The Truth Is An Illusion
Her corpse swung in the wind like a rusty gate. Suspended from a branch of the mighty old oak in the middle of Thompson's Field, a length of rope looped around her neck. Several broken branches lay on the ground beneath her - failed attempts until the right one were found.
Constable Dewey Hitchens, fresh-faced and just out of the Academy, had found her early this morning. He could still taste the evidence of his disgust. He was amazed at how fast the surrounding field had filled with ghouls, desperate for a view of the dead. Even now, as the coroner was loading the body into the back of the mud-splattered van, Dewey was standing guard at the scene. The senior detectives had told him to not let anyone contaminate the site - Dewey thought it already was.
Dewey has heard reporters filing their stories for the ten o'clock news; they had no story, as it were - they were making suppositions on what they thought was the truth - she was a prostitute, she had it coming, didn't she know what had been happening to women of the night around here lately? - but Dewey thought otherwise: he had seen the message, scrawled on a piece of plain white cardboard that had been nailed - nailed - to her chest, and thought of it alone caused the bile to rise once more:
"What you see before you is a lie."
submitted at 10:00pm
30 October 2010
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