《The Porcelain Mind》


 4:44 AM

    ¡°The Truth is rarely pure and never simple¡± _ Oscar Wilde


    Arlo


    ¡°Hello?¡± a voice said in a soft tone barely above a whisper, so low I had to strain to hear ¡°yes¡± I whispered back there was nothing but silence.


    Sweat beaded on my forehead, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Was I losing it? Hallucinations? Or was something truly there? I turned over in my bed, burying my face in the pillow, the whisper still echoing in my ears.


    I strained my senses, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. Was it just the wind? A creaking floorboard? But then it came again, louder this time, a desperate plea that seemed to pierce the very core of his being: ¡°Please help my flowers, please I¡¯m begging you!¡±


    I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. I whipped my head around, searching the darkness of my room. A shaft of moonlight sliced through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. For a fleeting moment, I swore I saw a glimmer of light, a spectral figure fading into the shadows.


    I wasn¡¯t one to simply dismiss things. I was the type to delve deeper, to try and understand to learn more before I easily wrote if off or dismissed something. I couldn¡¯t even if I wanted to my brain once it had a project or the need to understand something I would keep going some day it drove me crazy other days it helped me get to where I wanted to be and reach my goals.


    I sat up scrubbing a hand over my face I glanced over at the clock 4:44 am. I had just over and hour before I had to head to the police station with my dad. Sleep was out of the question so I decided to get up and work out.


    After an invigorating workout and a refreshing shower, I was dressed in my uniform seated at the kitchen island enjoying a cup of coffee. My dad walked in looking equally prepared His dad, a man in his early forties, entered the kitchen. Chestnut brown hair streaked with silver framed his face, where lines of stress etched themselves beside his gray eyes. He was dressed in his usual uniform: a crisp, navy blue suit that seemed to defy the wrinkles of a long day, a white shirt, and a dark tie. The badge pinned to his chest gleamed. My dad carried himself very well he was a no nonsense man but very compassionate my mom said it was his deep compassion for helping others she fell in love with, I swallowed back a lump in my throat at the thought of my deceased mother.


    ¡° Good morning Arlo¡± my dad said his voice a deep grumble I murmured a good morning back, he fixed himself a cup of coffee, before he sat down and took a long sip before he spoke again.


    ¡° How are you feeling about joining this case?¡± He asked his grey eyes bore into mines, he had eyes that seemed to see everything said and unsaid so I always chose my words carefully and honestly when I spoke to him I sat back as looked my father over as he waited for my reply. My dad and I shared the same height, both standing at six feet tall. We were both muscular, but with distinct physiques. He had a more bulky build, while mine was leaner and more defined, but I looked like my mom I had her olive toned skin, turquoise -colored eyes, and curly jet black hair I kept cropped shorter on the sided and longer on top. I took another sip of my coffee as I pondering my dad¡¯s question. I felt a deep sadness for the missing women, and even more for those found dead, it hit to close to home. A surge of determination coursed through me ¨C I was determined to stop this sick son of a bitch. That was why I went through the academy to help and protect others, and this was a big step for me the BAU had called in my dad to help with the investigation, and he had picked men from the force to help as well, I knew the chance my dad was taking on me, I was a rookie and this was a big case I couldn¡¯t mess this up and I wouldn¡¯t embarrass my father. I looked my father straight In the eyes when Here¡¯s a refined version of that sentence:


    ¡°I looked my father directly in the eyes, ensuring he saw the unwavering determination reflected there. ¡®I¡¯m incredibly grateful for this opportunity,¡¯ I declared, ¡®and I won¡¯t let you or the department down¡± I said solemnly. My father stared back at me, measuring my words. After a moment, he nodded slowly, a gentle smile gracing his lips. He finished his coffee and rose.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡° Come on, let¡¯s grab some breakfast on our way in,¡¯ he said, slapping me lightly on the back as he passed. I rinsed out both our coffee cups, grabbed the car keys, and said, ¡®Sounds good. I¡¯ll drive.¡±


