A Little Less Conversation

Note: This is the first short story I wrote in a while, so it's horrible and it's only the first draft, so with all of you guys help, it'll surely get better, hopefully. All critiques are welcomed and appreciated.


A Little Less Conversation
By Angel of Death

Cursed by my imagination,
teaming with echoes of situations.
I do not feel well, pressed beneath this spell.
Polishing my social skills,
with one more drink, and two more pills.
I do not feel good, I thought by now I would.~Battles, The Spill Canvas


There were too many choices. One was right in front of his face and the other was burning inside his mind. She was beautiful, the spitting image of Aphrodite. Large, hypnotic brown eyes that pulled him in like quicksand. Her lips curled into a soft smile or a smirk, he couldn't tell which, but he found it sexy. He wanted her, as much as he wanted to listen to the voices flying around in his head. They were screaming at him, begging him to leave the room. They were begging him to zip up his pants and walk away with his sweaty green paper in his hands.
"Well, what's it gonna be? I got other clients, you know." she asked, her hands trailing his chest. His heart was beating heavily and beads of sweat was forming on his head. He couldn't breath, his soul was in his throat. Just one kiss. Just one touch. That's all I want.
"Well?" Her lips were at his ear, kissing and nibbling them. He was slightly aroused. A fire was burning inside of his body, licking at all of the morality he had left. He watched the one choice in his head go up in flames. And then he couldn't take it anymore.
With his soaked palms, he took her head into his hands and made their lips dance in a rough harmony. He bit her ears, her lips, and savored the moans resonating in her throat. She unbuckled his belt and slowly started to pull down his pants. Not once did he stop to think about what he was actually doing. He had never been loved like this before. It was hot and beautiful and it felt like his first time all over again. But still, he wanted more.

________

"So, how was your night?"
I stared at my desk, trying to fight the sleep that was slowly taking over me. My head felt like a war that was determined to leave no one standing.
"Rio, you okay?"
Detective Laura Hayes was my partner for more than four years now. She knew about my failing marriage and the late-night drinks at the bar on 5th and Lennox and the pills I popped when no one was looking. She knew about everything, but I couldn't describe this to anyone, not even her. I just wasn't the same anymore. I could feel the change deep in my bones. There was another me in my body, telling me things, making me do things. It was like a carousel. The music was playing while thoughts and repressed memories danced around like wooden horses in a parade. There was something wrong with me. I could feel it.
The door to the captain's office opened, making me snap out of my trance. Hayes was staring at me, her green eyes furrowed, brimming with concern.
"Rio, Hayes, there's been a murder."
"Where?" Hayes asked, taking her gaze off of me.
"Plexington. A tenant said he heard loud music and decided to go check it out and what he found scared the hell out of him. He couldn't even describe it to me."
A chill traveled down my spine. Plexington. That street sounded so familiar. I could see it in my mind. It's dark and streetlights and headlights are blurring together, becoming one drunken haze. The wind smells of beer and cigarettes and Chanel No. 5. It's loud, music is playing and I'm moving, but where am I going?
Standing up, I pull my jacket on, secure my gun in the holster and grab my badge.
"Who's driving?" Hayes asked, falling into step with me. I pushed open the glass doors and headed towards the elevator.
"Me." I replied, pushing the down button.
_____________

The wind caressed the side of my face, as I drove down the highway. Cars move out of the way, which makes it easier just to cruise on through. Tapping the steering wheel, I listen to the soft hum of the radio playing some song that I don't know. It's soft and easy and it almost seems like I know it, like I've heard it before but I can't put a name to it.
"Do you know where you're going?" Rebeca asked. I could feel her looking at me.
"Yeah, Downtown, right? Didn't you want to go to that new restaurant for your birthday."
"I'd love to but my birthday isn't till next month. I want to go to Plexington."
I meet her gaze. She's so pretty. Her red hair sweeps her neck in tired scarlet tendrils and those eyes, oh those eyes, they remind me of the Pacific, green and blue at the same time. I smile, nodding my head. If she wants to go to Plexington, we'll go. I get off of the highway and take the main road, humming along to the nameless tune on the radio.

