Most of the time, Death doesn't approach you head-on. Death emerges from the fog, or from behind the dark with blood on its fangs. Death breathes its fingers to life and runs them down your back, ripping and tearing the flesh from your spine. Most of the time, Death is ill-timed and undeserved.
MEET MASON STORM...
Homicide detectives deal in Death; it's our bread and butter. Our grind. Without it, we would just be everyday people doing everyday things. I don't know if this all makes me a killjoy, or some Prophet of Doom, but I live on the edge of Death every day and this is what it does. It eats you up and overtakes your life.
WHO SUFFERS FROM ADDICTION...
I've made it to the east side of town and back on the "high-side" of "under the influence". I'm trying to push my thoughts into that wide-open space in my mind where I am able to get lost and hide behind the drug, but Death it still there, whispering in my ear.
TRYING TO OUTRUN HIS PAST...
I walk the few steps into the room and take a seat on the corner of her bed. It's so quiet in here. It's as if the room is withdrawn and tight-lipped, like there's a trembling in the air, and the weight of the words under my breath--the "I miss yous"--are too scared to show their faces. The room's memories are circling around me, forcing the sounds of lost moments to pour from the corners of my eyes.
WHILE A KILLER IS TRYING TO MAKE AMENDS FOR HIS.
She pauses between two stones, looking for her next step when she hears the unmistakable sharp break of a twig from somewhere out front of her. Her breath clenches in her throat, and before she can see him, she knows he's there. And he is. . . casually standing at the base of a tree. . .
