Passive Me, Aggressive You
Okay. um, i've been on fanfiction for a bit now, and only recently been writing stories. main reason why i have not been writing is cause i felt i wouldnt do the show justice. having said that, I have written a few crackfic's involving faberry, nothing serious or angsty. if you like slow brewing stories with romance, drama, murder and Faberry, you might like this (or not, no pressure). here's my atempt at being dramatic. hope you enjoy :)
Everything in this story is entirely fiction. All Glee characters belong to Mr. Murphy. All other characters are of my own creation.
Takes place after the purple piano project.
I am just a child
I am nothing more
There are no basic functions
I am running for
I could run a mile
My distortion
Everything is
Disproportioned
With a single glance, he knew her thoughts immediately.
The tears that had rolled down and dried on her face, the deep crimson blood that had poured from her puffed cheek muscle like a red waterfall. The lymph in the bruising above her eye was a dark purple plum, ripe for picking. Her olive skin and her eyes, once a deep chocolate brown, were now pale and lifeless.
He gained her thoughts from her cloudy glance as her struggle for breath seized.
It's a sunny day in Lima, Ohio. Not a cloud in sight. The weatherman was very specific that it would be clear and dry all day. The man had got it wrong on several occasions, mistaking hail for rain, but it looks like he predicted right for once.
There's always that cliché in movies and dramatic novels that use the essence of cold or wet weather to construct a sense of sorrow or depression. A dark day to symbolise a dark occurrence. Suffice to say, today did not reflect that cliché.
The subject: A Jewish girl in her mid twenties. Copying a style once used thirty years before, and usually worn by old woman three times her age; it was clear that she had an... Acquired fashion taste.
Her purple dress with pink polka dots was stained with congealed blood that had seeped its way through the velvety fabric. It was torn in two places, revealing her breast bruised with an ape like hand imprinted on her naked flesh.
Suffocation; A struggle for breath as well as shattered neck vertebrae, the slit indented around her neck (Possible murder weapon; A Garrotte, most likely discarded at the crime scene). The bruising around her hips, buttocks and thighs implied the murderer's intentions.
He climbed over the yellow police tape surrounding the Kingston Motor Inn Bed and Breakfast. No Vacancy.
Passing over the broken glass window on the gravel pavement, he made his way to her broken and bruised body, dodging and averting his eyes from the forensic teams flashing of the camera. Her body was lying on her back in the doorway of flat room number Seven.
Seven is supposed to be a lucky number.
His name was Seth Ambrose. The name was clearly printed onto the neatly presented name tag. It shone proudly; he made sure there were no dust or dirt marks on its plastic finish. He fogged it with his breath and polishes the cold card lightly in an attempt to make it more presentable than it already was. Underneath his name, it had the initials 'FBI' in bold blue letters. He observed from afar as the police of the LOPD gathered what they could.
"We have a murder and rape in Lima?" Pondered Detective Lewis who was crouched down, examining the body with the back of a pen "Shame, she's a real betty."
Lewis wore a simple suit and navy blue tie. He looked well pampered; Pinstripe, with his metal Police star badge revealed on his waist pocket, as well as a well worn pair of aviators hanging by the lip of his jackets front pocket.
Constable Jeffery Grady scoffed in distaste "this isn't stuff a man should ever see."
"Who is she?"
With a rustle, the constable read from a document "The girls name is Maria. Maria B...Silverman. Reported missing fifteen years ago by Ohio police."
Lewis craned his head sharply "Could it be..."
"...Detective?"
He released a shuddering breath "I... I know her family, is all."
Grady raked his hand through his silver hair, a dejected look adorning his face. "Their Daughter?"
"Niece." He replied.
"I see. You want to inform the family?"
Lewis curtly nodded, "they'll be...ha, they'll be relieved I guess...like a sense of closure..." he muttered with a glazed look adorning his eyes, and rose back to his feet, examining the crime scene.
