Go through the database, and find what Kavanaugh was working on.” With an echoing yes from the noob, I slowly take out the knife from the center of the mattress. The edge seems freshly sharp and it looks like a kitchen knife at first glance but it’s too long. This must be a dagger. Aside from the initials, the holder is molded to fit one hand, one owner of the dagger. Were you ordering custom work, Killer? Or someone made it for you? Possibly a gift?

As I enter the bathroom, the IT newbie rushes into the bedroom, “Um, Boss… I found something.” I turn around with a distasteful expression, irritated by the interruption of my process. I do not like to be cut into my process. Fully annoyed, I wait…

“What is it?”

“There wasn’t another accommodation, but there’s a location.” He nods, handing me the computer. I take it into my hands, weighing down this box of knowledge. The black and green streaks dance like fireflies on a summer night. They scatter and jump on the screen as the coordinates of the location align. Disko Bay. The west coast of Greenland. So, you were heading to Disko Bay. Alright, what did you wanna do? Hide? Who would want to live in a freezing cold in Greenland? This doesn’t add up. You wouldn’t put an initial of a location on a knife holder. That has to be a person. A lover. A partner. A former agent? A civilian? Who was in your life, Killer? I push the laptop back to the newbie.

“Did the system show any of her projects? Past, Present, Future?” I question. The rookie is looking down at the screen, shaking his head with a slight disappointment. That’s a no, then…

“Most of them are classified, but there are a few files called ‘Darling’s Mess.’” Darling? Darling! D + K. Darling and Killer. You broke the boundaries with a victim then? Had some little fun? Or did you fall in love with a suspect? An agent and a criminal. That is scandalous indeed.

“Give me the dates on the files and Kavanaugh’s suspension.” After a few quick clicks and clacks, the computer newbie recites what I’ve already thought through. The files date three years back. The earliest murders followed a pattern: victims were skinned alive. There is no picture of the suspect, or even a headshot. So, Darling is considered a thirty-year-old male, with a tall frame, muscular build, with a thick, ugly scar across his right shoulder. That is easily disguisable so he cannot be identified easily. Good for you, Darling. It seems like you’re a bit lucky. And no pictures, so you don’t show your face much, huh? You must have been driving Killer mad. Such a skilled agent, with the most lethal callsign of all. That must have been a tough pill to swallow. I clear my throat, thinking out loud.

“Alright, let’s assume that Darling files became Killer’s obsession.” I walk back to the kitchen, thinking, “She wants to catch but as she digs deeper and deeper,” I’m facing the rookie now. “She catches feelings.”

“How can you catch feelings for a monster, though?”

“There’s a fine line between love and hate, noob. The line gets even thinner between obsession and sanity.” As he’s trying to comprehend what I’m saying, I continue: “Catching feelings means intrigue, Darling starts to reach out, possibly breaking into her apartment, leaving notes, maybe even breaking things…” That would explain the weird furniture and kitchen appliances. “But with time, she starts to expect it. She gets ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To strike the suspect, obviously.” You battle and break things, leave the apartment a mess, but love wins… for a little bit. Now, you’re just looking at each other, thinking what to do, because in this life, you cannot just be a couple. Agent Killer and Murder Darling. It has a nice ring to it. Yes. But it’s impossible. In our days. In our society. This is a forbidden love. The most twisted retelling of Romeo and Juliet that there is. It’s even worse. And if anyone finds out, they will want to get rid of you. Who discovered you? Who were you running from? Why Greenland?

“So, they killed each other?” The rookie’s face is wrinkled in confusion, his little brain completely broken with the corrupted case we have lying in our hands.

“Possible, but unlikely. If the coordinates are any useful, they are an indication they want to run away…” I step back, looking at the front door. The forced entry. I think I got it.

