Guilt

Disclaimer: Contains scenes of gore and sever mental health issues as well as suicide

Guilt

Thoughts can kill. Thoughts can make people go insane.

When Detective O’Leary entered the ward at 1 Rue of this quiet French quarters of the parisienne avenue, he didn’t expect the gruesome image that was to greet him.

The man bashed his head… apparently they said counting from the CCTV footage 39 times before he bled to death. The city does not want any blood on their hands and not be pinned for the neglect for hauling the patient in solitary and O’Leary’s job was to clean up the mess like a f—in low paid janitor that he was.

He did have an interesting background. As an Irish immigrant back in ‘79 he landed in Nice without passport or papers and swam under the sewage canal to work as an assistant to a seamstress. His own mother was a draperist and thus he knew his bastings from hems. So it came easy for him. Problem was the language. Although France was kinda lingua franca in Europe after English, he had no choice but sink or swim.

His steadfastness proved to pay off and the money he earned was invested wisely for a sparkling degree from L’Ecole Polytechnique. He “majored” in radio engineering. As luck would have it his expertise made him valuable to the police force and although he was no GIGN material, he kinda made it as forensic deputy before he moved up the ranks to be the chief detective for coroners in 2006 at the age of 72. He should theoretically retire but he kept at it.

And frankly it is this instinct of his radio engineering background made him intuitively grasp that this was no suicide. His heart and every cell of his being screamed the Munchian scream that it was a murder.

But how?

It was literally a sensory isolation type of hellscape. No colors. Drab. Ordinary. Boring minimal Siberian-prison type of Spartan bedframe and mattress. A single pillow. And that was it. A metal commode affixed next to a drain.

O’Leary’s brain started sputtering at Sherlockian speed of an engine to unfathomable knots. I mean wasn’t there some story where a snake - ah yeah! The bespeckled or banded or some s— like that in the title -- where a serpent was released which killed’m. And then allegedly the American congress harped about radio waves or Havana syndrome that can make people go insane.

And he thought of every angle like a master chess tactician. Was the gas ventilation or air pump in that room kosher? 100% No poisoning involved. Other than a thick semi-opaque sunlight panel which made the room pale-white, there was no contact or vision to the outer world.

So what on earth possessed him to bash his head? Yeah he had schizo like background and severe mood disorders. And no, Detective O’Lear’s job wasn’t to sniff out or psychoanalyze his disorders nor ruminate on the adverse effects of meds. Ceteris paribus, he was curious about the motive. The most basic, core, raw fundamental - and yes oft-overlooked- axiom of forensic investigations.

Who on earth could have had vendetta against him? His own son? Why? Lorraine? Yeah because the reason why that monster - that ghoul was incarcerated - to use an American slang- was because he himself slammed his wives head and two two month old babies before he set himself on fire - just in time for the police and emergency personnel to barge in and save him from wrath n fury.

But what about the fact, his stepson - who himself had severe depression- could have plotted revenge all along?

Problem was there was literally no way to access the facility. The doors had to be bypassed with several double-door alcoves and automatic ones which were always monitored.

I mean talk about creative ways to off someone. What about those lateral thinking puzzles where there was a pool of liquid and just the corpse hanging from a noose? Well turns out he stood on a block of ice and hung himself as it melted away. Traceless. Almost.

It was said 'The Unabomber’ would apply some adhesive that would only drop the envelope in the mailbox like some old-school time delay mechanism.

Whatever it was, something got to him. O’Leary stared at the commode. He could hear a faint windchime or rather whistling noise from the air that tunneled in through the opening which made.

People are crazy. People would kill themselves for the slightest reason. The whistle interrupted his train. Did he have any contact with anyone? Did he receive any news?

It is said Lorraine wanted to meet him and ask questions but was denied visit. He begrudgingly stood outside by the street, smoked his cigarette, before the security guard urged him to leave since he made a ruckus inside the hospital.

People would kill themselves for the slightest reason. There are people who cannot get laid - the incel kids if you wanna call them that - who hurt themselves with sharp objects. Then there was this woman who died of shame after being viral for pleasuring herself outside only to be stopped by police. Shame is a powerful weapon.

But as it seemed, it’s the inner monologue, that terrible soliloquy or the inner Woody Allen critic which drives people nuts and over the edge to the deep end. Deep fuckin end.

Constant nagging. Constant harangueing. Constant self-harassment. It was almost no different than bashing oneself with a sledgehammer. I mean O’Leary could appreciate the assault and psychological mayhem he was undergoing which caused him to end his life.

Except did he? Did he end his own life? A nagging feeling told him no. Havana Syndrome. Death by serpent. Poison. Radiation.

One by one he eliminated everything. Invisible torture method.

Wait what…?

What was he even talking about.

And then his thought was interrupted once again by the whistling windchime from the commode vent. He stared at it. The gaping hole.

And he smiled.

Really?

Is it?

That couldn’t be it?

That’s kinda low-key ingenious. That’s fuckin insane.

And he smiled. Yeah no wonder people’s mind is terrible master and an excellent slave. You can either reign it in or not. Or it will kill you. With guilt and shame and insecurity and fear and doubt…

A terrible weapon.

And that’s precisely what it did.

He smiled.

Tiiiii-ttttttttttuuuuuun.

The faint wind chime broke through.

Detective O’Leary smiled.

He figured out how finally under less than 5 minute 34 seconds. How the man died.

And yes. It was Lorrain.

'Okay funs over. Let’s go back.' Harked the prison warden.

David Sarkozy stopped regaling his fellow inmates in San Joaquin Penitentiary as the alarm went on for the end of lunch shift.