Eyes Wide Shut

I was once a very uncomplicated guy. A cup of coffee in the morning, solving murder cases by day, and in bed by eight. That was my routine, day in, day out.

But the Eye Killer, as he has come to be known as, changed everything.

I’ve become more restless. More observant. More wary. More anxious. Or so I thought.

His murder count climbed steadily: one victim became 2, two became 4. I was at my wit’s end. Yet the Senior Officers insisted I continued working on it, as if my mental state simply didn’t matter. They called it justice, I called it a waste of my talent and sanity.

True justice no longer existed in this world. It had been crushed under the weight of bribery and corruption. The innocent rotted in jail while the guilty roamed free. This was what they called Justice.

I exhaled, forcing my anger down where it belonged and left. I got home, tired already, grabbed a cup of hot coffee with trembling fingers and collapsed on the sofa. I gazed outside the window of my study, watching ordinary people navigate ordinary lives while the sun bled across the horizon, marking another day’s end.  My gaze drifted to the board, pinpointing a string of photos, of victims, of suspects and notes that shared my perspective. Connections that only I could see.

I took another sip of my now lukewarm coffee. I’d frustratingly made little to no progress, usually I wouldn’t have taken so much time.

Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Another long night awaited, not that anyone cared for my well-being anymore. Perhaps, my exhausted mind would reveal something I have missed, bring some clarity to this mess.

 I tried hard to stay awake, feeding lies to myself, dreaming of bringing an end to this ordeal. But my eyelids dropped about an hour later and I surrendered to sleep.

I woke up as sunlight filtered through the bedroom curtains. I had failed again.

The phone rang and with it came the news of fresh carnage. Four more bodies. Three men, one woman, all ex-offenders.

The killer’s signature remained unchanged.

Eyes methodically plucked out.

Lungs punctured with surgical precision.

Hair ripped out in violent clumps

Then the realisation hit me like cold water. I wasn’t on the sofa where I had collapsed last night. Somehow, I was in my bedroom.  The coffee cup washed, the case board undisturbed. But I had no memory of moving.

How had I gotten here?

To be continued….