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- Discussion Board 3: Story Starters
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I look at the detective waiting for him to sit down before I say, “You know, I never wanted to kill them.”
“It all just sort of happened before I knew what was going on,” I said, leaning into the table that separated us, straining against the cuffs that held my hands in place on the surface. Detective Chowdhury – P. Chowdhury according to the badge hanging from his neck – leaned away from me. I must have smelled. The mud was starting to dry on my clothes, but every time I moved, it cracked, and a wave of shit stink spread across the tiny room. Just let me get out of this, I thought, even if it’s only to take a shower.
He waited patiently, Detective Chowdhury, for me to say more. Could I trust him? Was he a good guy? Or was he owned by them? Bought off or threatened?
Deepening into the rattling forest, Detective Inspector Jaylinn F. Sanchez ducked to avoid the branches. “Where the hell is he?” She mumbled angrily to herself. She expected Detective Michael J. Smith to arrive before she did. With hesitation, she decides to step alone into the area, crossing under the yellow “CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS” tape. The beams of the sun barely reach into the secluded wooded area, and with each step, her grimace only grows bleary. Sanchez rethinks her actions “Oh, fuck, should I get inside by myself?”. She continues to walk further until another marking stop gets in her sight. A thick bush behind the bright mark. With her eyes, she tracks a thin trace of blood that embouchures into a larger body of dried blood. The moment she finally decides to examine behind the bush, she sickens. Appearing to be the body of a young male adult and an image of a corpse lying in its pool of blood is something Sanchez couldn’t imagine seeing. What’s more, is the uncountable number of stabs and wounds presented on the victim’s body. Before she can get herself in control, she runs away, heading to the main road of patrol.
She vomits by the stop lane as the media and police staff watch her closely, with slight disgust. At this moment, another undercover car pulls up to the scene. A middle-aged, clean-looking man walks out. We see the police badge in his chest pocket. It’s Detective Smith. His outfit suggests that he spends more time picking it out than driving to the crime scene. He removes the sunglasses as he notices Jaylinn trying to get herself together. Reluctantly, he walks closer, trying to embrace some sympathy for Jaylinn’s situation. As she notices him, her face gets only more tense. “Hard to ask if everything’s alright.” – Smith grins. “Far from my expectations of how the first day’s playing out…” She mumbles angrily. “Don’t worry, we’ve all failed at judging our confidence.” She reimagines the picture she saw earlier, with a cold feeling grabbing her once again. While staring at the Detective’s full-blown mug, she irritatedly thinks – “as if your tough ass, sissy self would somehow react differently…”When I was younger there was a story that people knew very well not just because everyone claimed to have witnessed it in real life, but because everyone shared their experiences. In my town there were around 300 people and 10,000 people in the city the houses were very humble, yet somehow there was always something to eat drink and do but people believe in old folk tales like El duende which was said to be a small man that would go around and hunt people who had committed some sort of crime or held something heavy in their conscience. Some described him as a small man with hair everywhere and a raspy voice that could bring fear to children and adults alike. A close family friend claimed that her son had seen him and fought him off. What Intrigued us was a small detail, she mentioned her son punched him with the right hand and it had no effect. Since then it has been said that if you see El Duende you should only hit him with your left hand and getting rid of them could prove to be a challenge.
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