I can't say I like Donnelly, due to his violent tendencies, and his one-sided way of seeing things. There also is the fact that he is a publicity hog. That being said, it was fun to write things from his point of view.
Prompt: Spring (can be used as theme or wording)
Word Count: 488
Every man wanted to be in Homicide.
To become a man, a boy had to put down his toy sword, and pick up the true effigy. To accomplish that, he had to realize the world was not divided into black and white. He had to find his dragon to slay. Once all was fulfilled, the man would become the hero, the dragon the villain, thus solidifying the black and white world for new little boys.
It was the murder of Gilroy Donne that had designated James Donnelly's monster. In the calm, quiet lake in which he had played as a child, Gilroy's remains were uncovered from beneath an overturned boat, his throat slit. His empty seat in Donnelly's classroom became a shrine to the loss of human innocence. No cared about the kids who weren't as well off. James left the empty chair behind to accompany his father to the textile mill that following spring.
Gilroy didn't matter. A paycheck mattered. Food mattered. At night, he stalked ever more slowly home, keeping pace with his father. James's fist clenched at the sheer apathy. The heroes were replaced by factory workers, and Ireland was under the yoke of the Brits. Banging that fist upon the kitchen table, James exclaimed his indignation at his father until he was rewarded with a black eye.
The door slammed shut behind James with finality, a satchel slung over his back. His mother called out for her oldest son to return. He was running away, having no clue where to begin when it came to tracking down the lake monster. He would simply have to try again, he concluded, setting his sights on a new heading.
Work, unfortunately, was a trap Donnelly failed to escape, the colossus of metal, smoke, and money reigning over him, and strangling him with exhaustion and starvation.
At age sixteen, two-thirds of a year after his arrival to this foreign country, Donnelly's drifting brought him to Los Angeles, where he decided to set his hammer down. At least, that was the version he told others; in reality, he had been laid off, and the police academy had provided him with his next meal.
Brandishing his fists and a gun, he unleashed years of pent-up rage. Columbia became his consort, and he defended her from all matter of deviance. It was little wonder that he was promoted to Homicide, his exploits earning him a legendary status in the police department. More stories had to be told, and more heroes had to be made, Donnelly decided. If there would be a new mythology to inspire the people to greatness, it would be of the LAPD.
Before the press, Donnelly stood, declaring the heroism of the Homicide division, and pulling these passionless people from the factories to awaken their sensibilities with tales of heroes and villains once more.
"Wait, please, I didn't do it!"
Oh dear, a dragon has his role confused.