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Another Note: Crime Scenes

By Resting-Madness

Mystery / Drama

Walk in the Rain

"Aww, are you kidding?" Cried a little boy when he felt the first drop hit his chubby cheek. "I'll see you guys tomorrow." He went tearing across the street for home, after momentarily having to watch out from bumping into a lanky male, who's walking casually along.

"Yeah, bye Eric!" A tomboy called after him, before holding out her hand to see that it is, in fact, beginning to rain.

Taking leave herself, as do the rest of the small pack of playing friends, she hurries on home before the sky erupts.

Beeping cars of nervous drivers are left to move dangerously among other slower drivers, but all of them are seeking to get somewhere out of the coming weather. Walkers without portable protection hurry into a nearby store or pick up their pace to go home, some hide beneath an awning until they can come out.

People have certain reactions to the dull wet weather, but what it comes down to are two reactions... They love it, or they hate it. For me... it's a gray necessity. So I walk in the rain.

Large black eyes turn up towards the sky as a dark cloud blankets the town of Bedford Row in Holborn. The homes are thin and stuck together in a row along the wide street, it's an active place despite its lack of gardens for a kid to have a thoroughly good day of play, but there are parks nearby to do as you will.

The wind is moving slowly through the air, so the clouds aren't being severely pushed; it's going to give the coming rain a long time to come down in the neighborhoods and city.

Some are calmed by the serenity of the gray sky, looking out at the dim like it's the pacifier to their infant souls or the cup of tea that battles a stressful day- coffee, or sweets for others.

There are others who are spring into a greater hurry, because of the graying sheet in the sky. They want nothing to do with what comes next, not the drone of the elements coming down in a hard splatter on the ground, louder once the wetness has gathered into itself in pockets decorating the London streets.

They don't like being left to stand in the alone of no one wanting to go out, or to be in the company of teary children who are just plain bored since their friends aren't going to come over, and they aren't allowed to go out.

It's that slowed down a cup of tea, it's that 'better get moving' hurry. It's the darkness in the light. It is... the rain.

The drops of rain came falling from the sky in a torrential downpour as if there were a word 'Go'. They hit everything. The buildings, the cars, the people, toys left on the lawn. Anything left exposed the rain came down to touch.

They're like children playing if that's how you'd like to see the little drops. Children finding surfaces to slip and slide down from, like all the world were a playground. I suppose the wind could act as a swing when it blows the droplets slant.

His black hair is soaked to a wilt like a peeled banana turned upside down; his clothes are soaked through to the skin. And his skin soaked through to the bone. And his bones are absorbing it into the whole, as the detective walks through the rain. Hands arrested by his tightly soaked back pockets, and pace set to 'casual stroll', he walks through the streets.

There are some who dream a little darker, some who see- not little-playing children- but jumpers of purposeful or accidental suicide. From a plane with no parachute. From a bridge with no bungee, A window of a home, or even a small step off a chair... granted you have a long way down and rope around your neck.

His large eyes remove themselves from the sky, and instead he looks down onto the street he's treading with bare, exploring feet.

To me, they are neither playing children nor suicidal souls... they're gatherers. Employed by the grim sky that can hear what the city has to say, it sends its gatherers running along with the stories that the authoring city has to tell, then bringing them to me at a rapid pace as they swirl around my feet.

I'm walking to hear of their tales, short stories or long they all come to me because I... am willing to listen.

I don't listen to the shouts of parents calling in straggling children, or the honking horns of cars being cut off by one another. I listen to the rain and its stories of the macabre. I was once told of a tale where a Mother burned 2 of her three children to death, then leapt from the window with the third. The wet ash and smoke in the air liquidized and flowed down along the streets of the London neighborhood.

A young boy was bludgeoned to death by a bully, who chose to hit him just a bit too hard one dreary afternoon.

There once was a man from Yorkshire who'd been flung into a tree, his asphyxiated corpse was knocked down onto the street. And where happy sunshine calling "play with me", will ignore it... the rain does not. And the weight of its gathering forces into the body dragged it down, like a demon bringing a victim to Hell. A story of murder.

So I walk in the rain...

What tale will I be told today, as I make my way up the road and to the hospital?

As if on cue, red ribbons begin flowing, circulating, and slithering around his feet like serpents striking for a meal. His index finger rose to his bottom lip as if he were overcome with an almost child-like curiosity, and a desire to touch a forbidden item presented to him. Following the stream, he's led to one of the many slender, tall homes along the street; the stone stairs are darkened from gray to red since the source of the bleed is standing on the second step before the rain drenched traveler.

The detective cocks his head as their eyes lock, they almost seemed to be taking each other in. He and the victim? Or he and the murderer?

The man is wondering why someone would be out and about in this dreary weather before he could even begin calling for help. And the drenched detective is wondering if the blood-soaked man is covered in his own blood after having escaped a terrible home invasion, or if it's the blood of someone he's just gotten through killing?

He got his answer when the man stumbled down the stone stairs to stand before him, and in a raspy, weak voice... he says. "Help me." Before he collapses to the wet sidewalk.

That was one week ago, in the last week of April. It's now May 3rd, the year is 2015.

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