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Cold Case

There's no room in her head for all his regrets as she mastered the art of tempering the subtle but cyclonic motions depicting both their insecurity.

Once he slipped into his methodical but contemplative paradigm of analytic process, it's where he'd draw her into his mapping procedure as she was fascinated in how his mind was constructed.

He ticked on a different beat.

Over time, she adopted the same ethicality associated with working the cold cases that kept her awake at night.

They were chronologically archived, and stored in a secure facility.

If any needed to be recalled, you had to enter the building that housed the documentation. Access wasn't always granted.

Over the years, she watched him pull the same file, over and over, whenever he wished to skim over the content that rarely saw the light of day, let alone the hours associated with human processing.

She watched the way he'd decipher bits & pieces, and the narrative changed each time he absorbed the content.

The evidence never changed, it was what it was, unless other information had been forthcoming, since the last time he cast his eyes upon the file.

All she saw was the blunt force trauma and fresh blood splatters upon the satin slipper shaded walls as he sipped his coffee, trying to ascertain whether he missed something during the last thousandth time he pulled the file.

It always ends with a deep sigh, and a sticky note on the front, in preparation for the internal mail system to return it to the relevant storage facility.

The graveyard shift is a killer, and that's all she kept thinking to herself as she listened to the sounds spilling outside of their radio as it was only a matter of time before they were hauled out to attend a job.

You never quite know how things will unravel, for better or worst. Hope and prayer alone wasn't enough to determine whether or not she'd be exposed.

Each night was the same, but different. A city lives and breaths a different kind of aura, once the sun dips. It's almost as if there's a secondary world that sleeps in the day but is birthed in the twilight.

The underworld start their movement of iniquitous activity in the still of the night and after the last case they worked, she was on the brink of resignation.

You can only do so much, before you crack as she held herself together from the last shattering that executed.

It was only a matter of time before she lost her composure, and her functionality was exposed as she hung by a thread to her faith.

He became disassociated with his emotions, robotic machinations became his modus operandi.

She recalled the way in which he'd pay attention to detail, once upon a time, when they both started working together.

He shielded her as much as he could but he could erase the things she saw through her own eyes. Things, that no one should have to ever bare witness to in their lifetime.

It was the nature of their work and to an extent it changed her from who she used to be. When you're exposed to trauma, it's often absorbed vicariously for those who respond to such call.

The imagery would unravel like a jigsaw puzzle in which she had to master. However, the downside was having to process the way in which her senses were being attuned. You can't ever erase the smell of death or the imagery associated with it.

It's real. It's raw. It's disturbing. She wondered how he kept himself well composed. She wondered whether he ever went home, and cried, like she did.

On the down time, she often wondered about the cases that went cold as she too would analyse the content, hoping to grasp a lead that would lead in a different direction, until it drove her insane.

Vicarious trauma is enough to trigger anyone to disconnect until what matters, no longer matters.
Written by shadow_starzzz
Published
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