Dark Sight chapter IV

IV

Noise.

It is the first thing that always hits detective James Vista when he comes through the doors of the police station where he worked. It was the noise brought on by various profanities, threats, pleas, and lies that permeate most police stations, particularly the front desk, where relatives go to post bail for wayward relatives, and where recently arrested perpetrators are brought in either meekly or kicking and screaming all the way.

This day seemed just like any other day at work, as James got ready to sink into his chair, deal with the pile of cases waiting to be dealt with, and buckle down to work, when he heard his portly police captain call his over the din of the station, to report directly into the captain’s office.

Having to go into the captain’s office wasn’t really so bad, the captain had also been hit hard by the deaths of Linda and little Henry, treated them like their own family. It was just that the captain’s entire office reeked of eucalyptus, from those oriental lozenges the captain was just so ridiculously fond of, to help him tough out the nicotine fits. James had unconsciously drawn in a pretty good amount of air before he went inside, not unlike what a swimmer does before diving into the water.

Realizing that he would be in the captain’s office for some time, he reluctantly exhaled and breathed in the mint-laced air inside before sinking into the chair in front of the captain’s desk. He immediately noticed three stacks of folders on top of the captain’s desk, as well as the three red paperclips fastened on each of them. Captain Edward Shoemaker was a rather fastidious man, perhaps to help put a semblance of order amidst all the chaos and horror of running the local homicide squad. When Captain Shoemaker handed out cases, folders with red paperclips took priority above all else.

Good, James thought, something to keep me busy.

‘You look like crap, James,’ Captain Shoemaker started. ‘You look like you need a vacation.’

‘Good morning to you too, sir.’ James retorted.

‘That wasn’t a sarcastic remark,’ the captain shot back, without turning away from the window where he was standing in front of, as if he was trying to catch a glimpse of something in the street. ‘In fact, you look so bad I don’t think it’s good for the department. So I want you to take a few days…’

‘Let me just stop you right there, captain,’ James cuts, with both men noticing the surprising tension in James’ voice. ‘No offense, sir, and no disrespect meant, but I really don’t want, nor do I need, any sort of downtime or vacation right now.’

At this Captain Shoemaker slowly turns to face James and locks him in a gaze that makes James wish he didn’t say those words. But as James looks on, Captain Shoemaker’s gaze changes, from a piercing stare to a look that seemingly conveys pity. ‘I was going to say… you should take a few days to look into a case I wanted you to handle. I need someone who’s quiet and sneaky on this one, so I want you on it. I think this one is right up your alley…’

James unconsciously relaxes and lets out a sigh of relief at the captain’s statement. ‘Is this the profile?’ James asks, as he starts to reach for the folder of what he thinks is his next case.

In the 10 years that James has worked as a detective for Captain Edward Shoemaker’s homicide squad, he had never seen his captain move as fast as he did now. Although well into his 50s, and tipping the scales at nearly 300 pounds, Captain Shoemaker moved with a speed that James did not think was possible for someone of the captain’s age and bulk. The captain quickly slammed his hand on the folders and pulled them away from James’ outstretched hand.

‘Not these case folders,’ the captain’s voice betraying a sudden tone of what appeared to be tension and nervousness. ‘This one,’ the captain adds, handing James a folder with a green paperclip attached to it.

‘Uh… ok, I’ll get right on it captain,’ James says, and stands up to leave the captain’s office, although somewhat puzzled at the captain’s reaction to him reaching for the red-clipped folders.

James plops the folder on his desk and shoot a glance at the captain’s office one more time before he sits, catching a glimpse of what appears to be the captain wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, further adding to the mystery of the captain’s reaction.

The captain, meanwhile, noticing that James was still looking at him from across the tables in the precinct, decides to close the blinds of his office. The captain walks towards the glass windows of his office and closes his blinds, but as he walks back to his office, two photographs slip out of one of the red-clipped folders he was still clutching under one arm.

The captain notices the photos on the floor and bends to pick them up, and takes a long hard look at the photos. His face twists in what appears to be pain, although it is his eyes that indicate that the pain the captain feels is emotional, rather then physical. Not wanting to look at the photos longer, the captain slips them back into the folder.