_____________

Blue and red and white stain the afternoon sky. Ambulances are situated in the middle of the street. Police officers are standing around, looking off into space, like they have nothing better to do. Turning the engine off, I step out of the car and wait for Hayes at the curve. She situated her gun so that her jacket was behind the handle. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and the black sunglasses she usually wore were sliding down her small nose. We showed our badges and then headed up the three steps to the apartment building. It was old. The red bricks were crumbling and graffiti words painted the sides. Inside, it smelled of bleach and cigarettes. Plexington used to be nicer than this. You could come down for a drink or go dancing without worrying about hoodlums and drug cartels and prostitutes. Now look at it.
In the apartment, we see a couple of CSI's collecting evidence and stepped over the yellow tape. The body is sprawled out on the carpet. It's a female, her lacy red shirt is torn, her breast peaking out. Blood is dried up on her lifeless face. Her eyes, staring off into the distance.
"Hey, you must be the Detectives from NYPD. I'm CSI Jackson Lovett. My crew is done here so you guys can do what yall want."
"Did you find anything, that could help us. Like who she was?" Hayes asked, her hands on her hips.
"Well, according to her ID her name was Isabella Stanford. She's from Stanton Island and according to the man who found her, she didn't live here. Somebody by the name of Randall McKinney does though."
"Okay thanks."
Jackson leaves the room, leaving me and Hayes to look at the body.
"God, she looks like she's been through a lot."
"Yeah, whoever did this to her must have had his fun."
"We can't be sure that the perp is a male, can we?"
I edged closer to the body, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. The fabric snapped against my skin.
"Well, there was no signs of struggle and if we take a look at her face..." I started, and then a sharp pain coursed through my brain. Clamping my eyes shut, I tried to hold it back but I was losing in the battle with myself.
"Rio?" Hayes started to move closer, I could hear her heals clapping against the floor. Then she stopped. I looked at her, and watched as she bent over and picked up something small and silver.
"Looks like they forgot something."
It was a ring. She carefully turned it in her hand and then her eyes widened.
"Rio, isn't this your ring?"
And then it hit me, like an atomic bomb.
_________________

He's sitting there, disoriented, hunger burning in his eyes. Seeing the body, brought back so many memories. The kisses that he landed on her naked body, the feel of the knife delving into her skin. Oh the look in her eyes when he penetrated and the ecstasy emitting from her body. It brought back so many good memories for him.
"You, you, were here?" Hayes breathed, the blood draining from her face.
"Yeah, well, you know, Becca wasn't giving me any, so I needed to get out. But I was here, there, in and out, you know how it works."
Hayes was shaking her head, her hand grazing her gun. She looked back at the door, her feet slowly advancing towards it.
"No...I don't know how it works, Rio. Why don't you tell me?"
He could see the fear in her eyes. A smile curled his lips up, and then he slowly started to stand up.
"Don't move, Rio! Or I'll shoot." Sweat was raining down her face, and her hands were shaking as she quickly pulled the gun out of the holster.
"First off, my name's not Rio. It's McKinney, Randall McKinney and you'd shoot me? An innocent bystander?"
"Randall, where is Rio? Give me Rio or I will shoot you! I swear to God I will!"
A laugh escaped from his lips, making his stomach jerk and his eyes water. He looked at Hayes, moving his hand towards his holster. Their eyes remained locked while he pulled the gun out.
"How 'bout a little less conversation, and a little more action. Put down your gun and I'll put down mine."
He watched as she tried to figure out what she was going to do. Her eyes were painted with confusion and her heart was beating rapidly. Then, closing her eyes, she slowly put her gun down and he put down his.
"Was that so hard?"
Hayes shook her head no. A smile still wide on his face, he advanced towards her, looking her up and down. She had a statuesque form, her hips and waist mirroring a temple that he wanted to worship. Her eyes though scared out of their mind, were beautiful emeralds. She didn't move, she didn't breathe, which is what he liked. Throwing his weight on her, he placed his hand over her mouth. He loved the way she squirmed under him. Slowly, he stroked the back of her head and kissed her softly.
"Just one kiss. Just one touch. That's all I want." he whispered.
_____________________

