When two opposites meet

There have been a series of murders in the small town of Lockwood. Nobody knows why they were done. None of the victims were related to one another. The only thing that connected these cases was the senseless violence of it all. The authorities claim that they were doing everything in their power to find the one responsible and "bring down the hammer of justice upon them", but we all know that was very unlikely to happen.

As such, people have been going back home before sunset so that they may feel safe. Yes, right before the sunset. It’s almost a quarter to eight, and usually the sun sets at a quarter to nine. Thus, shouldn’t he be hurrying up if he wants to go back home safely? He should have arrived here by now.

The man in question is an unknown in every sense of the word. He arrived here right when the first murder took place. He was always one of the first people to be at the scene of the crime and would also be the first to take pictures of the scene. Some simply chalked it up to him being a lucky journalist, while others grew wary of his indifference towards the atrocious acts.

You see, the people here in Lockwood are very conservative. People know each other well, and they have more faith in themselves than in the power of the law. While yes, this could be considered a good thing, it certainly does not outweigh their dislike of the new and alien. I moved here several years ago to have a fresh start. And during those years, I was always alone. It was only after I became one of the neighborhood watchmen that they started putting their trust in me. Thus, I could sympathize with this stranger, which is one of the reasons why I am still waiting for him to pick up his journal from my booth.

I found it this morning under a tree in the eastern part of the town. Luckily, he noted his phone number on the first page of the journal, so I didn’t have to scrounge through it. Yet, due to the evident presence of pictures layered within it, it certainly aroused my curiosity. There isn’t anyone in this town with a camera as good as his. Furthermore, no one was able to capture a good shot of the victims before they were covered up. I simply had to indulge myself.

Ah, yes. Emery Bennett. The one with the peacock feather on her hat. She was the first one. Intelligent, flamboyant, and strong are all words that would describe her. Well, at least that would be a fitting description for what she would show on the surface. Despite her intelligence, the only other thing she liked, other than the positive attention she would receive, were pretty appearances. She was quite picky in this regard. Whoever she didn’t deem fit did not deserve her attention. Too bad she never learned that it is only what is on the inside that counts and that we are all the same on the inside.

"Emery was still alive when it happened. She was unable to scream for help, as evidenced by the tape mark around her mouth. If it weren’t for her hat, nobody would have recognized her." Yes, good observation, stranger. Every one of us would be unrecognizable if we didn’t possess the façade that is our physical appearance.

Next was Ryan Marrow. The man who would always welcome you with a large smile on his face. Everyone got along with him. I don’t recall anyone having anything negative to say at his funeral. Well, not much could be said about him in the first place. Even the little that was said by his "friends" conflicted against one another. Ryan simply had no form. The only things people can now remember him by are his remains and the meaningless masquerades he made up. 

Everyone in this town is the same. They all claim to be united, but look at where their unity goes when one of them gets murdered. The only precaution they’ve taken is to go back home earlier. They’re all fake. This entire community is fake. Why can’t people just be honest?

Ahahaha. "He was crushed down by his very own lies." Says the stranger. That is another accurate remark. As a matter of fact, this man is quite the connoisseur. He notices the effort put into these works and is able to read between the lines. It seems like I have found a kindred spirit. I can’t wait to get to the next page. His observations and opinions are quite informative.

Oh dear. This is certainly not what I was expecting. He caught me red-handed. Well, it certainly does seem like my luck has run out. On the left side of the journal is his daily entry, which I have been ignoring up until now, but on the right side is a photo of me during the act. How did he know? As I close the journal, I hear a knock on my booth window.

Upon raising my head, my eyes met the strangers’. He gestured for me to get out, and I complied. We sat on a bench, which was located right beside my booth.

Clad in a worn-out, charcoal-colored overcoat that hinted at countless journeys, his presence exuded a seasoned air of authority. His cascade of unkempt, raven-black hair framed his face, partially obscuring the features that I so wanted to observe.

"Are you an officer of the law?" I said to break the silence.

"Yes, I am." He replied while flashing a badge.

"Well then, before we proceed, indulge me, how?"

A pair of cuffs emerged out of thin air and placed themselves on his palm. "Put this on first, and I’ll explain it as we go."

I obeyed and followed him into the car. He started the engine and headed towards the station.

"Sir." He finally began. "I must tell you now that I am a big fan of your work, and I hope that you appreciate my interpretation of it all."

"Certainly. It’s always a pleasure when my works are recognized as art."

"Indeed, that pleasure is a flattering, but intoxicating feeling."

"Yes, and it just leaves you wanting more, doesn’t it?" I chuckled out loud, which in turn led to him chuckling as well.

I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed a regretful tear emerging. "Your art, my good sir, is simply majestic. I don't have the words to describe the way you would study your materials and use the appropriate tools for them. There is no one else who did it like you."

"Yes, I am flattered. Thank you."

We were approaching the station, and I was prepared to get off, but he shifted a gear and drove past it. "It took me a while to find you, you know?"

I wanted to say something, but he continued: "Yes, you’ve been doing this for so many years. And I was lucky enough to witness your progression."

"I don’t quite understand."

"Don’t deny your first works. They weren’t as well done, but not every artist creates their magnum opus on their first try."

"Certainly."

"I am glad you agree to that. You see, you had a flaw. Despite how much worse your first works were, they were executed carefully and meticulously, something that you have continued to keep up with in the following years, but only to a lesser extent. You have become sloppier over the years. Well, it could have been intentional because, as a fellow artist myself, I too understand that feeling you get when people recognize your work. Artists should never seek such insignificant rewards, sir. We should devote our lives to our art."

There was a moment of silence as we drove out of town.

"I see. Well said, stranger. If I may, what should become of me now?"

"I guess we’ll see later. I’ve learned a lot, you know. I have also practiced a lot. I want to show you what I have learned during these years."

What else could I do, but laugh? Even though I don’t know his name, I feel at ease with him, knowing that he could be a worthy student. I always wanted that, and he certainly deserved it. This whole day has been planned and executed perfectly by him. It feels like we're dancing on the same track in the dim light, falling into step with one another, and an imperceptible puzzle piece is fitting into place. It's both thrilling and disorienting. Eventually, both of us found ourselves laughing as we drove into the forest.