Had the photographs fallen face down on the carpeted floor of the captain’s office, he might have instead read the scribbled labels on the back of the photos, indicating the names of the victims whose eyeless corpses in the photos. Right now the captain was wishing he had read the labels, instead of having to look at the grisly images in the photograph.

The photographs were labeled Vista, Catherine and Vista, Josh.

So how hot is it where you are today?

The local weather report online says here in the Philippines, particularly Manila, it’s around 32 degrees, it’s all numbers, sure, but then to the average schmoe (like me) it’s FRIGGIN’ HOT, MAN! I really don’t care about the comparison to other days, other summers, or even other countries (well, maybe, other countries, yeah, it can’t be hotter here than it is in the Sahara, the biggest desert in the world), but this heat is just downright torture, man, and this coming from a guy who has a pretty high heat tolerance.

I can’t even begin to imagine how some of the people i come across on my way to work tolerate having to wear long-sleeved shirts and even jackets while walking on the street to wherever it is they are going to. I’d like to say this is probably because it’s comparatively cooler in the morning while i am on my way to work, but then it really isn’t, because from the moment the sun is up, whatever little coolness the nighttime air had (which is already scarce), evaporates almost instantaneously. But then if that works for them well then i won’t knock it.

I go to work at times wearing either flip flops or below-the-knee shorts (but never both at the same time!) to alleviate the insufferable heat sometimes, although this is not really much help, especially when i come across insensitive morons in the elevator who still manage to step on my toes while moving back. It’s not as if i’m the kind of guy that’s easy to miss because of my size, i stand six feet flat and weigh two hundred pounds. You’d think with that kind of mass, you’d at least NOTICE that you’re moving into someone and stepping on their feet. It’s sometimes an effort NOT to embed a person’s face into the steel wall of the elevator after they step on your exposed toes.

Wearing below-the-knee shorts can sometimes also be detrimental to you, especially if you happen across morons riding diminutive motorcycles, and they try to back into you as they move backwards without looking, and you dodge just so they don’t roll over your feet or brand your exposed leg with their scalding-hot exhaust pipe. I swear, sometimes on the road, the people around you were just either cursed to be infinitely stupid or insensitive, or are intentionally trying to hurt just for kicks, or maybe so they can get their jaws broken in three places after i introduce their face to my fist.

So how else can you beat the summer heat while on your way to work?

You could take a cab to work, although sadly, around 40% to 50% of cab drivers in the metro think since they’re driving around in an air-conditioned cab, maybe the passenger won’t notice that they neglected to bathe. Poor passengers are therefore treated to the nauseating odor of eau-de-athlete’s foot, or worse, essence of day-old sweaty underarm. Onion spray, anyone?

Ugh. The hell with summer. Bring on the disease-bearing floods of may.

Dark Sight chapter III

III

Morning.

It comes silently, and with it comes the sunlight, banishing the darkness, banishing the night, banishing whatever horrors that come with the absence of light.

The sun was well on its way to lighting almost every nook and cranny of the city, bringing light and warmth to the households, signaling the start of another busy and noisy work day.

Virtually everywhere in the city, everyday people are starting to stir and prepare for the day’s activities with the possible exception of the old cemetery; there is a portion of the old Ferdinand mausoleum that remains dark and unlit. It’s as if it refuses to let the sunlight, or any other form of light penetrate the pervading darkness in its recesses.

The mausoleum, which virtually dwarfed every other mausoleum in the cemetery, had a distinct eeriness to it, despite the lovely black marble exterior and ornate carvings that decorated it. The Ferdinand mausoleum was perhaps the only structure in the cemetery which thieves and grave robbers left untouched. While other similarly ornate repositories of the dead had missing light fixtures, iron grates, and even marble and granite slabs, the Ferdinand mausoleum remained intact.

It’s little wonder, therefore, that people fail to notice that there appears to be signs of life where there should only be the remains of the dead.

If only there was someone brave enough to risk a peek inside the mausoleum, it would be known that someone had jimmied the pad lock to the inner vault. It would also be known that someone had actually been into the inner vault regularly, where the much older generation of the Ferdinand clan had been buried.

It is here that a lone, naked, and sweaty figure chants in a low, guttural tone in an unintelligible language. The figure is illuminated only by a single blood-colored candle, set in the middle of an ornate eye carved into the floor of the chamber.

