Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

An Utter Lack of Hope

He wasn't unhappy; it was just that his life had been characterized by unhappiness. He though maybe he was becoming immune to it, and that one day his unhappiness would cease to bother him.

But for now, he would continue on with his life as it was. He had no family, except for his mother who was growing old, and he rarely saw her.

He had a father, in theory, but he had died long ago.

He was sitting at his desk now, reading through some reports. It was a small wooden desk, in the corner of a small, dark room. He was a detective, and a talented one at that. Maybe his line of work had just exposed him to too much of the world.

The file for his latest case lay untouched on the desk before him. He had been waiting for his melancholy mood to fade away before he began to read it, but realizing he would probably be dispirited for a while longer, he pulled the folder towards himself and opened it.

A list of items needing laboratory tests was at the top of the paper. There was some sort of note about silverware written in a scrawling hand a few paragraphs down, and below that he could see words like "vicious" and "cold-blooded".

Sighing, he shoved the report into one of his desk drawers. He often wondered why he had become a detective in the first place; of course, he knew the answer to this question, but he hated it. The truth was that he had pictured himself as an obliging, friendly investigator, someone who would help those in need. Someone who could save other people.

It was ironic, because he could barely even save himself.

Maybe there was a time when he had been extroverted and unreserved. But he couldn't remember it. He really wasn't quite sure what had happened to the detective in his imagination, the strong, kindly one. It was a memory in his own mind, but it was someone else - it wasn't him.

He must have been exposed to too much of the world.

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