Up In Flames

You had a particular approach to any questions or discussions revolving around men. It was definitely an intriguing concept. And hell, you loved seeing your colleagues ramble. They always mention how that the sex of homo sapiens were valueless. You were always smirking. You knew their grumbling was due to their declining sex drives.

Seeing your mocking grin, they’d always asked the same thing. “If you find this so fascinating, then what’d you think about them?”

And you’d always answer with the same response that it had become your catch phrase. “I hate men.” You’d always chuckle after you say it, and Casha would always call you out as a liar.

You certainly weren’t lying. You generally had a dislike for the male population. From your experience, you’ve noticed they are domineering and patronizing. And they tend to think from areas that are other than their brain.

So again- why were you always laughing at your own comments?

Because you define hypocrisy.

And as you laid shoulder to shoulder with the chocolate man, you cursed at yourself for that same reason. You hated men, yet, every night you brought a new one home.

You thought back to the night before in an attempt to remember. You believed you should, at least, have the courtesy to greet the man with a name when he woke up.

Hilgara Morrison.

The haunting name crossed your mind, leaving you to shudder. Of all the things your mind could think about, why is it that you decided to recall the dead girl’s name? And why, of all places, did you have to remember her in the bedroom?

When you snapped out of your daze, you noted, again, that there was still a man that was tangled with your body. To your misfortunate, the tawny stranger was awake and was startled by your unyielding stare. “Mornin’...” He muttered in an unsettled manner.

“Good morning,” you flushed scarlet as you scrambled out of your bed. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“No, no,” he chuckled, a clear soberness striking his speech pattern. “It’s a good thing I woke up. I’d be late for work. I keep forgetting today’s only Thursday.”

You tossed the covers off, and stretched, “What’d you say you worked as again?”

Almost immediately, you noticed the slight cringe perching on his left cheek. “I’m a mold and die finisher,”

He lied the night before. You remember the stranger bragging to you about his killer DJ skills in the morning radio. Well, at least, he fessed up.

You nodded your head leisurely, your signature taunting smirk rolling over your lips. You thought it was rude to comment on it after you’d already done the deed. But it was out of your personality not to mock. “Well, at least, you’re not scratching records, right?”

Never in your life had you seen a tan person turned red so quick.

Casha managed to a glimpse of you as you strutted through the doorway. You gave yourself credit for managing to look clean for a job that defines the phrase ‘get down and dirty’. The woman drew her chair from the table to cut into your path, “Well look who’s late.”

You chuckled, quirking a grin, “Boo hoo, I’m terribly ashamed.” You stalked around her seat to your station, buckling the sleeves of your uniform. “How far are you into distilling the lungs?”

“Mraz collaborated with the detectives’ beliefs of fluorine traces. He decided to take the sample from me.” She slumped, “Are you any further in the case?”

“The symptoms and the obvious guilty confession of the son says there had to be some type of poison present. Whether it was inhaled or consumed is dependent on the type of tests we do. I went ahead and added hydrogen sulfide to the sample-”

“Wait,” Casha furrowed her brows, “you’re attempting to find arsenic?”

“It would be a valid position to start, correct? Arsenic traces are hard to identify if added to food or beverages. It would have been an easy kill.” You finally took your seat. You arranged the equipment and dispersed across the table in an organized fashion. “I know, it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

“Hey, I never said anything.” The woman chuckled, finally departing to her station.

From that point onward, it was just you and the case before you. All evidence was a step closer to closing bars on these bastards. Considering what your eyes made you see, you wanted nothing more than justice. And forensic toxicology was the way to setting things right for yourself and for the innocent.

How’d you get to this point in your life?

Well, to make your back-story short and sweet is a difficult task. You grew up in a high-achieving strict family. They wanted you to go into the medical field considering your talent in the sciences. Then they wanted you to go into criminal law due to your talents of straight talk. You found your middle point when you studied forensic science in a newborn university in Canada. You moved to the states and found yourself in your perfect planned out condo. You found everything you wanted to do to flourish your parents with pride. Everything was just right for you.

