Nocturnal Creatures

It was half past four of a chilly, frostbite-inducing morning when he decided to get out of the even more frore sheets. He didn't wake up from sleeping, for he was inable to sleep. Instead, he just dreamt. No, Leo didn't wake up, he just got tired of laying in the ivory sheets and thinking. He was drained, exhausted and afraid. It was the cases. It should have become easier by now; dealing with the odour of fresh corpses and witnessing the horrors of human violence, gazing into the everlasting abyss of darkness and terror. Not to mention the blood, the pools of crimson seeping from the lifeless victims. Staring death right in the face should have become quite easy for Leo.

However, these brutal scenes stayed in his mind; they haunted him, manifested themselves as eerie, spectral visions, and besieged him with tormenting demands. For the scenes that Leo beheld on a daily basis, were spectacles of bloodshed, sodomy and cruelty. They would be exhibitions of vicious perversion; of pure malignity and evil. The sheer depravity of these acts, of demonic rage, would abominate anyone's senses into madness. Though Leo wasn't just anyone. To the onlooker, he was numb to any feeling of abhorrence. He would investigate each case he was assigned to with mettle and a pathological attention to detail. His true emotions, however, were a brew of fear, anxiety and uncertainty. Truth be told, he had become quite benumbed by the constant viewing of death. Blood and gore didn't frighten him that much anymore, but the motive to kill - that scared him beyond belief. Man is the cruelest animal; that was proved to him everyday.

Sighing, he stares at the only window his cramped room has. The calignosity of night was interrupted by the breaking of a faint light which slightly illuminated the foreboding atmosphere. Dawn was approaching soon, and the day's macabre activities awaited him. An almost empty carton of Marlboro cigarettes lay on the bedside drawer. He stared at it for a while, his deep set eyes burning into the pack, then took the last cigarette out and placed it in between his chapped lips. He rose up from the wrinkled sheets and walked into the bitty kitchen, searching for a matchbox. The picture on the fridge door leered at him, always staring, almost taunting him. He didn't know exactly why he kept it there, or why he spent a prolonged amount of time gazing at it. All he knew was that it was her. The one he held dearest.

He turned away and opened a couple of drawers before finding what he was looking for. Scraping the red end off the box, a flame ignited from the match and soon lit up his cigarette. He leaned on the counter, and took a long drag. Wisps of smoke whirled around his head of disheveled, chestnut hair. It was completely silent in his fourth floor two-room flat, on the end of a street of a rough, grimy neighbourhood. Parties were always held in the flats above and below him, and he despised the thumping music and the bellows and vulgar cries of teenagers who had too much to drink that echoed across the block. He could never understand the Hedonism of adolescence; he never experienced it. Instead, he spent his teenage years buried in the pages of brilliant literary works. But his favourite reading material was darker in subject: crime. He devoured true crime editorials and newspaper articles. This fascination with the grisly, gory world of criminal activity led to his decision to work as a homicide investigator.

Fortunately, the music had dulled into a slow bass, and by the sound of it, last night's party was almost over. "Fuckers." he grunted after blowing swirls of smoke out from his wearied lips - in moments of anxiety, he bit them until they bled. A bad habit he harboured for years.

He turned on the tap, and poured water into a black mug. He put it into the cheap microwave, and set it for two and a half minutes. Leo didn't eat breakfast, but instead had a cup of strong, sugar-and-milk-free coffee that usually filled him up and calmed his whimpering stomach. The reason it would grumble and churn was the fact that he didn't have much of an appetite. He'd go so long without eating that he'd often feel faint and deathly. The least he could do was make a cup of coffee for himself and not die of starvation. That was the thing about Leo Cahill: he had a precocious intelligence that was bred out of a lonely childhood, but he wasn't smart enough to realise he was slowly dying.

Finishing his cigarette and putting it out in the sink, he looked at the clock hanging on the wall. The time was now half past five, so he decided to get ready for work.

The state of the bathroom was repugnant, as was the whole flat, but this didn't bother Leo. His living space was messy, despicable and horrendous, much like his line of work. He put shaving foam on his stubble. The microwave beeped, signifying the mug of water was now hot. He shaved, and when he finished, he could be mistaken for a normal man. Normal; something Leo couldn't comprehend. He brushed his teeth, then went back into the kitchen and made his cup of coffee and took a gulp. The familiar, bitter liquid burned down his throat. No, conventionality wasn't his forte. He didn't enjoy socialising or going out. He'd rather read and chainsmoke his nights away while his work colleagues would be in pubs of parties. He didn't see the point of frivolity, of celebration and social convention, or trying to make friends ever since the early years of his youth. Those years were gilded for many, though for him, it was a time of bitterness; of isolation and apathy. No could understand him, simply because he didn't want to be understood.

He changed his vest and pants into a crisp, white, long sleeved shirt, a black blazer, tie and trousers. Then he brushed his hair and adjusted his tie so it wouldn't strangle him, but also so it wouldn't look too unprofessional. Staring into the mirror, he examined his reflection: sorrowful, sinking eyes with dark circles, hollow cheeks and torn up lips. His jaw was defined, as were his cheekbones, and this added to his already gaunt figure. His insomnia didn't help his corpse-like countenance either. The head of the department, Jason Wilde, asked Leo more than once if he was doing alright. He even suggested seeing a psychiatrist. Leo couldn't deny he had problems, but he couldn't see the point of opening up to a stranger about his darkest secrets and expect to be cured with pills. The way he saw it, he was beyond help.

It was now six o'clock. There would be many people in the department at this time, working full nights and fueling themselves with only vending machine snacks and caffeine, investigating the horrors in the streets of England. Leo would usually have stayed there, working and sometimes doing the most mundane tasks, so long as he was busy. He didn't sleep anyway, so why not get work done? However, this time, he decided to go home and take a break. As much as he found the investigative process invigorating, his body was close to shutting down. "You look awful. You really gotta get your head out of work and rest." Trish, the cleaning lady at work, commented. He couldn't agree more. So he packed up and drove home.

The telephone rang. He picked it up and was greeted by the voice of Ryan, a fellow detective.

"There's a case. 62 Harding Road."

"I'll be there in ten." Leo replied. He got his satchel and put in his notebook, pens, a pack of cigarettes, a matchbox and his gun. Then he grabbed his car keys and walked out the door, locking it. He jogged down the stairs and opened the flat door. A biting wind hit his face with full force, and he almost flinched. He got into his car (a rusty Ford Cortina that he got for a bargain) and turned the engine on.

This was the beginning of a cold, puzzling day, and a new mystery fresh out of the furnace called London.