What is this this story about ? Justice ? Depression ? Delusion ? Hallucination ? I can’t tell.
Kyton Nixot is a detectice/psychologist who wonders why he still continues to live on. He stumbles on a murder case that looks like a serial killer’s work, but finds out about deep rooted conspiracies that cause the matter. Perhaps he can do something about it, but the question that plagues him more is - Why ?
So I’ve decided to write a story. Yes , a story, I get it. Very unlike me. But I have actually written a lot of stories in school. Most of them got lost, and those that are left are better left untold. But I realized something about them. I hate the whole ‘make it an art’ thing. I do not like decorating a story with words that don’t belong there.
The eyes were always there. Not real eyes, not reflections in a rain-slicked window or the passing glance of a stranger on the street. These were heavier. They pressed against the inside of his skull, a phantom weight behind his own gaze. Freedom? Freedom was a word for people who didn’t carry their own courtroom inside their head.
Kyton was a man who could disappear any day. No one would notice or care. Perhaps the owners of his rented office would worry a bit about them not receiving payment after he is gone. Perhaps his neighbours will complain about the unkept house after he is gone. No one else would actually care.