Turning to the judge, you announce the crimes of the two messily-dressed young lovers. The jury squirms in their seat, from the sheer wave of awkward information you just spouted. You smile inwardly. The judge speaks, “Very well. Thank you, if you will all please leave, the jury will reach a verdict”. Y
ou follow a white-wigged man out of the court-room and find a bench, pondering your life. You’re plenty rich, but for something too…. easy. Truly scarce are the cases that actually require your input anymore. Why do you never get assigned the dirty, scandalous, juicy murder cases? Always petty crimes. The judge calls you back to the court-room. You stand, and another thought hits you: Luxury isn’t happiness. At least you have a proud amount of 5£ notes in your purse, but that does not equal any joyful feelings. The Yard knows you have the talent to catch every criminal in London. You’re restricted from this, considering your foul tongue. But the Yard needs you too much to put you in prison. Sighing, you shuffle back to the expected verdict: Guilty. You watch the sorry pair tearfully depart, and for a brief moment you feel sympathy, before you remember that they deserve it.
You exit the court for a final time, turning onto the unusually sunny London street. You’re still admiring the weather as you turn the corner to your flat on Baker Street, only to have a man with a bloody face fall into your arms. Catching him with a small grunt, you see that there is a gaping wound from a gunshot in his large, rounded belly. His eyes begin to glaze over, but before he dies, you manage to recognise the word “Beware” leave his blue lips. As his life ends in your arms, a bullet grazes your shoulder and a loud gun-shot echo is heard from the archaic architecture. Looking up, you see a tall figure approaching, but through the dust, only their silhouette is visible. You are slightly surprised that the figure seems to have a womanly hour-glass shape. As the debris settles, a blonde haired female strolls up to you and aims her still-smoking revolver to your forehead. “Wouldn’t want a witness,” she says in a controlled voice. Bang…
You awake in a cold sweat. Quickly,-if stupidly- you feel your head for a bullet wound, and you are shocked to find that there is, in fact, a large hole in your head. You touch it again, finding the pit to still be there. You just woke from a dream; how could you be dreaming? This had to be a dream. This can’t be real! Tentatively, you poke your finger in the wound, and your pulse races when you experience no pain. Feeling around, you hit a hard bit; the bullet. Wrapping your finger around the metal, you dislodge it and bring it from the inner depths of your brain. Flipping on the light, you examine your blood-stained relic, pulse still zooming. Your clammy hands tremble as you pick bits of your memories off the small leaden chunk. Under an especially messy patch, you find the engraved initials, “L.P.” Questions barricade your already damaged head; who is “LP???” How the hell did their bullet make it through your subconscious to here? Did the mysterious “LP” shoot you? Or was it someone else? Who was the woman? Why didn’t your head throb, why didn’t it burn, ache, or pain you in any way? Laying down, you weigh your next options.
To bandage the wound yourself, click here: http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work.php?id=97401
To consult a doctor, *wait for me to post the next part, please*
To phone a friend, *wait some more!*