Hi there. As you can tell, I am increasing chaotic in my prose. Instead of submitting full entries, I choose to select the most strange and disorganised of the stories at my disposal. This piece was a very detailed but very underwhelming crime novel set in the Victorian era that I started four years ago so not only is the prose unsatisfactory but the major plot twist that I had planned was completely predictable. However, after editing a few of the later passages, I found I took a liking to one of the characters who is called Edgard Denton, (he is the main voice of the extract.) This particular part entails of when he is discussing his companion, (the Professor,) and the work that he is involved in. It mentions Damia, the Professor’s estranged wife and… That is all the context I can provide at this moment in time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. It is rather peculiar.
I suppose there is an obscure thrill, an adrenaline that rushes through your very being and takes your obstructed mind in due course. A cycle of confusion and distress that seems so attractive behind its plaster facade. I replicated this particular emotion to soldiers charging the battlefield, their psychological complexes limiting them to animalistic cries of primeval instinct. The urge to survive and go onwards, a strange rush that you could never grasp the reason for. Solving a crime is like finding the answer to a particularly vexing puzzle. You find pride and joy in yourself at its completition but at the same time, relief that it is over and done with. Your efforts weren’t for nothing. A rewarding sensation. Obviously, it must be taken into consideration of the grisly contents of the murder itself, or murders in Mr Renfield’s case. In more general sense, any crime in which a victim is found dead and cold. The sense of solving a minor conundrum was not a finger nail close to the horrific reality. No, the metallic stench of blood, the crunching of bones, the tearing of gentle skin; these sights before your very eyes can shake your own sense of existence, your own morality.
To your very core, it causes repulsion, hysteria and, in some cases, even macabre delight. Humans have always had a fascination with death, it is our nature, we enjoy considering what lies beyond life, murder being just a morbid curiosity people either implement or ponder upon in order to sate their own minds. Most who thumbs through idle papers, eyes scanning the poised typeface, have no idea actuality of the matter before them. Truly many cannot stomach it, honestly even I had trouble adjusting when I was first presented with a vicious scene involving a mangled corpse, (to be more matter of fact, I found myself physically ill after witnessing it.) But like a soldier caught in the raucousness of the conflict, the aftermath can take its toll upon you. A veteran has his terrors and, on the side, so does a detective. By God, I shudder to think upon how many cadavers has my Professor laid his eyes upon? Surely, it wasn’t befitting for his mental state? Never the less, his toils produced many successes that exceptions had to be made in his case. The Professor has told me that in his younger years, he served in the heat of Cairo amidst the violence, tears and stolen breath of the khaki clad recruits. He had never recounted it all in much detail but I understood that it lay upon his weary mind. Like his beloved Damia, he had never forgotten and I doubted he ever would. The Professor, despite being a man of few words, never misplaced even a date or place; never mind the gruesome sight of splayed limbs dangling from their sockets.
I gave my gentleman the cautionary glance before entering as I always did. You see, with such a man, despite how well accustomed to him I was, you could never know his mood by his manner. He had a well kept facade upon his features, a perfect smile lifting his lips and a hollow gesture to welcome a visitor. However, his eyes were dull and clouded; from this, I could tell he was in the midst of one of his most puzzling reveries. I silently perched on one of the armchairs, haphazardly positioned around the room like a foray of confusion. I blinked slowly, awaiting his next move.