The chamber is actually larger than one would assume it to be when seen from the outside, mainly because it is partially submerged under the main structure of the mausoleum. The walls of the chamber are lined with headstones bearing the names of the various members of the family buried in the chamber. In the center of the chamber is a massive burial tank surrounded by a small moat, filled with a dark, viscous liquid.

The lone chanting figure, positioned at the foot of the most massive burial tank, appears to be oblivious of the fact that all the while that he has been chanting, the dark viscous liquid in the moat surrounding the massive burial tank has started gently churning, as if stirred by things swimming in it.

Dark, visceral things, unclear and amorphous in the viscous liquid, squirm and writhe within the dark liquid, making it even more menacing, giving it the appearance of a shapeless, formless mass of evil, much like what you would expect the stuff of nightmares to be made of.

Every once in a while, a dark bubble would rise up to the surface of the black liquid, and pop with a sibilant hiss, then a dark mist would issue forth from the burst bubble, and slowly join the overwhelming blackness of the confines of the mausoleum.

It is an overwhelming blackness that doesn’t seem to bother the naked and solitary figure chanting in the middle of the chamber. A closer inspection of the figure will reveal that he bears scar-like markings all over his body, all of them seemingly self-inflicted. The only portion of his body not covered by the scar-like markings is his face, and a closer inspection of that will reveal that his eyes are half-open, although they are rolled-up almost all the way into his head, as if he was in a trance or dream-state. Only this dream-state doesn’t allow him to partake of imagined fantasies or visit far-away places in his mind, instead, he sees pictures of real people in his head, real people doing real things. Real people with real jobs and real lives. Real people with real blood… and real eyes.

Eyes. It was the eyes that he needed. The blood was just an incidental bonus. Copious amounts of blood actually made for a good painting medium. Allowed to dry, it made the best shade of black ever seen, and it was quite difficult to remove once it had settled. No wonder the ancient rituals performed by the Aztecs, the Norse, and all the other cultures that practiced ritual sacrifice needed blood during their proceedings. Primitive as these cultures may have seemed to many, they KNOW that to use blood in their rituals was a virtual beacon to the unseen elements of this plane.

Writing in blood was to the ethereal what email was to modern day people, you’d get your message across for sure. Plus, being as difficult as it is to remove; spells woven and written using blood were particularly long lasting. This was delightful in itself as there have been many times when he was forced to flee the crime scene after hastily writing his spell, and he has relied on the stupid practice of the police of not “disturbing” the crime scene, in the hopes of finding some forensic evidence that would allow them to trace the “gift” to him. This allowed his spells to achieve their potency, and try as they might, they would not find him, for he had removed himself from their sight.

They could very well take him to join a line-up of suspects and even take his photograph, but none would recognize him. He had usually eaten, bathed, smoked a cigar, even made love to one of his victims while they were dying because of the massive blood loss from the gaping hole where their eyes used to be. He had left enough DNA evidence of himself for the authorities to arrest him for all the grisly murders, and for the courts to hang him many times over, but they would not find him. Only he has the sight. Him, and no one else. Everyone else was blind. And he would indeed make more people blind… and dead…

Dark Sight chapter II

II

Sleep.

After his family’s brutal murder, good policeman James Vista never really had a good night’s sleep again. It’s not so much the dreams that come to him as the feeling the dreams leave him in the morning.

The dreams leave James feeling he didn’t do enough to save his family… that maybe he could’ve saved his family somehow. But none of that matters now. They’re all gone now, never to return. If only the dreams would go too.

The dreams.

They started out as terrible recollections of his murdered family. How he got the horrific call from dispatch that something really bad happened at his home. It was the call he’d been fearful of getting since he started his job as a cop. He clearly remembers how he almost collided with other squad cars as he pulled up his driveway. How he madly dashed up to his door, leaping up the staircase three steps at a time. He remembers being struck by the strong smell of ammonia, almost like a solid wall of odor as he rushed into his house… only to find out that his world had already gone horribly wrong.

Even though it was a dream, he could see every vivid detail, every drop of blood on the floor, the shattered pieces of Catherine’s favorite figurines amongst the mess where his cozy living room used to be, the ugly droplets of crimson on the carpet running all the way up to his son’s room.