    ¡°Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.¡± Stephen King


    Iris


    I checked every surface, moped, vacuumed, and made sure all the beds were made perfectly and that nothing was out of place before I headed to the kitchen to see how my mom was doing with the cooking, I walked in just as my mom was pulling the dinner rolls out of the oven she closed the over door with a frustrated slam she sat the pan down and stood there with her back to me for a moment before she took a deep breath and turned around. My mother¡¯s usually vibrant chestnut hair hung limply, escaping the confines of her ponytail. Her hazel eyes, typically sparkling with warmth, were now dull and lifeless. Even her honey-toned skin, usually glowing with a healthy radiance, had lost its luster, mirroring the despair in her eyes.


    ¡°How can you keep doing this, Iris?!¡± she cried, clutching at her hair, her voice laced with frustration. ¡°We can¡¯t keep playing along, doing whatever he says! We have to get out of here!¡± Desperation fueled her movements as she rushed to the door, only to find it locked. She then turned her fury on the boarded-up windows, attempting to pry them open before collapsing to the floor in tears. I watched her, a detached sympathy washing over me.


    ¡°I do what I do so we can survive,¡± I said, my voice gentle but firm ¡°He¡¯s not well, this man. He¡¯s dangerous, But I¡¯ve learned enough about his behavior to keep us alive, at least for now. Until we find a way to escape, or until help arrives, ¡± I held back the chilling truth ¨C the grim statistics I¡¯d read in my psychology textbooks. Cases like ours rarely ended well. The longest any mother and daughter had survived in his twisted game was six months, but it could be longer no one really knew because no one had survived. I had to ensure we didn¡¯t overstep, didn¡¯t disrupt the fragile balance that kept us alive. As long as we were alive, we had a chance.


    ¡°The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It¡¯s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.¡± ¨C The Giver by Lois Lowry


    Arlo


    I was in the station with my dad, alongside the BAU agents and the other officers selected for the case. We were all gathered in a briefing room, reviewing the case file and any new developments that might have come to light. The lead investigator finally entered the room, his presence breaking the tense silence. He was a man in his early 50s, his mocha-colored skin contrasting sharply with the crisp white shirt and somber black and green tie he wore. His head was shaved clean, and his sharp, piercing brown eyes, usually filled with a steely resolve, now held a deep, unsettling worry. He seemed lost in thought, a grim determination battling with an unease that hung heavy in the air.


    The lead investigator, a man in his early 50s with mocha-colored skin, a shaved head, and piercing brown eyes, finally entered the room, breaking the tense silence. Dressed in crisp black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a somber black and green tie, he cut a sharp figure. Yet, his sharp features seemed etched with worry, his gaze distant as he scanned the room. He wore the weight of the investigation heavily, a grim determination battling with a deep-seated unease that hung heavy in the air.


    He moved to the podium, facing the room, his gaze sweeping across the assembled officers until a hush fell over the room. "I''m sorry to report,¡± he began, his voice heavy with regret, ¡°that Mr. Nathaniel Jones, the grandfather of the missing women, passed away this morning. He suffered a fatal heart attack and passed away at 4:44 am. This morning. ¡°


    The news struck me like a physical blow. I had woken up at precisely 4:44 a.m., the coincidence sending a shiver down my spine. The weight of his grief, the relentless stress of the past weeks, it had finally broken him. The thought of him never knowing if his beloved daughter and granddaughter were safe, never getting to embrace them again, a cruel twist of fate that left me feeling utterly helpless. Life, in that moment, felt unbearably cruel.

 Status Quo

    ¡°People are capable of almost anything when they¡¯re desperate.¡± ¨C Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn


    Iris


    My mom and I stood side-by-side, scrutinizing our reflections in the mirror. We were mirror images of each other, both wearing the same blue sundress adorned with white daisies, and matching blue ballet flats. Our hair was pulled back in identical neat buns, and we¡¯d applied the minimal makeup he¡¯d requested ¨C a dusting of eyeshadow and a touch of lipstick.