My name is Bob. Well actually it's Robert Fitzwilliam Jones the third. I was named after my mom's father or my father. It was a noble name and it belonged to me. It was my name. My name is Bob, but they are telling me that I am not who I think I am. They think I'm crazy, and that's why I'm handcuffed to a table in a room where the only thing I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat. There's no one here but me and my reflection in this black room with black floors and black walls. I'm smiling at myself and my icy cerulean stare is laughing at me. But strangely, I don't feel like smiling or laughing. Instead, I feel like ripping out my thoughts to show it to them. I know who I am. My name is Robert...or is it Bob? No, wait I was named William by my Uncle John. No, no, my name is Robert Fitzwilliam Jones. That is who I am. I am not a killer or a rapist like they say I am. I am just Bob, the husband of Rebeca. Rebeca. Where is my sweet Rebeca? In my mind I can see her. I can see her ocean eyes and fiery hair. I'd love to see her now. I'd love to have her smile at me and make the world shine again. Where is Rebeca?
The door to the room opens. A man walks in, his eyes hard and glossy and angry. They're burning holes right through me and I do not know why. He sat down across from me and slammed some folders down on the metal table. Pictures of mangled bodies glare at me. They are all women and it looks disgusting, bile rises in my throat. Why is he showing this to me?
"So your name is Robert Jones?"
"Yes," I breath.
"And your name is Randall McKinney and Carlos Rio? That's a hell of a lot of names to have. Why do you have them? What are you hiding in there?"
He's pointing at his bald head, a red vein throbbing in his forehead. Tears are scorching their way down my cheeks.
"I'm not hiding anything. I don't know why I'm here! Please, where's Rebeca. Where's my Rebeca?"
Those flaming coals he has for eyes lock on me, and I feel as though he's throwing them at me because his gaze hurts.
"Rebeca Strong is dead, Carlos, and she's not even your wife."
"My name is Robert and I remember...walking...walking down the alter with her. I remember kissing her." And I could. She was dressed in white and the flower girl with her blond pigtails were throwing rose petals at her as she walked down the isle. I could see her.
"Rebeca was a prostitute. You were going to arrest her but you were ambushed by some kid who raped and murdered her. He knocked you out and when you came to, you couldn't remember a thing. Randall McKinney was your undercover name. Remember? Remember that case, Rio?" He was screaming at me now.
"Don't you dare call her a prostitute! She's my wife, now where is she!"
"Carlos, the only wedding you had was to Sarah Chapman."
"I'm not Carlos and who the hell is Sarah Chapman? Please, you have no right to hold me here. I didn't do anything. One minute I'm..."
Something crashes in my mind, feeling like a hundred needles are stabbing me in the brain. I place my head in my hands, trying to alleviate the pain but it doesn't help. My screams fill the room and the darkness surrounds me. And I'm floating away on a boat into nothingness. There's no oars or anything, it's just me sailing the shadows of my mind.

THE END

I like doing in-line critique, so that's what I'll do.

There were too many choices. One was right in front of his face and the other was burning inside his mind. She was beautiful, the spitting image of Aphrodite. Maybe briefly explain who Aphrodite is? Something like "...of Aphrodite, Godess of love." Large, hypnotic brown eyes that pulled him in like quicksand.Excellent! Her lips curled into a soft smile or a smirk, he couldn't tell which, but he found it sexy. He wanted her, as much as he wanted to listen to the voices flying around in his head. They were screaming at him, begging him to leave the room. They were begging him to zip up his pants and walk away with his sweaty green paper in his hands. Ah-hah. Nice, brutal way of introducing us to what's really going on here.

"Well, what's it gonna be? I got other clients, you know." she asked, her hands trailing his chest. His heart was beating heavily and beads of sweat was forming on his head. He couldn't breath, his soul was in his throat. It's a little hard to understand what you mean by this... Just one kiss. Just one touch. That's all I want.

"Well?" Her lips were at his ear, kissing and nibbling them. He was slightly aroused. A fire was burning inside of his body, licking at all of the morality he had left. He watched the one choice in his head go up in flames. And then he couldn't take it anymore.

With his soaked palms, he took her head into his hands and made their lips dance in a rough harmony. He bit her ears, her lips, and savored the moans resonating in her throat. She unbuckled his belt and slowly started to pull down his pants. Not once did he stop to think about what he was actually doing. He had never been loved like this before. It was hot and beautiful and it felt like his first time all over again. But still, he wanted more. Maybe alter that last sentence- of course he'd want more! Otherwise, this is good.

