The Other Me - Monkwalk (100 books to read txt) 📗

Prologue
Tom Jackson born January 26th 1982 to Molly and John Jackson grew up a normal young boy happy and charming as a child but acting strange at times. Soon he was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of 9 after violently attacking a class mate and later not remembering it. By his 11th birthday, both Molly and John Jackson had come to realise the extent of his condition, and by his 12th ,they decided they could no longer care for their son. He was put into a special care home who were qualified to look after him and manage his medical requirements. For various reasons Tom was never fostered or adopted by a family, perhaps because of his unique medical condition.
When he reached the age of 18 he enrolled into collage and later university becoming a journalist for The Times newspaper. Tom tried many different medications to help control the schizophrenia, but at 21 he fully recovered and stopped taking the medication. At 22 he married Tara Morgan and they lived their lives as a happily married couple. On the 8th of March 2011, Tom tragically lost his wife, she committed suicide in the early hours of the morning while he was at work. Tom worked on the case of his wife’s suicide alongside 4 other suicides before, and 1 after. Tom was well liked by all and was very involved in his work; some might say too involved. Once he started working on a case he was obsessed, he didn’t eat, sleep, or rest until he finished the piece. During this time he became antisocial and uncharacteristically irrational this lead to…


Chapter 1
Interrupting my peaceful thoughts of home and family came the annoying sound of my boss. As it reached my ears the squeaky voice spoke:
‘Walk with me Tom, I know you have been working on the story of Crimpton Manor, but a bigger story has come up and as my top journalist, I would like you to take on the story.’ Julia said hastily.
‘Okay, what is the…’
‘There has been a chain of suicides happening in the east London area during the last two and a half months, the police have past each case of as a unfortunate suicide, however the family members cannot find a appropriate reason as to why this would happen; they were all describe as happy, bubbly characters who loved and embraced life. I want you to dig round a bit, kick up some dirt, you know the sort of thing your good at.’ And with that she had hurried of to bother someone else with her high pitch annoyingly squeaky voice.
I turned around irritated, would I ever get to finish my Crimpton Manor piece, I had been working on it for 2 months now but something always seemed to come up to stop me from writing it.
‘Oh, yeah’ I shivered at her voice, ‘all the paper work and the police documents are on my desk.’ She called back.
I walked over to the lift, where was Julia’s office? Ah right flour 5, room 26. When I reached floor 5, I walked slowly to Julia’s office, I was of the sort of man who liked to rush through life. The smell of sickly sweet flowers wafted over me as I entered the pretty pink room, I felt as though I had just walked into a florist checking the time I picked up the folder and returned to my own desk in the mood to write. As I flicked through the paperwork something didn’t feel write about it, almost familiar. Alice Hybri, Oliva Johnson, Susie Jacks and Melanie Jones each died in similarly horrific ways but for what looked like totally different reasons, I recognised them but maybe because of a report I did three years ago on the suicide of Angelia Timothy. Shaking my heads and taking a sip of my favourite Starbucks coffee: cinnamon soya latte, to wake me up, I was ready to work.


Chapter 2
Hi, honey I’m home, busy day at work today I was writing about all these suicides that have happened in the past two an a half months, Julia pushed it onto me, looks like I’ll never get to finish my report on Crimpton Manor, It’s what I’m good at: apparently.’ As I walked into the kitchen I realised that my hands were covered in a red substance, it must have been printing ink, well I was busy today. I ran my hands under the warm tap, I expected it to be hard to wash away and that I might have to scrub away at it, but it seemed to rinse away easily. Surprised, I dried my hands on the soft towel next to the sink. A strange silence crept across the room. It made me feel uneasy. I could feel darkness creeping inside my lungs, inhabiting every part of my body, almost choking me. Soundly I had a burning sensation. This was all wrong. Where was Tara?
‘Tara! Tara!’ I screamed, I ran though the house attacking every corner like a tornado ripping through a town. I stopped. All sense of hoped had been drained out of my body, until I drooped to the floor, limp and lifeless. Before my eyes: my beloved Tara sprawled across in a reckless manor. Her white pale face was twisted in agony and stained with gleaming tear tracks. The pool of blood that had leaked from her wrists was swimming around her. The red had stained her smooth white dress, destroying her purity. Even with a tortured face and disfigured body she still looked beautiful; the woman I married was still there… somewhere.
I ran for the phone, sweating appearing on my hands, I dialled for ambulance. Someone had to come. Something had happened to my wife. I needed help. The wait for the ambulance was drawn out; I waited for what felt like years. She was whisked from me in a flash; the blood was cleared away, as if it had never happened.
The last sight of my wife was less than a happy one.
This hard long day wore me out, and as I sat in the comfort of my bed, my eyes drooped and I fell into a deep sleep.
Running quickly, running forever, blood pouring, veins pumping, worlds spinning, worlds colliding. Slashing, bleeding, drowning, dying, dying, dying dead.


