"In his knowledge lies suffering. In his presence ignorance is absent. In his power he is secure. And so, he shattered his being. Lessening himself from God to less than, so that he may be at peace. For there is no joy in knowledge, and there is no hope in simply being." - "The Mortal God," Anonymous.
—
Detective Warren watched him through the one-way glass. The light above the man flickered without a pattern, an old and worn piece of technology, and as he sat there at the table, his cuffed hands clasped over the surface, Detective Warren couldn't help but note the shadows in the man's eyes.
His eyes were a deep orange, but when Warren focused in on them more they almost seemed to shift into a red.
A click echoed in Detective Warren's ear, the door lock, alerting him to the new presence by his side.
"He claims to know you."
Detective Warren ended his observation of the man and glanced to his side. Oscar looked into the interrogation room, the amusement in his eyes clear in his upturned lip, and outshining all the unease in the detective's heart.
"Claims to know me?"
Oscar gave Detective Warren a noncommittal shrug. "He's either mad or you've got yourself quite the stalker, sir. We're assuming the latter."
Detective Warren's eyes returned to the man in the interrogation room.
"Why's that?"
"He said you'd want to speak with him. Something about, '"He asked for an answer.'" So, yeah. Sounds like a stalker to me, sir."
Detective Warren had frozen. Those words weren't altogether unique or special on their own… but he had said them. Recently, at that. But he'd never said them aloud… so was his stalker a psychic of some kind?
"... right," was the only response Oscar received.
The man's eyes were firmly glued onto the interrogation room wall, facing Detective Warren. He knew that the man couldn't see him, the glass was one way, and yet the man was still looking.
Detective Warren took in a deep breath, his shoulder rising with courage and then dropping into exasperation. "Let's get this over with."
He entered the room.
—
The door closed behind Detective Warren like a gavel in a courtroom. The man's eyes were on the detective before he'd even looked up from the folder in his hands.
Name: Sean Valen.
Age: Twenty-six.
Date of Birth: 02/13/92.
Person of interest has showcased an inclination toward abundant social tendencies up until sometime around four years prior to this file.
Cause: Unknown.
Has requested a meeting with subject Detective Warren.
No known interactions prior to request.
Note: Person of interest has been restrained on the off chance their interest in subject Detective Warren is inherently violent, malicious, or obsessive.
Detective Warren finally looked up from the file to lock eyes with the man in front of him after reading through the entry on him. Sean Valen.
"Good evening. Mr. Valen, yes?"
"That is my name." His voice was flat. Tight. Like he composed it to intentionally sound like that. The lack of a smile did not help the matter.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Valen. I was informed that you requested to speak with me?" Detective Warren kept his tone calm and his words general, formatted. Let the man reveal himself. Then the detective will decide which way he would need to lean on the scale.
"Yes." The man's hands remained clasped, still. Most would fidget under his attention.
"May I ask what reason you had for wanting to speak with me? Did you need to report something? File a missing person's report?"
Not once did Sean's eyes escape Detective Warren's.
"You asked for an answer."
Detective Warren didn't react to the strange response. Oscar had already informed him of the "Why" Sean came here, or at least the reason he gave for coming.
"I don't believe we've ever met, Mr. Valen."
Once more. "You asked for an answer."
"..." Detective Warren observed Sean more closely. His eyes traveled every inch of him: hands still, eyes focused, smile absent. Not once did Sean even twitch from his position.
The interrogation continued for a little over three hours. Detective Warren asked Sean as many different questions as he could: "What did I ask," "How did you hear me," "Do you know me?" And not once—not a single time—did Sean falter, "You asked for an answer." He didn't give in… didn't clarify… and he didn't look away. That was the part that bothered Detective Warren the most. The constant… attention.
Eventually, Detective Warren was informed that they'd need to let Sean go. He'd expended too many of their resources as is. So, he was uncuffed—which had only occurred as a precaution for him being a possible stalker—and sent on his way. He didn't complain, didn't shout, didn't claim that somehow he'd been misunderstood. He just left.
By that evening, Detective Warren had dismissed Sean Valen as an unusual and possibly unwell man; he'd no idea how right he was.
The next day… Sean was back. He hadn't been cuffed this time. He hadn't even been let into the station. Detective Warren found him standing outside the precinct asking for him. He was denied, and when he arrived Sean's eyes immediately flicked to him. Still unmoving… still empty… still so attentive.
"You asked for an answer."
He was sent away again, this time with more firmness and warning. And again… he showed up. The process repeated a few more times before Detective Warren filed a restraining order, as well as submitted a recommendation for temporary placement in a psych ward. After that Detective Warren had assumed that the matter was settled… and then Sean started appearing at his home.
—
His footsteps echoed off the walls like a drumming heartbeat. His gun gripped in his hands as he sprinted down the halls, walls tilting in unnatural angles.
Detective Warren's breath was even, controlled, but his eyes flicked over the walls around him and around corners in new segments of halls as he continued to run.