It wasn’t difficult to see that Catherine put up a fight. Obviously to buy enough time for little Josh to hide somewhere safe. But from the violence evidenced by the remains of his home, James could tell that no where was really safe from the madman that destroyed his family.

James felt several sensations when he finally got to his son’s room, where the bodies of Catherine and Josh were found. They were lying face up, perpendicular to each other, the top of their heads touching the other. It was here that the strong smell, not unlike ammonia, pervaded the most. So much so that it was heady and sickening, greatly contributing to the feeling of nausea, rage, revulsion, and insanity clawing at his senses.

He’s been to many crime scenes before, where the poor victims of deranged and depraved murderers were found days, sometimes weeks after their grisly death. Relatively speaking, compared to many of them, the crime scene in officer James Vista’s room was tidy, uncluttered, and less gory, save for a few details.

First off, this was James’ wife and child. That made all the difference in the world. This was not a nameless corpse who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. This was his world, his sanctum, the place where he went to heal himself after having bits and pieces of his humanity chipped away by all the horrors he saw at work.

Secondly, although his wife and child still had their innards where they should be, they were missing important parts of their person, which made even viewing them during the wake all the more gut-wrenching.

The killer had carved out Catherine’s and Josh’s eyes.

The coroner had later told James that the killer made sure that he had severed a good length of Catherine’s and Josh’s optic nerves, prompting authorities to think the killer was not your run-of-the-mill psycho killer that preyed on families. The investigators on the case therefore set their sights on killers who also had organ-snatching on their profiles, although this didn’t really turn out a lot of promising leads.

The killer had also drawn a large, crimson eye on the wall near where the bodies of James’ wife and son were found, lending to the theory that it could also have been a cult killing.

The crimson eye… it had also haunted James’ dreams for the longest time. And his dreams always finished with the eye. At first his dreams were the typical wake-up-in-the middle-of the-night-with-a-sweat-drenched-shirt that stayed on with the relatives of murder victims, until such time as they got closure, got a good shrink, or went downright insane themselves with grief. After this stage, his dreams always ended with the lingering visage of the eye painted in blood… his family’s blood.

And then he’d open his own eyes in the morning, followed by a wish that he didn’t drink so much last night as he was contemplating blowing his brains out.

Maybe if he thought about how he’d feel in the morning… maybe that would help him pull the trigger. There’s a thought. But that’s a thought for another night drenched with suicidal tendencies.

Right now he has to screw his head straight on enough to get to the shower before he keels over with another king-sized headache.

If only the shower were closer than just a few feet away…

Dark Sight

I

He’s heard it so many times he can virtually describe every distinct sound about it. The whispery slide of the bullet as it slips into its chamber. The mechanical whir of the bullet cylinder as it spins after being slapped. The sudden “clack” of the revolving bullet cylinder as it locks into place. The slow and ominous click of the hammer locking into place, as it is cocked back, ready to hammer out a wad of lead that can end lives faster than most people blink.

All that’s needed to be heard is that final loud bang. A sound that will end all the noises in the world. A sound that will drown out all the sorrow and hurt he ever felt. A sound that will finally make him forget about Catherine… ever sweet and caring Catherine. And little Josh. Catherine and Josh. The center of his life, his universe. But now they’re gone. He should be gone too, he thinks. All that’s needed is just one loud bang from his gun.

He’s ended many lives this way. Criminal lives. Lives that really needed ending, or when he was never really given a choice. It’s tough that way, but that’s how it is when you’re a cop. With his gun, he’s made sure many bad men never hurt anyone else.

But not this gun. No, this gun is special. This gun will end his life. This gun will make that one last bang that will change everything. This gun will make all the sadness and pain go away.

If he could only pull the trigger. It would be so easy, he heard the guys at forensics say suicides that did themselves in this way never even felt a thing. Probably never even heard that last bang. Or probably they did, but by the time their brains recognized it, most of their gray matter would have already been flying out the other hole the bullet makes as it takes an express route through their heads.

He’s tried this so many times he lost count. He wants so badly to end his life, to take the easy way out, just so that he wouldn’t have to miss his dear wife and beloved son every time the alcohol wears off.