________

"So, how was your night?"

I stared at my desk, trying to fight the sleep that was slowly taking over me. My head felt like a war that was determined to leave no one standing. Nice.

"Rio, you okay?"

Detective Laura Hayes was my partner for more than four years now. She knew about my failing marriage and the late-night drinks at the bar on 5th and Lennox and the pills I popped when no one was looking. Nicely done. In one sentence, you've laid out all the character's problems on the table. She knew about everything, but I couldn't describe this to anyone, not even her. I just wasn't the same anymore. I could feel the change deep in my bones. There was another me in my body, Maybe "another personwould work better.[b] telling me things, making me do things. It was like a carousel. The music was playing while thoughts and repressed memories danced around like wooden horses in a parade. There was something wrong with me. I could feel it.

The door to the captain's office opened, making me snap out of my trance. Hayes was staring at me, her green eyes furrowed, brimming with concern.

"Rio, Hayes, there's been a murder."

"Where?" Hayes asked, taking her gaze off of me.
[b]Might be good to quickly describe where the voice is coming from round about here.
"Plexington. A tenant said he heard loud music and decided to go check it out and what he found scared the hell out of him. He couldn't even describe it to me."

A chill traveled down my spine. Plexington. That street sounded so familiar. I could see it in my mind. It's dark and streetlights and headlights are blurring together, becoming one drunken haze. The wind smells of beer and cigarettes and Chanel No. 5. It's loud, music is playing and I'm moving, but where am I going?

Standing up, I pull my jacket on, secure my gun in the holster and grab my badge.

"Who's driving?" Hayes asked, falling into step with me. I pushed open the glass doors and headed towards the elevator.

"Me." I replied, pushing the down button.

_____________

The wind caressed the side of my face, as I drove down the highway. Cars move out of the way, which makes it easier just to cruise on through. Tapping the steering wheel, I listen to the soft hum of the radio playing some song that I don't know. It's soft and easy and it almost seems like I know it, like I've heard it before but I can't put a name to it. Using past and present tense alternately might not be such a good idea.

"Do you know where you're going?" Rebeca asked. I could feel her looking at me.

"Yeah, Downtown, right? Didn't you want to go to that new restaurant for your birthday."

"I'd love to but my birthday isn't till next month. I want to go to Plexington."
So I'm guessing he's sorta out of it? It's a little hard to keep track of his thoughts.
I meet her gaze. She's so pretty. Her red hair sweeps her neck in tired scarlet tendrils and those eyes, oh those eyes, they remind me of the Pacific, green and blue at the same time. I smile, nodding my head. If she wants to go to Plexington, we'll go. I get off of the highway and take the main road, humming along to the nameless tune on the radio.Too many "her"s and "she"s, you can use her name again at least once in the paragraph.

_____________

Blue and red and white stain the afternoon sky. Ambulances are situated in the middle of the street. Police officers are standing around, looking off into space, like they have nothing better to do. Turning the engine off, I step out of the car and wait for Hayes at the curve. She situated her gun so that her jacket was behind the handle. Again, stick with either past or present tense. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and the black sunglasses she usually wore were sliding down her small nose. We showed our badges and then headed up the three steps to the apartment building. It was old. The red bricks were crumbling and graffiti words painted the sides. Inside, it smelled of bleach and cigarettes. Plexington used to be nicer than this. You could come down for a drink or go dancing without worrying about hoodlums and drug cartels and prostitutes. Now look at it. the last sentence doesn't wuite fit in with the style, try changing it.

In the apartment, we see a couple of CSI's collecting evidence and stepped over the yellow tape. The body is sprawled out on the carpet. It's a female, her lacy red shirt is torn, her breast peaking out. Blood is dried up on her lifeless face. Her eyes, staring off into the distance. when you describe eyes on a corpse, it's normally a good idea to mention the fact they can't see.

"Hey, you must be the Detectives from NYPD. I'm CSI Jackson Lovett. My crew is done here so you guys can do what yall want."

"Did you find anything, that could help us. Like who she was?" Hayes asked, her hands on her hips.