    The clock ticked towards 6:00 PM, but I wasn¡¯t one to leave anything to chance, especially not when our lives were on the line. I turned to my mother, her hands trembling slightly as she grasped mine. ¡°Take a deep breath,¡± I whispered gently. She inhaled sharply, holding it for a moment before releasing it slowly. She repeated this twice more, the tremors in her hands gradually subsiding. ¡°Thank you, Iris,¡± she murmured, a small, strained smile gracing her lips. ¡°You¡¯re so strong.¡±


    She gently touched my face, her touch surprisingly firm. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± I said, taking her hand in mine. With a shared nod, we walked hand-in-hand down the hallway towards the kitchen, where we were to stand and wait for him. As we approached, I pushed down the bitterness that bubbled within me, steeling myself for the inevitable dinner, the forced family meal that had become a chilling ritual in our lives.


    We both stood at our places behind our chairs on opposite sides of the table. The sound of the lock outside clicking announced his arrival, 6 pm like clockwork it had been this way for two weeks now. I saw my mom flinch before she took a breath and relaxed her stance. I stood still as well, waiting and ready. I heard him lock the door behind him before shuffling down the hall to the kitchen. He always checked to make sure the kitchen was clean and that the cooking knives were in place. Once my mom tried to take the knife to hide and use later, and he blacked her eye. I bit back the anger at the remembered memory, giving myself a mental shake. I needed to focus.


    We heard some more shuffling and then his footsteps as he came back down the hall and into the dining room. He appeared in the doorway, a tall and lean figure with defined muscles. He had black hair worn slightly long and dark blue eyes that seemed to absorb the light. His skin was pale, almost translucent. He smiled when he saw us before he came in and sat down at the head of the table. We weren¡¯t allowed to sit until he did. We both sat down and waited for him to speak. He sat the bottle of wine he got on the table, followed by his revolver right next to it. I eyed it. He did this as well, to keep us in check. If not for the gun, I would have said ¡°fuck it¡± and taken my chances but I had to be smart.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°How was your day?¡± he asked up lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward and waited for us to speak.


    ¡°Oh, it was¡­ productive,¡± my mother said, her voice a tightrope walk across a chasm of fear. ¡°Very productive. I¡­ I cleaned the entire house. Top to bottom.¡±


    He raised an eyebrow, he was pleased by this. ¡°Sounds exhausting. All that exertion.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well,¡± she said, her gaze darting nervously around the room, ¡°one must keep busy, mustn¡¯t one?¡±


    He took another sip of wine, his eyes narrowing. ¡°And what did you do with yourself, young lady?¡±


    I smiled gently, my voice calm and measured, ¡°I read.¡±


    ¡°Read? And what did this fascinating novel contain?¡±


    I shrugged, my heart pounding. ¡° romance. And adventure¡±


    He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. ¡°Romance, eh? Sounds exciting. Though I doubt it compares to the real world, does it?¡±


    I tilted my head slightly, a playful glint in my eye. ¡°You never know, perhaps it offered a more exciting reality than this one.¡±


    He leaned back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes. ¡°Oh? And what makes you say that?¡±


    I maintained my composure, my voice steady. ¡°Just an observation.¡±


    He leaned back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes. ¡°No adventures? I find that hard to believe. You¡¯re always up to something, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I smiled and shook my head. ¡°Not at all. I¡¯m just doing as I¡¯m told and enjoying the day as it goes."


    He nodded and smiled back. I saw my mom eyeing us warily out of the corner of my eye. She always got nervous when I had any exchange with him because I told her it wasn¡¯t just for shits and giggles. I needed to understand him. The better I understood him, the better our chances of survival were.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± I said, turning my attention back to him, ¡°what did you do today? Did you have a productive day as well?¡±


    And like a switch flipped, he launched into a detailed account of his day, expecting our rapt attention. Yesterday he was an accountant, today he was a car salesman, and he had made three sales. My mother and I made sure to shower him with the appropriate amount of feigned interest and congratulations as we ate our meal. At least out of this god-awful situation, I had a good meal to eat, I thought bitterly as he droned on and on.