TouchofSunshine

One day at a time.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

One day.. Five more minutes.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

For the thousandth time in one, endless morning, Fay tossed her aching body from the comfort of her bed closer to her alarm clock. Her fingers brushed against its buttons until the noise came to a stop. She propped herself onto her back, elbows pushed against the silked sheets, with a yawn she assumed was from exhaustion. Her cheeks were plastered with makeup she had forgotten to remove the previous night, strands of her hair sticking out in a million different ways.

“Good morning.” Fay felt herself smile.

Sheets unfolded themselves from their curled positions as she rose from her chambers, piling onto the floor as she exited the room. The foul taste in her mouth was the first issue she wanted to deal with.

She idled through her restful apartment. She admired its stillness, though it was interrupted by the faint click of her leaking faucet. It was about time she’d have to fix that, she reminded herself.

The faucet wasn’t the only problem with her living area. Plants spiraled and weaved themselves into each and every corner of the walls, leaving hardly any room for valuable furniture. She never minded them, of course, but perhaps it was time to die down on her greenery purchases and save money for something useful, such as food or–

Or a working faucet.

Her hand fiddled with the knobs on her sink. It was always a hit or miss, and the knobs didn’t seem to be giving in anytime soon. The sink mocked her with a hiss from broken down pipes.

She made way for her kitchen, careful to side-step the clothes scattered across the tiled yet not shined floors. Thankfully, she had better luck with the sink in the kitchen.

Birds waltzed with one another outside of her window. They bathed in the sunlight, their wings glistening, as they sang lullabies to one another over the city’s bustling streets. Across the avenue, she saw past the clothing lines that connected her apartment to the elderly woman’s. The woman sat on her balcony, rocking to and fro in a chair as her usual routine. If Fay weren’t running slightly late, perhaps she would have said hello.

Fay seemed to throw on whatever clothes she managed to find clean, thinking she might have to make a brief stop at the laundromat later that day, and hurried out the front door. Fingers fidgeting with her brightly-colored Hawaiian tee, she managed to jostle her keys from the pockets of her shorts.

At this point, she was bluntly late.

Her unpunctual arrival, of course, was far foreseen by her partner. Knowing his girlfriend rather well, Izaak Collymore had already opened shop for either customers or expected guests. He was stocking one of the shelves when Fay finally arrived.

Her nose was scrunched with distaste. “Oh, dear, how is it possible to catch every traffic light? If I had just–”

“‘Left a little earlier, I would have made it’,” Izaak finished for her. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he tossed her a look over his broad shoulders. “Have you ever thought about setting your alarm earlier, instead?”

“If I did that,” Fay exclaimed, easing her way past him and towards the back of the shop, “who would be here to greet me in the mornings? Not you.” Her eyes shot back to Izaak, who remained stretching towards the shelves as he lined up bottles of Neem Oil.

His structure was lank and lean, his smooth skin left to reflect in the lights. His nose was large and his eyes were the same, his jaw square and sharp. He reminded her of Hercules, the son of Zeus. Only, he was much more.. modest and humble.

The hinges of the door creaked. It signaled Fay's attention before the ringing of the bell could. With a lopsided grin, she faced whomever entered.

“Good morning!”

She had never been publicly invited to an investigation.

Not that it was possible to be privately invited. Though, now that the possibility weighed on her mind, she realized she wouldn't know.

Adriana Illiana had been a detective for as long she could remember, though she still used the term rather loosely. Detective, someone stubborn who’s curious about criminal investigation and embraces the thrill of the hunt—What was the difference?

She didn’t have a badge to prove her worthy of shoving her nose directly in other people’s business, nor did she have a degree of any sorts. She simply had raw talent. And quite the self-conceit.

Despite being good—astonishing, even—at what she did, she still remained an unverified detective, and believe it or not, it drove away job opportunities frequently. She was unable to provide food for herself. The bills were beginning to pile on the corners of tables around her home. She was willing to take anything she could get—any case for cash. It was a simple bargain.

One she would admit was rather foolish of her.

The sheriff, Mister Wyatt Tate, had known Iliana for years beyond years. He knew of her struggles, and he knew of her desire. He had no interest in helping her before, of course. She had begged at his feet for a role in his workforce every chance she got. He found her bothersome and a pest. She made people whisper about rumors she shouldn’t know of, she spent her time rummaging through crimes she had no part in. Hell, it was almost as if she already worked for him.

Though, this time was different. Instead of having to shoo Adriana away, the sheriff had waltzed onto her doorstep.

The case he needed assistance with was simple. Serial murders have continuously occured across the grounds of a nearby hospital. They’re unidentifiable due to their conditions, but, considering the recent reports of missing people from either families or neighbors, some figures could be guessed. It didn’t take the investigators on the case long to put two-and-two together. Most missing people or scarcely identifiable bodies had one thing in common; their awful long history of crime.