"Well, according to her ID her name was Isabella Stanford. She's from Stanton Island and according to the man who found her, she didn't live here. Somebody by the name of Randall McKinney does though." It's unclear how Randall McKinney living in the street is relevant to the crime.

"Okay thanks."

Jackson leaves the room, leaving me and Hayes to look at the body.

"God, she looks like she's been through a lot."

"Yeah, whoever did this to her must have had his fun."

"We can't be sure that the perp is a male, can we?" Nice characterization here.

I edged closer to the body, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. The fabric snapped against my skin.

"Well, there was no signs of struggle and if we take a look at her face..." I started, and then a sharp pain coursed through my brain. Clamping my eyes shut, I tried to hold it back but I was losing in the battle with myself.

"Rio?" Hayes started to move closer, I could hear her heals clapping against the floor. Then she stopped. I looked at her, and watched as she bent over and picked up something small and silver.

"Looks like they forgot something."

It was a ring. She carefully turned it in her hand and then her eyes widened.

"Rio, isn't this your ring?"

And then it hit me, like an atomic bomb. this sentence would flow better if you left out the comma. This last bit is nicely written.

_________________

He's sitting there, disoriented, hunger burning in his eyes. Seeing the body, Again, no comma. brought back so many memories. The kisses that he landed on her naked body, the feel of the knife delving into her skin. Oh the look in her eyes when he penetrated and the ecstasy emitting from her body. It brought back so many good memories for him.

"You, you, were here?" Hayes breathed, the blood draining from her face.

"Yeah, well, you know, Becca wasn't giving me any, so I needed to get out. But I was here, there, in and out, you know how it works."Too many "you know"s for one sentence- leave out the first one.

Hayes was shaking her head, her hand grazing her gun. She looked back at the door, her feet slowly advancing towards it.

"No...I don't know how it works, Rio. Why don't you tell me?"

He could see the fear in her eyes. A smile curled his lips up, and then he slowly started to stand up.

"Don't move, Rio! Or I'll shoot." Sweat was raining down her face, and her hands were shaking as she quickly pulled the gun out of the holster.

"First off, my name's not Rio. It's McKinney, Randall McKinney New sentence here and you'd shoot me? An innocent bystander?"

"Randall, where is Rio? Give me Rio or I will shoot you! I swear to God I will!"

A laugh escaped from his lips, making his stomach jerk and his eyes water. He looked at Hayes, moving his hand towards his holster. Their eyes remained locked while he pulled the gun out.

"How 'bout a little less conversation, and a little more action. Put down your gun and I'll put down mine."

He watched as she tried to figure out what she was going to do. Her eyes were painted with confusion and her heart was beating rapidly. Then, closing her eyes, she slowly put her gun down and he put down his.

"Was that so hard?"

Hayes shook her head no. A smile still wide on his face, he advanced towards these two words are mutually exclusive, use "advanced on" or "moved towards". her, looking her up and down. She had a statuesque form, her hips and waist mirroring a temple that he wanted to worship. Her eyes, though scared out of their mind, were beautiful emeralds. She didn't move, she didn't breathe, which is what he liked. Throwing his weight on her, he placed his hand over her mouth. He loved the way she squirmed under him. Slowly, he stroked the back of her head and kissed her softly.

"Just one kiss. Just one touch. That's all I want." he whispered. Very good. The descrption of his advance is well done, and the repeated words at the end have a nice effect.

_____________________

My name is Bob. Well actually it's Robert Fitzwilliam Jones the third. I was named after my mom's father or my father. It was a noble name and it belonged to me. It was my name. My name is Bob, but they are telling me that I am not who I think I am. They think I'm crazy, and that's why I'm handcuffed to a table in a room where the only thing I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat. There's no one here but me and my reflection in this black room with black floors and black walls. I'm smiling at myself and my icy cerulean stare is laughing at me. But strangely, I don't feel like smiling or laughing. Instead, I feel like ripping out my thoughts to show it to them. I know who I am. My name is Robert...or is it Bob? No, wait I was named William by my Uncle John. No, no, my name is Robert Fitzwilliam Jones. That is who I am. I am not a killer or a rapist like they say I am. I am just Bob, the husband of Rebeca. Rebeca. Where is my sweet Rebeca? In my mind I can see her. I can see her ocean eyes and fiery hair. I'd love to see her now. I'd love to have her smile at me and make the world shine again. Where is Rebeca? Nicely worded and sinister.