He wants to die. But he’s afraid. He doesn’t understand it. He’s had so many bullets flying so close to his face before that he could almost swear he could see the grooves and ridges on the bullet as it whizzes by. He’s gone toe-to-toe with a madman with a machete the size of a sedan and he didn’t even so much as blink with fear. He’s had to tell his wife that he went out one time (and drunk at that) with a witness he had to protect, and he wasn’t afraid. Well… maybe a little. But never this afraid.

Was he really afraid to end his life this way? Or was he afraid that even if he did manage to kill himself, he won’t see his dead family on the other side?

Whatever the case may be, he’s afraid. But he wants to die. Because he misses kissing Catherine. He misses nibbling little Josh’s ears, ears so similar to his own pointy ones that no one could deny he was his son.

This gun should do it. This gun will do it. But maybe not tonight. He puts the gun down on the table for what seems like the thousandth time. He puts it down and grabs the beer bottle next to it and drinks deeply.

It’s been three years and he still can’t believe they were gone. He could never believe that for all the good he did as a cop, his own family would be butchered like so much meat.

He refrains from throwing the beer bottle across the room this time. Makes no sense anyway, other than looking like a cheap imitation from a corny movie, he would have to clean it up in the morning anyway. He’s got enough scars on him from tossing himself into danger without adding some more to his feet.

Besides, just because he’s a broken man doesn’t mean he has to break everything he can from time to time.

He does instead what he’s been doing for the last three odd years since the death of his family, crying himself to sleep while muttering their names softly. He would certainly give anything to see them one more time. But for now, the night takes pity on him and grants him sleep.

Dress codes for Dullards

What do you wear to work? Or when you go out, say to the mall, or the local coffee shop, or the nearest internet joint? Being in a tropical country, chances are you’d wear something cool and light, and then throw on something to keep you toasty while in your air-conditioned office. Going to the mall would mean denims, round neck tee, maybe Chuck Taylors or Havies or maybe Banana Peels. A trip to the internet joint around the block could be nothing more than your favorite walking shorts, flip flops, and your breeziest tee. That’s if you’re living anywhere else other than the business district of Makati here in the Philippines.

 

The proliferation of call centers and BPOs all round the business district has brought with it a distinctive trend in clothing, as well as a different lifestyle of sorts. Not content with the norm of business casuals, some agents would rather jazz up their entire wardrobe to feature power suits, the like of which would put all the models of GQ and the cast of The Matrix to shame. Too bad most of these people don’t carry it well. Wake up call, people! Number one: there’s a reason why the Barong Tagalog was named the formal wear for Filipinos. Whatever material your barong is made out of, it is specifically designed to make you look presentable without making you feel like you’re moving around in a wearable sauna. But I digress. Of course most people would not wear any barong today unless it’s strictly signature, made by the likes of Cesar Gaupo or some other designer, mainly because security guards have now taken stock on the casual barong.

 

Of course power suits look good, they should, considering how much they can cost. This, however, does not mean that every joe schmo or jane whatshername can wear it. A toad clothed all in Prada is still a toad, and all those derogatory remarks apply. Fact is, if you are a bit on the comely side, wearing flashy clothing will only draw more attention to the fact that you are ugly. Hard fact, but true. No clothing made on this earth can make you look like the model or Hollywood star you aspire to look like. However, dressing down a bit can help.

 

My advice? Wear something that feels good on you. I have always believed in the adage that when you feel good, you look good. Feeling good while wearing expensive clothing does not count, because, let’s face it; you wear those because you want people to know you can afford to buy those clothes, while they can’t. Well, guess what? You’re still ugly. You look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch with your face on the way down, although decked out all in Gucci while doing so. This is an instance where clothes do not make the man (or woman).

 

The other side of the dressing spectrum is also quite an issue with a lot of people these days. Going to the mall or local internet shop meant walking shorts, beat up household sandals, and your favorite house shirt, be it your college shirt, already yellowed with age, or the token moth-eaten shirt from 1980. Moreover, taking a bath before you go is optional, never mind the fact that you stink to the high heavens. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if these people had cars which they drove to the mall, but nooo… of course most of them have to commute to the mall, adding to their already fermenting non-bathed odor the biting smell of the road.