But again, you keep asking yourself how the coin flipped.

What caused your mind to play tricks?

What caused you to be scared shitless to sleep alone in the night?

What caused you to hate your own existence?

Your eyes crept to the pictures pinned to the wooden bulletin board. The logic in your mind knew that no one would take photographs of the victims with their eyelids open unless it was vital to the case But, there on the wall, the eyes of the corpse were wide and staring at you.

You held your breath and peeled your gaze from the wall, returning it to the sample before you. Blood filled the containment. Your heart throbbed against your chest and beads of sweat collected on your forehead.

“(L/n),” Mraz called from the doorway. With brows furrowed, he was obviously unimpressed. It took a moment or two to finally snap out of your daze. But when you did, you finally recognized the infamous detective everyone spoke about in your department. “This is detective Belekzer. And sir, this is Dr. (L/n). She’s one of our finest toxicologists in the department.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the man beamed generously, stretching his hand to you. You happened to catch the petite scar stretching over his cupid’s bow. In a disheveled state, you failed to respond welcomingly.

“Same on my end, sir. I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” you commented, half-heartedly.

“Oh, really?” The olive man chuckled, eyeing the shorter man, “Like what?”

You were out of it. You thought you’d see stars and collapse to the ground any second. Your lack of sarcastic response had given Dr. Mraz the time to clue in. “Are you okay, (Y/n)? You look like you’re going to faint.”

There was an interval of time where you stood soundless and haunted. The two men exchanged brief stares before Belekzer gave you a shake. “Ma’am, are you feeling well?”

You blinked a few times before finally blurting out the truth. “There are traces of arsenic in the victim’s stomach.”

You took no effort to making yourself look appealing or enthusiastic about meeting people. That would be one of the many reasons why no one seemed interested in approaching you. That- and well, you came off as a sad drunk, indulging in multiple shots of Jager.

And in blunt honesty, you were a sad drunk.

You dreamed a week ago that you were successful when testing for arsenic in the stomach of a victim. When you worked on the remaining samples for the past few days, you prayed the element wouldn’t be present. To your misfortune, it was. Now the case was coming to an end.

Why were you upset about your slight sidekick abilities?

Well, you’re scared it would cloud your logic one day.

You’re a woman of science. You wanted nothing that would blur the facts of the world. Especially these hallucinations.

So after you dreamed about arsenic, you tested the stomach fluids in an attempt prove yourself wrong. Clearly that plan didn’t quite work out the way you desired.

Hours had driven by quick. The streetlights began to illuminate the sidewalks. The melody softened in the bar as did the chattering of people. Couples and strangers walked hand in hand as they left.

You groaned in distress at the taps on your shoulder. You already knew it was the bartender giving you a final warning. You would have left, but you were trembling and impaired from the levels of alcohol. You raised your head from the counter, shoving your mop of hair out of your face. You heaved a sigh, whisking the man’s hand away, “Yeah, I know- I- I know. I’m leaving...”

Being so intoxicated, you failed to place your feet properly on the floor, causing you to trip. A firm but tender grasp on your triceps saved you in record time. “Careful there.” Despite your inebriated state, you were able to figure out the voice was unfamiliar. You raised your gaze, meeting a pusillanimous young man. He dressed spiffy and sharp which surprised you. This area was the designated for hook-ups and he just came across as one of those cliché good boys that like to hide away. The one thing that horrified you is the one thing that intrigued you in his appearance: his eyes. They were clear, open and childlike.

He definitely looked sober.

As the moment flew, you knew you needed someone to hold onto as you walked.

But you convinced yourself it was best to go home alone that night. You felt like you were going to vomit and you weren’t planning on embarrassing yourself.

“I- I’m fine,” you garbled, tearing yourself from his clutch. You made the effort to glance back at the young man briefly, noticing the confusion striking his features. “Go home before the cougars and sugar daddies drive by, kid.” You advised as you stumbled out the door.

After a long time, it struck you that, after several months, you were going spend a night on your own. Besides, who needs an overgrown chimp to sleep?