The door to the room opens. A man walks in, his eyes hard and glossy and angry. They're burning holes right through me "Hard" and "burning" somehow don't work together. I'd leave out the former, if it was me. and I do not know why. He sat down across from me and slammed some folders down on the metal table. Pictures of mangled bodies glare at me. They are all women and it looks disgusting, bile rises in my throat. Why is he showing this to me?

"So your name is Robert Jones?"

"Yes," I breath.

"And your name is Randall McKinney and Carlos Rio? That's a hell of a lot of names to have. Why do you have them? What are you hiding in there?"

He's pointing at his bald head, a red vein throbbing in his forehead. Tears are scorching their way down my cheeks. it'd be more effective if the interregator pointed at Robert's head, but otherwise this is good.

"I'm not hiding anything. I don't know why I'm here! Please, where's Rebeca. Where's my Rebeca?"

Those flaming coals he has for eyes lock on me, and I feel as though he's throwing them at me because his gaze hurts.

"Rebeca Strong is dead, Carlos, and she's not even your wife."

"My name is Robert and I remember...walking...walking down the alter "aisle" would be more appropriate with her. I remember kissing her." And I could. She was dressed in white and the flower girl with her blond pigtails were throwing rose petals at her as she walked down the isle. I could see her.

"Rebeca was a prostitute. You were going to arrest her but you were ambushed by some kid who raped and murdered her. He knocked you out and when you came to, you couldn't remember a thing. Randall McKinney was your undercover name. Remember? Remember that case, Rio?" He was screaming at me now.

"Don't you dare call her a prostitute! She's my wife, now where is she!"

"Carlos, the only wedding you had was to Sarah Chapman."

"I'm not Carlos and who the hell is Sarah Chapman? Please, you have no right to hold me here. I didn't do anything. One minute I'm..."

Something crashes in my mind, feeling like a hundred needles are stabbing me in the brain. I place my head in my hands, trying to alleviate the pain but it doesn't help. My screams fill the room and the darkness surrounds me. And I'm floating away on a boat into nothingness. There's no oars or anything, it's just me sailing the shadows of my mind.

THE END

Right. Overall, this story has quite a bit of potential. There are a lot of unanswered questions at the end, but I get the feeling that was your intention. Just smooth out the rough areas, and it'll go far!

Sanareth

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

I was waiting for a critique for this, and I was thinking that it would get ripped apart but I'm glad to see that you think it was good and that it has potential. Your line by line critique was really helpful and I will use it when I go to edit this.

Yeah, I really wanted it to end mysteriously. I was going to keep going on and on but then I realized that it had to stop sometime and I felt that that was the best way to end it.

Thanks again!

~Angel

You're very welcome.

Okay, so to be honest, your story moves so quickly, changes perspective so rapidly, and leaves so many questions at the end that it is very hard to comprehend what is going on here. I'm thinking you want your character to be skitzo or something, but I'm not positive. You have good imagery and use unique wording to describe things. But I think there are a lot of things that need some cleaning up.



You start out in a third person, narrative perspective.

There were too many choices. One was right in front of his face and the other was burning inside his mind.

Then you jump to first person perspective.

I stared at my desk, trying to fight the sleep that was slowly taking over me.

As a reader I don't even realize that the first person, the man paying the prostitute, is the same one fighting to stay awake at his job. As an author, this may be something that you want to keep a secret until the end. But still, I don't understand the switch in perspective.

"Plexington. A tenant said he heard loud music and decided to go check it out and what he found scared the hell out of him. He couldn't even describe it to me."

When someone calls to report a murder they are going to call 911, which will route them to an operator, not the local precinct. The witness will not even speak to the Captain unless he is questioned further on in the investigation.

Plexington. That street sounded so familiar.

Plexington sounds more like a neighborhood than a street. If it is a street than the Captain would say Plexington and Bannock or something along those lines. He wouldn't just say Plexington, because for all we know Plexington is a long street that stretches on for miles.