 

Having explored both spectrums of the clothing preferences of the modern day worker in the metro, it leaves one wondering… what the f*+%? Why can’t people learn to dress normally? Why can’t they just dress their social level, work hierarchy, etc? The answers, sadly, is because the term “normal”, as in dressing “normal” is absolutely relative. What passes off for normal for me is definitely not normal for most people working in call centers, who make it a point to devote around 70% of their income to purchasing branded clothing for themselves. What’s also borderline normal for me is way, way above for the people who go to malls looking like they just went out to take the trash out of their homes. A sad fact of the reality of democracy is learning to master the painful skill called tolerance. This world is built on the notion that each person should learn to tolerate their neighbor, no matter what denomination, sexual preference, or monetary unit they subscribe to, and so it goes with clothing. Laugh if you must at people who dress ridiculously, but make no derogatory remarks about them in public… but do so once they are out of earshot. Oh… and laugh softly if you happen to be facing them, just enough that you can deny you are laughing at them, especially if they outweigh you and they have arms the size of your flabby thighs.

Quantity versus quality

The dawn of the internet has brought with it the ultimate in quickies, fast hits, fast sales, fast porn, fast cash, fast reads, fast friends, you get the picture. With a click, you get to search for your current research, the latest movies, the next toy you’re buying, which artist or actor is banging whom, and with a little patience and know-how, someone’s social security number, their home address (if they are stupid enough to leave such information online), and their favorite stuff, it’s a stalker’s kit on a silver platter. That being said, the internet is all about speed, the more, the merrier, blah blah, yadda yadda.

 

In work, this translates into putting in more stuff than the brain can actually handle online, so that more surfers or readers will read your stuff online, be it marketing stuff, blog angst, or even social media detritus, like what people in friendster and myspace write in their accounts as blogs and pass off as “readable”. Moreover, the biggest effect this phenomena has resulted in is the flood of information you get to see on the internet. Google a word and there’s a good chance you’d get around 5 to 10 pages about it, with only the first two pages having any relevant information that you actually need, the others just being a load of SEO droppings.

 

You can search for a topic and find a multitude of articles written on the subject, and when you actually get down to downloading and reading some, you find out that all the articles you got are just bundles of cleverly (or sometimes not even) re-phrased articles vaguely dwelling on the topic you need. Look through eight or ten of the articles you downloaded and check them for content, chances are they will only have some items that have been interchanged or slightly re-worded, with no new information actually existing between them. Poor writing? Maybe. Crappy research? Good guess, but there’s a good chance the main reason for this is a burgeoning time frame to crank up as much as articles or written material the writer could, just so the all-too important deadline could be met. The result? A lot of written material with little or no real original or unique content, all of which have been SEOed the hell out of, and published on all the right submission sites. Where’s the quality? Gone with the wind, if you ask me.

 

In all the rush to meet that ever present deadline, hassled and frazzled writers everywhere are forced to come up with ridiculously copious amounts of written material, resulting in reduced (and sometimes even poor) quality in the actual results. Where’s the quality? Where’s the beef? Where’s the ooomph? Sacrificed, all in the name of meeting that deadly deadline. Does meeting the deadline justify the sacrifice of good quality for acceptable quantity? You’d be surprised at the reply of some people to this question.

 

Here’s the clincher: some people now expect writers (and sometimes even artists and designers) to come up with good sized quantity with good quality. As if bleeding writers everywhere wasn’t bad enough, huh? I’m not saying this is not achievable, my own work is testament to that, but not everyone is always at the top of their game. We all have bad moments, bad days, heck, I know someone who’s had a bad decade. Sadly, in an industry where writing is needed on a daily basis, such vestiges of humanity are not acceptable, not to the person paying for the writer’s paycheck, that is. What to do? Buckle up, suck it up, and take it on the chin.

 

Incidentally, to people out there who hire writers and bleed them dry of their writing abilities, take a moment to take into consideration that the writer you hired is human, and humans have pain thresholds, suffer fatigue, and need to goof off occasionally. Seriously, take a moment to actually read what they wrote, see if it still has quality, and then make your judgment call if whether the deadline does indeed justify the ridiculous amount of written material you demand.