The crew from the Westwood forensic institution in western Ohio had made the special trip. Equipped in their light blue bag costumes and white cupped face masks, they held small sealable plastic bags, looking for any evidence that linked to the murdered and the murderer. 'Talk about over kill' He thought. He mentally kicked himself for the unintended pun.
Walking around, being cautious, he stepped his leather sole shoes into a foul smelling liquid on the kitchen lino.
"Ahh, shit." He cursed.
Not quite.
Searching around the room, he spotted a clean white towel on a metal shelf trolley. Without thinking, he grabbed it and began wiping his now soiled shoes. Agent Ambrose saw all of it, and knew it was a break of protocol.
"Detective Lewis..." He said, almost scolding. Lewis certainly took it that way.
The detective looked up at him and huffed in frustration.
"It's not a god damn problem! I'm wearing latex gloves aren't I?" He said bluntly.
"Yes, but possible evidence is now drenched in urine."
He ignored the remark, dumping the towel on the stained kitchen floor. He looked back at agent Ambrose curiously when something struck him. His young blue eyes were lead at the agents rather clean cut plastic badge pinned on his front pocket.
"Agent...Agent Ambrose? You with the FBI?"
"That's correct Detective Lewis."
"Oh yeah? And what business does ole' Hoover have with this here murder case?"
Agent Ambrose sniffled at this comment. "Get your facts straight, Detective Lewis. It's been a long while since a murder occurred in Lima, Ohio. It's a...tad quiet around at the office. Plus, I'm visiting some relatives, and when the station heard I was in town, they asked for my help. He thought 'might as well'."
"And you thought 'might as well?' Well as far as I am concerned, I didn't call an 'FBI Agent'. And as far as I can tell, we don't need one. This is my case Agent Ambrose, and I would appreciate it if you would do what you originally intended and visited your relatives, and get off this here premises immediately."
Ambrose breathed calmly. His collected expression grew to understand this command. He began to walkout of the building, graciously avoiding contact with anyone or anything. He gave Maria a final glance. He turned to the detective.
"Oh, Detective Lewis," The Agent began, smiling slightly. "Be sure to check that towel...make sure it's not stained." And with that, he left the Detectives sight, walking back over the yellow police tape.
Curious, The Detective picked up the soaked towel and realised that yellow and red make an odd tint of orange. Unravelling the white towel, his heart sank in disgust.
The murder weapon.
A rusty garrotte wet with blood was hidden in its folds.
"Huh..." He smirked.
Disregarding protocol once again, Realisation creeping over his face, Detective Lewis, still holding on to the towel and the garrotte, ran out of the building in attempts to catch up with the Agent, bumping into a few of his fellow colleges, and crashing into the yellow police tape along the way.
"Hey, hey!" He called out to the retreating FBI agent, gently tugging on his shoulder. This got the agents attention, as the muscle under Lewis' hand tensed noticeably. As Agent Ambrose turned to Lewis with weary eyes, he eyed his hand with distaste.
"Uh, sorry," He laughed nervously, and pried his hand away from the agent. At this the agent visibly relaxed, acting almost relieved.
Ambrose sighed, lightly brushing away the invisible lint on the touched shoulder.
"Look, don't mind my words. Uh, you seem to know what you're doing. I think I can use your expertise." Lewis said bashfully, raising his eyebrow in apology. He gestured to the murder weapon wrapped in the stained towel.
Ambrose scoffed "It isn't your decision; I'm here now with a job to do, just like you. We have a murderer on the loose. So we both have to deal with each other."
Lewis chuckled "Oh, I can deal. Like you, it's awfully quiet in my office."
A small intake of breath from a nearby shrub catches the attention of the two men. Sharing a curious glance, they both crouch down to look through the foliage. When he spots the shaking figure, bare and dirt clad, Lewis gasps with astonishment.
"Oh, Christ."
Okay, yeah, i know nothing of proper crime scene preservation etiquette, or if the FBI does anything these days. this is just the prologue, we will see the others later.
Song lyrics at beginning are from the song 'Spank' by the 'The Naked and Famous'
critcism welcome!
cheers
-Qwerty