Here is my first attempt at a story: Hope you enjoy.
I am here now. It seems that I have existed forever.
I lived for so long that it’s come to the point where I cannot even comprehend my own past. However, I can tell you this. There was a beginning. When the world was young, and so was I.
But now, look what I have succumbed to… an overweight ex-cop looking for a place in this crowded city of Los Angeles. Over the last few years I had forgotten what it feels like to experience a genuine social connection. I am alone… I will always be alone as the world continues to spin along its orbit. As time progresses, I feel colder inside, a feeling so unnatural that it snivels at my defeated beating heart.
My job isn’t the best, but it’s the closest thing I have to feeling alive. After 3 years of losing my job and identity, I’ve opened up a private investigations company. Haven’t had many cases other then the typical “follow and report back” – to survey individuals who may be having an affair then scrutinize their marriage and get paid. But the best part is… I love seeing the anger and rage that embodies my clients when they find out the bad news. It makes me feel as if my life isn’t so bad - emptiness fueled with artificial sensation.
As you can see my life as you know it, isn’t what schoolchildren dreamed of being when they get older. Believe me when I say it: my life is a contradiction to perfection; my life is what nightmares are based upon. Until tonight… tonight was a night where my life changed drastically.
It was a typical calm night in L.A, cruising the streets in my 1983 Chevy Camaro. My vehicle had a unique aroma that always stirs up attention. The hint smell of whiskey scoured the leather seats. It’s always been like that ever since I lost my job. I turned to the dashboard where my business card was kept, it read “Anderson's Investigations: Where the Helpless are Helped” – “not much of a catch praise”, I thought. The streets were calm, you hardly notice anyone walking the streets at this late of an hour. Occasionally you see the typical teenage couple, linking arms and laughing, or a bunch of hoodlums and their “dates” talking in a loud provocative sense and laughing like wild barbarians. I’ve always hated that, the worse thing about renting an apartment in a bad neighborhood was that you can hear the laughs echoing through the night air. It makes me feel lonely and depressed. After driving for a while, my cell phone rings. It caught me by surprise, wondering who would call at a time like this.
“Anderson's Investigations: How can I help you?”, I said in a professional voice.
There was no answer on the other line, however I could clearly tell someone was there, as I heard a faint background noise.
“Hello?”, I said in a frustrated manner , as it was probably a stupid teenager prank calling random strangers in hopes of disturbing their sleep.
As I was about to hang up, I hear a woman’s voice on the other end.
“I desperately need help!… it’s an emergency, please come fast!”, she screamed. I have never sensed this much fear in one person. Even during my time at the LAPD.
“Please, calm down – explain to me what exactly is go---?”
“There isn’t enough time! He… He… is after me – Please hurry here!”, she screamed yet again.
“Okay mam, I think this is an incident that the police should be involved, I mean they are far better equipped than I am in handling the situation”
“Please, there isn’t time, please quickly come to 463 Salinger Blvd, there isn’t much ti---“
The phone disconnected.
She sounded young and attractive, thoughts were running through my head picturing what she’d look liked. I quickly disregarded my thoughts and started to focus. I look over to view my call history in hopes of finding the number in which she called from. “Private Caller” was displayed. Perhaps this could be a sick joke that someone is playing. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why out of all people would she call me, I mean there are prestigious detective and PI agencies listed on the yellow pages. Or perhaps she just called the first agency she saw, and that happened to be me. The question lies, should I check out the address she provided? There is always a chance that she is really in grave danger.
“463 Salinger Blvd…” I whispered quietly to myself. It’s about a 10 minute drive pending traffic.
I look over to my business card “Where the Helpless are Helped”. At that moment my decision was made.
I reach over into my glove compartment to reveal a loaded Walther P99 semi-automatic pistol. Quick as a bird, I made a u-turn and ran a red light, in hopes that no police officers dare to set foot in this atrocious neighborhood. I was totally oblivious to traffic laws, I only had one thing in mind, was to reach my destination as fast as possible. I arrive minutes after the phone call ended. I was presented with a large abandoned warehouse in the outer reaches of the industrial district. The warehouse stood 5 stories tall and the doors and windows were boarded up. The lights on the perimeter were burnt out with some flickering. I proceed to drive around to the side to further investigate the surroundings. More signs led me to believe that this building has been abandoned for some time. I then drive around to the back entrance of the building; at that instinct something caught my eye. Out of the many windows that were boarded up, I noticed on the 4th floor there was one window with the lights on. It was way too far and dark to make anything out as to what’s inside.
“Perhaps, she’s in there?” I whispered,
I turned my attention to my glove compartment where my flashlight was located. I proceeded to exit my vehicle with a flashlight in one hand and my pistol in the other. Recalling to my training at the police academy, they taught us to never be off our guard. I was playing potential scenarios in my head as I was quietly approaching the building. What if they are armed? What if there is more than one? I was a nervous wreck. I was holding on my weapon harder than an infant holds his mother’s hand to avoid getting lost. The apparent sweat on my palms, forehead, and body were contributing factors to my paranoia.