Run.
Just keep running.
If you just keep running…
He turned a corner and there was a door. He pushed himself harder, hand already reaching out for the handle.
Bang!
His sprint only halted for half of a second before he busted in through the door. It was a cellar. Bodies of kids piled across the floor and on top of each other… all still. Some were just reaching adulthood… others too young. In the middle of them all stood an older man.
His hair was darkened and his breath ragged. His eyes flicked to the Detective as soon as he'd busted through the door. And then a wide smile twisted onto his features… just past where his jaw pressed into his skull.
The man began to giggle. It was a wet and rough thing. He lifted his hand up and up… a gun held in his palm. The barrel pressed into the side of his head.
A laughing exhale followed his words. "You know… they screamed… so, so loud. They said someone would help them… that I'd be sorry… They said their families would come. Well… who's laughing now?"
Detective Warren rushed forward.
The man pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Detective Warren froze, his gun still loose in his hand.
The man dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
The Detective quickly followed suit. And as his eyes grazed over the pool of endless bodies… the drumming heartbeat grew louder and louder and louder…
"Why… They were just kids? What did they do to deserve… this? … Why did they have to suffer!?"
Detective Warren lurched up from his bed, hand reaching beneath his pillow for his gun as the other clung to the fabric of his shirt just above his chest. The bunched up fabric acting as an anchor as his heartbeat slowly fell back down to a steady, pulsing thrum.
The detective went for a walk. The clouds were blankets of darkness overhead, obscuring even the moon, as only the streetlights lining the street kept him illuminated.
He found himself in the park. He found a bench, worn and rotting. He took a seat. No more than a few minutes passed before he felt another presence at his side. He glanced over and his heart stalled for a moment. "Sean…"
Sean didn't so much as glance at the detective… his gaze bore into the shadows ahead of him that obscured the city, allowing no one to know what crawled and schemed in its cover.
The detective refused to give the man his full attention, but he also was hesitant to let him out of his sight. "You come to be all creepy as shit again?"
Sean did not so much as twitch at his language. His mouth opened and the detective already could hear the words on his lips-
"They didn't have to suffer."
Detective Warren froze at Sean's words. "... what?"
"They didn't have to suffer."
The detective's throat suddenly went dry, his attention fully on Sean now. He couldn't know about his dream. It had happened merely minutes ago. And to know the words that'd been running through his head since he woke up.
"How… how do you know about that?" The detective's voice was quiet, anger burning just on the end of his tongue. If this was some fucked up prank… the detective couldn't promise that Sean wouldn't receive a beating or two.
Sean did not answer him; he should've been accustomed to that.
"They did not have to suffer. No one truly does. Someone decided they were expendable… decided that they could be used… exploited. Darren Lorenzo believed their suffering was worth hurting you. He still does." His voice remained flat and without any trace of emotion.
How…
"How the fuck do you know that name!?" Detective Warren's voice echoed throughout the dark park. Darren was a stain on his career… on his mind… on his sleep. A psycho who had seen fit to kidnap and kill children for the purpose of spiting the man who'd once seen him locked up.
"That's your answer, Thomas Warren. They didn't have to suffer. One man believed he had the right. All for the sake of hurting the man who'd torn his life away over such a minor crime as murder," Sean's voice still did not waver. There was no sense of mocking in his tone… just fact. "-and just as they did not have to suffer… you did not have to arrest him. Thomas… These are the consequences of your actions."
That was the first time Thomas had ever felt Sean's eyes truly on him. His head had turned toward him and his eyes looked at him. Not through… not past… he looked at him.
Before Thomas could think, he'd drawn his gun—he never left the house without it—and he had the barrel pressed to Sean's head, his breath escaping him like a caged animal pressed flush to the bars. His finger twitched against the trigger. Was he… was he really going to kill Sean? Over being blamed for… for this!?
It wasn't his fault! He tried his best! He ran! He fought! Nonetheless, the images of his colleagues' disappointed eyes and anger facing him flashed through his eyes. They weren't angry at him. They were angry with him! … right?
Thomas' eye had gone blurry, he wasn't here anymore, present in the moment with the iron to Sean's forehead. Sean did not move, and his eyes—clearer than Thomas'—stared into Thomas and past his fogged over gaze.
Sean's voice lost its flat composure… and left his mouth in a soft, quivering whisper. "Pull the trigger… Thomas. They screamed so… loud. … Who's laughing now?"
Bang. Sean smiled.
The shot happened before Sean finished his final breath… before Thomas could even realize that the man in front of him wasn't Darren Lorenzo. His eyes cleared… and the gun fell to the earth. It landed with a soft, wet thud on the grass—not a loud thump on concrete; rain began to pour from above, raising up mud from below.
Then sirens. Of course… sirens. This was a public place… of course someone heard the gunshot.
Thomas Warren fell to his knees, sinking into the muddy ground, as rain fell to his hands and into the earth.
It rained back then, too.
—End.