I could see it in my mind. It's dark and streetlights and headlights are blurring together, becoming one drunken haze. The wind smells of beer and cigarettes and Chanel No. 5. It's loud, music is playing and I'm moving, but where am I going?

If your going to veer off into a half-dream state of mind, reminiscing about a location then use italics. Otherwise it just sounds weird.

The wind caressed the side of my face, as I drove down the highway. Cars move out of the way, which makes it easier just to cruise on through. Tapping the steering wheel, I listen to the soft hum of the radio playing some song that I don't know. It's soft and easy and it almost seems like I know it, like I've heard it before but I can't put a name to it.

"Do you know where you're going?" Rebeca asked. I could feel her looking at me.

"Yeah, Downtown, right? Didn't you want to go to that new restaurant for your birthday."

"I'd love to but my birthday isn't till next month. I want to go to Plexington."

I meet her gaze. She's so pretty. Her red hair sweeps her neck in tired scarlet tendrils and those eyes, oh those eyes, they remind me of the Pacific, green and blue at the same time. I smile, nodding my head. If she wants to go to Plexington, we'll go. I get off of the highway and take the main road, humming along to the nameless tune on the radio.

When I first started reading this, I thought Rio was in the car with his partner heading down to the crime scene. I'm thinking, squad cars don't have music radios in them, because they always have to keep their scanners on. Then all of a sudden I realize Rio is remembering something to do with Rebeca. Who is Rebeca? Why does he think it is her birthday? It is about right here in the story that you start to lose me. What is the signifigance of this memory?

Police officers are standing around, looking off into space, like they have nothing better to do.

They would not be doing this. They would be securing the area, taping it off, holding back curious onlookers. They would be taking statements from neighbors and witnesses. And there probably wouldn't be that many, maybe four, besides the CSI's and Rio and Hayes.

We showed our badges and then headed up the three steps to the apartment building. [s]It was old.[/s] The red bricks were crumbling and graffiti [s]words[/s] painted the [s]sides[/s] walls.

In the apartment, we see a couple of CSI's collecting evidence and stepped over the yellow tape.

This reads really weird. I think because you change tenses. Present is in bold and past is in italics.

The body is sprawled out on the carpet. It's a female, her lacy red shirt is torn, her breast peaking out. Blood is dried up on her lifeless face. Her eyes, staring off into the distance.

I want you to use more descriptive words here. Tell me what kind of carpet it is. What color is the carpet? How does the room smell? How decomposed is the body? Is she pretty, even dead? What color are her eyes?

My crew is done here so you guys can do what yall want."

Chose one or the other. Having you guys and ya'll in the same sentence sounds odd. And people don't talk like that. Since it is New York, I'd go with you guys, but I'd give him a little Jersey accent by spelling it youse guys.

"[s]Did you find anything, that could help us.[/s] Like who she was?" Hayes asked, her hands on her hips.

I'd have Hayes just ask who the victim is, maybe the time of death. Also, I don't like how she has her hands on her hips. It makes her seem like a mean Mom chiding a child.

"Well, according to her ID her name was Isabella Stanford. She's from Stanton Island and according to the man who found her, she didn't live here. Somebody by the name of Randall McKinney does though."

You have several redundancies in this sentence. Number one, you use according twice, which I dislike. I pretty much dislike redundancies. I'm good at catching them though. Second, you say she is from Staton Island and then you say she doesn't live in the apartment. Now unless Plexington is on Staton Island, you are just reconfirming that she doesn't live there. If Plexington is on Staton Island you need to inform your reader, because not everybody knows all the street names of New York.

"Yeah, whoever did this to her must have had his fun."

Weird statement. Like gross, the poor girl is dead and he's talking about her like someone's play thing. It irked me.

I edged closer to the body, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. The fabric snapped against my skin.

I'm not sure fabric is the right word, perhaps material.

"Well, there was no signs of struggle and if we take a look at her face..." I started, and then a sharp pain coursed through my brain. Clamping my eyes shut, I tried to hold it back but I was losing in the battle with myself.

After reading this a second time through, I'm guessing this is where Rio changes personalities and I'm guessing identities as well.

"Rio?" Hayes started to move closer, I could hear her heals clapping against the floor.