Chapter 3
I was a wreck.
By the time I got to the funeral I was a wreck. I tried to hold back the tears which threatened to spill over and roll down my cheeks, but it was no use. I knew that Tara would’ve wanted me to be strong for her, but I couldn’t stop myself. I tipped over the edge and almost collapsed in my misery when I saw the smooth wood coffin, covered with flowers and imagined her lying inside it.
Why should it be her?
My mind drifted back to our wedding day. She was so happy and so was I. I just wanted they day back. I would gladly live in that day forever, when nothing in the world could go badly because I would be with her. And it dawned on me that she would never end her life this way.
Deep down, I had known that this was all wrong.
Murder. This was the first the first thought that came to me. I knew I was right, I didn’t know why or how, but I was correct. Then it seemed that my grief eased up a bit as I came to this conclusion and realized that I could do something to help my beautiful Tara. Maybe no one would believe me, but I would do whatever I could to force them to. They would have no choice but to listen to me.
All around me people were weeping, all dressed in black, with puffy red eyes, they looked pitiable. I almost wanted to laugh, even though I knew I was supposed to be crying too. I had energy inside of me, knowing that I could do something, instead of just watching, with sorrowful eyes, doing nothing.
The priest spoke about how it was so sad that a woman had taken herself away from us at such a young age. I just repeated to myself, over and over, that he’s wrong, it’s not her fault, and every time I thought it I felt a little stronger. I managed to motivate myself to find the killer.
The anger that pulsed through me at the thought of the murderer was indescribable. I just wanted justice – revenge on anyone who could cause so much anguish.
It was on the journey home that I realized that I hadn’t listened to any of the ceremony. The guilt that washed over me nearly forced me to lose my resolve, though somehow I managed to cling on to it. I got home; my day a complete blur and I succumbed to the exhaustion that tried to overwhelm me.
My vision is foggy, but all my other senses are sharper. I hear a voice – somewhere – ‘go on, do it’. I walk silently towards the building, it won’t take much. I feel the rope… hear the scream… watch as life drains out of her face. And then I’m gone.
I was covered in sweat and gasping when I dragged myself out of the nightmare. ‘You should calm down, Tom’ I said to myself, ‘these murder ideas are getting to you, it probably nothing.’ The certainty I felt earlier was gone, and I was left with a hole where it used to be. I tried and summon back my courage, thinking of a logical reason they could be murders. I think back to all the recent ‘suicides’, which seem a little suspicious. This thought lulled me back to sleep, knowing that I would investigate the next day.


Chapter 4
The scene of Alice Hybri’s death was eerily silent. It was once a busy park, filled with the laughter of children and the smiles of adoring parents. Now, unattended and abandoned the grass had grown up to my knees, the old swing set was creaking and the wind whistled over the decaying duck pond.
There was nothing to see there, so I decided to visit Alice’s parents. I asked them if they had noticed anything unusual before or after her death. They told me that none of them had noticed anything particularly strange, although afterwards they said that they had found a charm bracelet that they had never seen before. This interested me, so I asked if they could guess where it had come from. They thought that she could’ve had a secret boyfriend, who had given it to her. This thought made her mother burst into tears, as she thought he could be responsible for her death.
Not wishing to tell them that I thought it could be murder, I contented myself with examining the bracelet. It seemed completely normal. A few small silver charms adorned it, none of them of any interest. The only thing that truly interested me was the letter A that hung