The Way They Flinch at my Touch
Chapter Two
Welcome to Chapter Two of my L.A. Noire fanfiction story! I have so much fun writing these, but I can only write more if you can spare a minute to leave a quick review, so I know that you're enjoying them. But please leave something I can improve on as it helps me massively. Thank you and enjoy!
I'm not quite sure how to explain this to you, to anyone who reads this in the near or distant future. Someone may never find this diary, but if you do, make sure someone finds out about it, hand it in to a police station, make sure they know what happened, and why it happened. Although, how can anyone know what and why? Even I don't know that.
I'm not sure I'll ever recover. I think this is something that will never quite leave you. It's not a feeling, it's a knowing. It's a certainty.
I was always a determined child; I knew I was destined for the police force from the age of seven, when my father, may god rest his soul, bought me and my brother Harry contrasting costumes. I was dressed in a small blue hat with a gold police badge on the front with trousers, a waistcoat and a shirt to match. My brother wore dark trousers and a casual t-shirt and made himself look as if he was robbing a shop, or hijacking a car. And then I would chase him around the house screaming at the stop of my lungs a load of nonsense that I thought I had heard correctly from the stories my father had told me. He was in the force himself, Captain Terry Plarity, head of the Arson department. He was always coming home, looking tired and weary, and telling us stories about his day. We would sit on his lap and listen intently as he told us about fleeing robbers, reckless fighters and deranged husbands. It was a miracle we weren't scared to death. My mother and father were always fighting, but they never failed to make up again, whether it was for our sake or their own didn't matter, as long as we were a family.
Those times are gone, with my father gone, my mother unable to even walk on her own and my brother god knows where, things will never be the same. My brother moved to San Francisco to become a 'banker' but we always knew that wasn't all he was doing, he hung out with some shady kids in his teenage years. He was a year younger than me and I always told him to be careful around the people that he admired, but I don't think he ever really listened to me. I don't know where he is now, and I don't care. He left my mother when she was alone and vulnerable, a few months after my father had died. My mother is the forgiving type. I'm not.
The man looked shifty, caught my eyes and scarpered out of the bar in a flash, I recognized him, I didn't know from where, but I knew those eyes. I ran after the mysterious man shouting "STOP, LAPD!" but to no avail. As he pushed his way through a large crowd of L.A. citizens, I heard a loud engine starting up from behind the bar, the man then turned into a small alcove behind a jazz club, the man then climbed skilfully and promptly up a pipe and onto the roof of a drug store, his large coat flailing behind him. As I followed, keeping pace, I saw a flash of red as Wiston slammed on the gas of our car, flying down the centre lane of a busy Sunset Ave. I was beginning to catch up, every second counting more than the last, when all of a sudden he disappeared. I prepared for some type of surprise attack, but nothing of the sort came. Had he fled around a corner? I must have taken my eye off of him for less than a second, and he's gone.
But then I stopped dead. I realized where he had gone. Down. Down into the alleyway beneath the rooftop on which I was teetering over the edge, determined to keep my balance and not end up dust on the sidewalk, but leaning so far over as to be able to see any sign of the crook. No noticeable evidence. About ten feet to the left of me was a ladder, I slid down it and rushed to the scene where he had fell. There, lying on the floor, motionless, was a tall man, with dark brown eyes and blonde swept hair, wearing a large brown coat and black work trousers with 'ER' printed on the front of each garment. There, lying on the floor was someone I knew very well, there, lying on the floor, before my very own eyes, was my brother, Harry Plarity.
I felt Wiston come up behind me, "Did you get him! Who is it?"" Wiston said, catching his breath after his 'long' five metre run, "Holy shit, Jim! Did you push him off the roof or something?"
"No, he, he jumped." I replied, calmly, expressionless. I stared at my brother's emotionless face and burst into uncontrollable tears. I knelt down in front of him and thought about our childhood, we were always best friends, always fighting, but it was playful. I never fully trusted Harry though; there was something about him that made me not trust him. He was always the mischievous type.
I stood up, Wiston staring at me wildly. That was when I noticed the other body. On the floor, face down, about fifteen feet in front of me, near where Harry had fell, or jumped, was another body. I ran to it and rolled the dead body over to inspect it. I took a step back; in front of me was a woman that used to be in her mid-40s, with adoring brown eyes and a beautifully shaped face. Lying in front of me was the deceased body of Charlie's wife, Marie Wilson.
Me and my cliff-hangers, eh? Well there you have it, I hope you enjoyed it, please don't forget to leave a review as it helps me out SO much and inspires me to keep writing.
Thank you.
- Nollac