Tracks: Beginning

The fireplace was still burning when I entered the room, casting a pale yellow glow against the dark hardwood flooring. A deep rich oak table remained, untouched, at the corner of the bed across the room. It’s corresponding chair, also of the same oak wood, lay overturned in a bed of shattered glass by the fireplace. What was most disturbing, however, was not the fact that this home, once a hive of life and activity, was now a grave. No, what was most disturbing was that this was a grave without a corpse.1

The secret was out, it would only be a matter of time.2

The assassination played itself over and over in my head as I walked back towards the harbour. All my experience, all my planning, and yet somewhere in the intricate web forged by years of experience there was a flaw. Most importantly, there was a missing body, and I was a marked man. It was a cold November morning, the sun had not yet pierced the skyline, the city still slept. Fumes rose as thick spires from the underground sewers, lacing the still air with a sharp polluted sting. I stood, gazing out towards the Chicago harbour, savouring the thought of an open ocean before me. I allowed myself to believe that I was to leave this corrupt world behind me, and ahead of me was nothing save open sea. Unfortunately, on my frequent walks to the harbour, I soon realise that I am the poison that corrupts the very world behind me, I realise that wherever I go I will never be free of the mendacities and immorality that plagues society, and I reluctantly slink back into reality. Deep into my contemplation, I failed to notice the dark figure who loomed over me. As I stood there, surveying the harbour, I felt a tug at my pocket and the rustling of papers. I resisted the urge to immediately turn and attack the stranger who interrupted my solace, instead I peered over to my pocket to see exactly what this stranger was doing. I saw a gloved hand nimbly slip a photo into the gap in my trench coat. I was experienced enough to know that this stranger put an effort towards appearing inconspicuous, and so I did the same. I did not look at the stranger, instead I continued looking straight ahead, at the harbour.3

The stranger spoke in an icy, rough voice. “Barkeep took a stroll down flint street, found an empty case and a box of matches. Nine o’clock.” Without another word, the stranger departed. I took this time to peer at the picture stashed in my pocket. There was an open fireplace burning, contrasting a dark hardwood flooring. The room looked much more hostile in the picture than it did when I left it not an hour ago. What was most alarming however was not the painfully familiar room, but the body stretched out on the floor. My face went pale as I stared at the photo before me. I turned around, trying to find the mysterious stranger holding such incriminating evidence, but he was nowhere in sight. I knew better than to search for him, instead, I took the time to gaze once more at the beautiful vista before me. For all I know, I mused, this may be my final sunrise. And so I stood, gazing into the rising sun, a silent sentinel of a waking city, I stood.