There were no clues. Not a single mistake. No evidence left behind. It was almost as if they were too good. He had assumed whoever had done this was either working with a group or had a past full of crime themselves.

So, it gave fair reasoning for Mister Tate to invite Adriana for assistance. She had no background of crime he knew of, she was—and he hated to admit it—a rather fair investigator on her own, and, if all were to fail, she seems like the sort of lady who would be of sacrifice and little pay.

Adriana has gladly accepted, so much to the fact she felt her mind become overwhelmed with joy. She didn’t give the Sheriff the time of day to explain the case. She had a question every breath he took, and another after that. She rambled, her words slurred the more the excitement stacked. It was almost embarrassing.

Wyatt was beginning to regret his decision the moment him, two other officers, and Adriana set foot onto the hospital’s grounds. She wouldn’t take the hint of his sudden hostility and his boast about how important this case was.

Nonetheless, they moved forth. The rain had slowed down their arrival by only a matter of an hour, and Adriana had been the reason they still pushed through. The harsh conditions of the weather was nearly enough to was them away, down back towards the town, out of this hauntingly vicious place.

The sooner they figured out what had happened, the sooner they’d leave.

Wyatt Tate braced himself as the doors opened before him and his ‘crew’. His lips pursed into a frown as his attention landed on the man ahead. He knew his name well, though he never saw himself standing only feet away from him.

“I’m Sheriff Wya—”

A woman's voice rang over his own, beating him to the introduction.

“Adriana Illiana, Head Detective,” Adriana exclaimed, her small frame causing her to easily slide to the front of the three. The title, of course, wasn’t true nor would it ever be. What would it hurt to stretch the truth a little? Her eyes glossed over the man once more. She didn’t seem phased by his nature, his aura, his.. oddly focused stare. He needed no introduction, but she thought she’d shake the plate nonetheless. “I’m not sure I’ve seen you around, nor do I have something to call you. Your name?"

Breathe, Emi. Breathe.

The heat of electricity flooded throughout her veins, the hateful vehemence painfully present. The humidity of her own creation was getting to her, beads of sweat trickling down her temples. Her heart slammed against her chest. Her palms were clammy. Her stomach churned with unease. The exhaustion was beginning to build in her throat, and it was almost enough to cause her to gag.

She had never believed in violence. Not once had she ever started a fight. Until this morning, of course, but it seemed to be a different situation.

Her enemy–the son-of-a-douche known as Henry–had sworn up and down he would not give in until the day she laid dead, once. Emily had supposedly taken his words as a challenge. She had returned his threat with one of her own, stating she might as well not die while he remained living and well.

So, here she stood, in the midst of a fight while deserved and long expected, her suit torn into shambles and her head pounding with migraine. At her feet rested the debris of buildings well destroyed. Her body was bathed in the smog and aftermath of battle. Around her, people wailed. They screamed and begged her to put an end to things. They didn’t care who won or who lost, but that it was simply over.

It wouldn’t end like this. Not on her watch.

If she could, Emily would ask for another chance–a way to turn things around, almost. She didn’t mean to cause this destruction or harm those who got in her way, yet she did at the same time. She was willing to do anything to put a stop to Henry. That’s, honestly, what scared her the most.

Sparks of electric hatred flew from her fists. One more chance to prove she was the hero. That’s all she had. They outstretched themselves into whips made entirely of lightning, hissing and snapping as they advanced towards their target. She didn’t seem to think. She didn’t miss. Every action was correlated and well-planned, and Henry was beginning to struggle to defend himself against it.

Yet, she hesitated. Once. She saw the fear spread across his expression as she had him cornered. She saw the agony behind his eyes. She couldn’t do this–What was she doing? He didn’t deserve the onslaught she brought upon him. He was just trying to survive.

He was just trying to survive.

He knew her weakness. It was upsettingly obvious, and it gave him no thrill when he figured it out in a matter of seconds. Henry had watched as her eyes darted to the crowds around them, watched as his enemy made sure no one had been hurt. She couldn’t handle the conflict. The sensation of a brawl. It overwhelmed her, and it was pathetic. When he was given the chance to take advantage of it, that’s exactly what he had done.

Emily had been knocked aside like a plastic bag in the wind. Carelessly. Aimlessly. The wind was stolen from her lungs. Her back crashed against the pavement. Her vision was nothing but a haze.

"I wish you could see that I'm not the villain, Emily." His boot pressed flat against her chest, keeping her in check. She hated the way her name rolled off his tongue with ease. She hated how easily he could defeat her. She hated everything about him. "I'm not the Henry I used to be. You're not the Emily you used to be. I'd do anything to take it back, sure, but I can't. The best thing we can do it move on."

There was something in his words that caused her to see past the man she once knew. Something she couldn't quite pinpoint.

"Forgive me. Please."