“They were planning to go but were discovered…” I’m not going to say who, because that’s pretty obvious. “They were fighting. Both of them.” You didn’t wanna leave behind the other. You either killed the intruder or were killed by the intruder. The location was identified six months ago, when Killer’s suspension started. Halfway through careful planning, before leaving everything behind, they were discovered in Killer’s bedroom. This means that the crime scene is a month old, pretty fresh. There were flowing plans from left to right, which means that the location must have been found by the Bureau. They suspect intervention or even a collaboration with a suspect. Killer is suspended and makes plans with Darling to realize their run. Before you leave, you’re taken down. Just like that. It’s done, tucked under a rug. But why didn’t the killer get rid of the evidence? Were you trying to make a statement, sir? Was this a plot to a greater picture? Are we supposed to sleep with one eye open? My brain is racing with scenarios, more questions, looking for an answer. The rookie startles me from my thoughts with his loud question:

“Who were they fighting, Boss?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

I have no idea.

II

The floor is so cold. I drag my fingers in circles on the marble tiles. It hurts when I move. The temperature must be in the negative thirties, at least. How will I survive this? My head is spinning, the full circles are becoming ovals, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster that never stops. I gasp, my lungs burn with every small breath I take. Slowly, slowly… In. Out. In. Out.

It’s too cold, I can’t even breathe, the only thing I can do is just lay here. Helpless, broken, becoming a live icicle as time passes. I hate this. My body feels heavy, my legs are stiff, I don’t feel my toes for what feels like an eternity. I’m becoming a weird kind of stone, a discarded iceberg drifting somewhere above the world. Impossible to move. Each spin flies through my eyes, every thought that crosses my mind pinches my spine with pain. I can’t think anymore… No. I will have to bear it, stuck on this awful floor, only hearing the stupid ticking clock once in a while… the only indication that I’m still alive, for who knows how much longer? Tick. Tick. Tick. I will be a fossil. Just an imprint of life in the freezing air. Is the clock getting louder? It’s loud enough to put me into a frenzy but not loud enough to wake me up to action. It feels like a heartbeat in my ears. If I even have one after all this…

“She’s here! Damn it, looks like a human ice cube.” The growly voice yells. What is happening? Who is it? Am I dreaming? Maybe I finally froze and now I’m going to the underworld. So the afterlife exists, I guess.

“Boss, we got it. Go find the other one!” Is there another? Who? I remember there was someone, but I’m too cold to fish it from my memory. Maybe it’s nobody; I could have deluded myself that there is someone. I’m always on my own. It’s better that way…

“I got you, Killer… Don’t worry.” This second voice is high-pitched and sounds so… young. Almost gullible. If I could, I would taste the innocence on the tip of my tongue. It’s like honey, so smooth, so different from this scorching freezing palace. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock is back. I guess I ran out of time. Maybe these voices are the last few seconds before I leave the Earth. The ticking has increased its volume again, banging in my eardrums. I must be dying. That’s it then. It’s done. I’m done… The only thing I register now is the cold. There’s nothing I can feel now. This is my fate. I’m dead.

“Let’s get her in the thermal bag. We need to get her out of the critical state. Monitor her heartbeat, slowly warming her up…” the soft voice says. So my heart is still beating. It doesn’t feel like it. Wherever my heart is supposed to be, it’s now just an empty hole. A void. I’m not dead yet. But I could be… I should be. I feel like this was a punishment from Hell with a sacred message of die, you wretch. This is slow and painful. I should be aware of whatever I did that led to this. I’m supposed to be aware of that.

Something burns on my shoulders. Feels like hands. Ouch. This flame is scorching me with sin. No…

“Do not. Give up, Kavanaugh!” the growly voice is back. Tick. Tick. Tick. So strong, authoritative, and strict. There is a slice of worry edged in the tone. The intensity is so palpable I’m not supposed to die… Tick. Tick. Tick. “Not, yet…” It feels so wrong to survive this. I cannot make it. That’s unholy and wrong. I shouldn’t fake death, this is a justified fallout, it’s supposed to happen. When I remember what I did, I can finally let it be…

“Boss, look at her vitals. There’s a reaction…”