Author has written 1 story for Gotham. I'm a huge fan of NBCs The Blacklist... Fox Gotham... Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, all things Sherlock Holmes. I'm a lowly fan fic writer... I owe none of these characters, NBC, Jon Bokencamp, Mark Gatiss, S. Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC all own it. I own nothing, I don't make money off of any of these fanfiction creations. I'm still learning my way about the FF.net website, so please be patient with my updates and such. "A farmer comes home one day to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved taken from him - his children. One can only imagine the pit of despair, the hours of Job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. He makes a promise to himself in those dark hours. A life's work erupts from his knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes complicated. One day he stops - the farmer who is no longer a farmer - sees the wreckage he's left in his wake. It is now he who burns, he who slaughters, and he knows in his heart he must pay".- Raymond Red Reddington, The Stewmaker It was Christmas Eve. I pulled off to the side of the road, seemed like it'd been snowing for days. No traffic. No cars to come help. Just me and a car full of gifts. It was more than 20 year ago. I must have walked four miles. Five, maybe. It was so still. Just cold and white. The whole time all I could think about was them in our house. The warm light in the windows. The smoke from the chimney. The sound of my daughter at the piano. The smell of the tree, and the fire, oyster stew on the stove. I was so upset to think that I'd ruined Christmas for them, being late, leaving the gifts in the car. But the closer I got, the more I realized how funny the whole thing was. How much they'd love the story. Daddy running out of gas. How every Christmas they'd get such joy from telling that story at my expense. And then finally, I got there, I walked... I walked through the door. And there was just blood. All I saw was blood. All there was was blood. I can... I can still smell the nape of her neck. Feel her little... fingers on my cheek. Her whisper in my ear. That's why I didn't show up in Florence. It's why I haven't shown up in a lot of places over the years."- Raymond Red Reddington, Madeline Pratt In Mexico, there are these fish that have colonized the freshwater caves along Sierra del Abra. They were lost. They found themselves living in complete darkness. But they didn't die. Instead, they thrived. They adapted. They lost their pigmentation, their sight, eventually even their eyes. With survival, they became hideous. I've rarely thought about what I once was. But I wonder if a ray of light were to make it into the cave, would I be able to see it? Or feel it? Would I gravitate to its warmth? And if I did, would I become less hideous?- Raymond Red Reddington, Luther Braxton I prefer my Red... Dark. |
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