First off it is spelled heels not heals. Furthermore, I don't think she would be wearing high heels of any kind in her line of work. I think they are required to wear a certain type of shoe, because can you really imagine her chasing after some perp in stilettos?

He's sitting there, disoriented, hunger burning in his eyes. Seeing the body, brought back so many memories. The kisses that he landed on her naked body, the feel of the knife delving into her skin. Oh the look in her eyes when he penetrated and the ecstasy emitting from her body. It brought back so many good memories for him.

Whoa, total change here. So when Rio is in his alter ego then the perspective changes? It is really rough on the reader to follow that. Also, I'm confused when he talks about the knife and penetrating her. Did she want to be murdered? Or was he talking about when they had sex? If she is emitting ecstasy during sex, I'd think that would come before the stabbing, not after. Otherwise it makes one think that she enjoyed being stabbed to death, which is just strange.

"Yeah, well, you know, Becca wasn't giving me any, so I needed to get out. But I was here, there, in and out, you know how it works."

Okay so Rebeca is his wife? Keep the name the same. It should either be Rebeca or Becca. Especially since you spell it differently each time.

"First off, my name's not Rio. It's McKinney, Randall McKinney and you'd shoot me? An innocent bystander?"

Okay, so he's a different person now. And no I don't think Randall McKinney is such an innocent bystander, considering he has a dead person in his apartment. I'd say he's not innocent at all. Which makes his innocent bystander comment a total farce.

"Randall, where is Rio? Give me Rio or I will shoot you! I swear to God I will!"

So does Hayes know about the multiple personality disorder? It just sounds off that she is pleading with him to give her Rio when Rio and Randall are one and the same.

There's no one here but me and my reflection in this black room with black floors and black walls.

Redundant. You say it is a black room, so automatically we think the floors and the walls are black.

The door to the room opens. A man walks in, his eyes hard and glossy and angry. They're burning holes right through me and I do not know why. He sat down across from me and slammed some folders down on the metal table.

You change tenses here. Bold is present tense and italics are past tense. I'd stick to present tense in this story. Who is he? The Captain?

"And your name is Randall McKinney and Carlos Rio? That's a hell of a lot of names to have. Why do you have them? What are you hiding in there?"

Your interogater asks this question and then a few paragraphs later he says:

"Rebeca was a prostitute. You were going to arrest her but you were ambushed by some kid who raped and murdered her. He knocked you out and when you came to, you couldn't remember a thing. Randall McKinney was your undercover name. Remember? Remember that case, Rio?" He was screaming at me now.

So if he doesn't have split personalities and all these identities are just a cover for his job, then what the hell is going on here? If he already knows why Bob has so many names, why is he asking him? And I thought the girl murdered in the apartment was Isabella, not Rebeca. I thought Rebeca was his wife. I'm sorry but this last part of the story is just way confusing.

"My name is Robert and I remember...walking...walking down the alter with her. I remember kissing her." And I could. She was dressed in white and the flower girl with her blond pigtails were throwing rose petals at her as she walked down the isle. I could see her.

Okay, the first part in bold. That sentence just seems weird to me. You wouldn't be walking down the altar. You could be standing at the altar watching her walk down the aisle. Were should be was. And finally, isle should be spelled aisle.

"Carlos, the only wedding you had was to Sarah Chapman."

"I'm not Carlos and who the hell is Sarah Chapman? Please, you have no right to hold me here. I didn't do anything. One minute I'm..."

I'm with Bob, who the hell is Sarah Chapman? Who is Rebeca Strong? Who is Isabella Stanford? There just seem to be too many women and too many men in your protagonist's life and it makes me want to scream. There is already a bunch of confusion over your character's identity and which personality is the real him. So I'd say just have one girl. Rebeca was in a vast majority of the story so I'd stick with her. Because springing Sarah Chapman on your reader in the last paragraph is just overkill.

I think what you need to do is stop, develop your main character and all of his three personalities. Keep the basic concept of your story, slow down a bit in your telling of the story, and maybe make it a bit longer. It might be better if your short story became a medium story. I hope you didn't take my criticism too harshly. You are very talented with words and come up with stuff that I wish I could have wrote at your age. I just think you rushed it and in the race you lost the plot and your characters. Hope this has helped and keep writing!