Truth, Lies, and Revelations

Scott Myles looked out of his apartment window. His humble abode was situated on the twentieth floor. He had a panoramic view of New York. The Statue of Liberty stood proud and triumphant. It was a symbol to the whole world of justice, peace and freedom, a liberty that was every human’s right. But that was not the case for Scott Myles. He stared at the monumental statue that endorsed the irony of liberty that was now his life. Yes he had freedom to move about, go shopping, perform the mundane duties of his job, but Scott Myles was living a lie. Where is freedom when you do not live the life you should? He was trapped in an alien world. He missed his family and the life he used to have. Circumstances had robbed him of his true liberty, yet he only had himself to blame. <> The frost-covered rooftops glistened in the sun’s morning rays. The wintry dawn was picturesque and fitting for this Christmas Morn. Scott Myles had no pre-arranged plans so expected to spend Christmas Day alone in his rented apartment. His CD player broke the silence, playing the traditional Christmas carols and songs. His mind was full of memories as he listened, his eyes a little watery as result of sentiment and guilt. The morning sunlight caught his side profile as he surveyed the Manhattan skyline. His once tanned complexion had become paler. His once thick black wavy hair was now completely grey. The emotional and stressful years had allowed middle age to prematurely seize his body. Scott Myles looked ten years older than he actually was. If someone had foretold that his life would end up caught in poverty and old before his time then he would not have believed them. He thought his youth and vitality would last forever. Not to mention his lavish lifestyle. But then he had been too complacent. <> Greg made use of the kitchen. The hygiene standards were poor. Dirty crocks lay in the sink, bits of food everywhere, and the work surfaces were smeared with grease and crumbs. There was a crust of bread dabbled with mould on a plate. How can one eat in here, thought Greg. He found a knife, fork and a plate and washed them. He put four slices of bread in the shabby and what seemed unhygienic toaster. He would have heated the baked beans but the saucepans were beyond usage. He emptied the beans on his four semi burnt pieces of toast. Slowly he consumed his basic meal, washed down with a drink of water. There was a fridge but Greg did not leave his food there, chance was it would be eaten by the other dwellers. Greg needed to keep his meagre provisions with him. He could not afford to buy them again. <> Sandwiched between two residential blocks the narrow passage was quite hidden from the main street and relatively peaceful. The alleyway was a cul-de-sac. Its only purpose was to facilitate the several iron fire escapes that zigzagged down the side of each block. Like a proud housewife Barty positioned his new boxes, discarding the drenched tatty ones in a nearby dustbin. They soon sat on the ground, both using a flattened box as a cushion. They began to indulge in their hearty breakfast from the mall’s rich pickings. The first course was several cooked slices of turkey. This was followed by nutritional apple and sultana biscuit bars dipped in the tub of coleslaw. Then the real treat of course was having a few jam centred teacakes, Barty’s favourite. <> Darkness fell early now the winter nights had arrived. Susannah lay on the bed powerless and angry. For almost twenty-four hours she had been handcuffed to the bed in such an undignified manner. Throughout the day she drifted in and out of sleep. She lay in her urine. It was very uncomfortable. The apartment was cold. Greg had deliberately turned off the heating. Susannah shivered as she lay like a fallen prostitute. Her thin skirt and blouse did little to keep her warm. Her body ached from the awkward and strained position that Greg had left her in. Susannah did not cry easily but she felt a tear roll down her face. The gag restricted her breathing so she had to remain void of emotion. If her sinuses became blocked she would choke to death. <> “So you have been trying to break free,” he surmised. “Well I know the cure for that.” Greg left the bedroom. Susannah feared what his intentions were as she lay there completely helpless and vulnerable. Greg reappeared holding the salt dispenser. He poured the fine compound into her wounds, first her ankles then her wrists. Susannah flinched from the sting that seemed to penetrate her whole body. This was torture. Her fearful eyes begged Greg to unleash her, let her dress her wounds and eat. Greg laughed as he watched her suffer. His macabre actions were like a scene from a horror movie. Susannah was playing the part of the helpless victim who was chained and gagged and at the mercy of a homicidal, schizophrenic psychopathic killer. <> “You got my sympathy,” remarked the driver. “This broad I was telling you about, she was a nutcase. After I dumped her she got me traipsing all over the city on fictitious call outs. I had to get a restraining order in the end. Did it stop her? Like hell did it. The number of times I’d return to my cab to find the tyres let down. This one time all four wheels were missing. Sure as hell she was a nutcase, ended up committing suicide, boy was I relieved,” relayed the driver. “Fancy a smoke? Mind if I do?” asked the driver. <> “I wish it were that easy,” sobbed Rebecca. “I can’t move on from you. I only ever wanted you, the way our lives were. I am yours and always will be whether I like it or not. But you have hurt me more than I can bear. You have destroyed everything between us,” stated Rebecca. She broke from the embrace. “At this moment in time I do not see a future for us. I am glad you are alive. Only wish my parents were. We can talk later if you like. I need time to myself.” <> Drake’s murderous adrenalin was rampant. It had been weeks since his last murder. Agitated yet excited, the stout fellow left his home. Of course he ensured to take the cricket bat with him. Who would suspect it was his trusted weapon? Forensics would have a field day if they ever examined the infamous cricket bat. The wooden fibres retained the blood of each victim. What a murderous trophy. He was proud of his sporting weapon. The abstract bloodstains enriched its beauty. The unassuming villain sensed that one day his pride and joy would be on display in London’s macabre museum. He would be forever caught in history. What an honour!