The Decision

"Are you okay sir?" Henry struggled to speak to the mess of a mind that was Casson's. Casson was disoriented, he had just barely survived a fire. Through the still dim room, Henry pushed the open door further open so both of them could exit. "Sir?"

"Henry, you're alive! I'm so sorry about what happened before!" Casson gasped in awe as he attempted to stand up, or hug Henry, but he just collapsed onto the floor.

"Of course I'm alive! But I know where the murderer is, he framed the blacksmith! I noticed the symbol after you, so I knew you went there, but the blacksmith isn't the murderer! As soon as I arrived at the house, I noticed the door was open, so I concluded that you did come inside! Did you notice that all of the blacksmith's stuff was in boxes? The murderer tried to rob him, and then set the house on fire so that it would seem like an accident. Based on my observations, I believe he left just minutes before you came! But anyway, here's the location for his lair! Oh! The sheriffs are coming, that's great! Now we can work together to-!" Those were Henry's last words. As he was excitedly talking to Casson, and just moments after giving him the hideout of the murderer, he dropped to the floor beside Casson.

"Henry!" Casson yelped as he struggled to get up and get a look at Henry. His bones and body were still aching, but he managed to kneel in front of Henry, looking down on him. In front of him was a still smiling Henry, but now with an exit on his forehead; he was just shot. Right through the center, he was shot. The shocked Casson struggled to find words, what was he to do! He was just so happy a moment ago, now a rush of grief devoured him.

"Casson! Get away from the body! Call the doctor! Man injured!" A sheriff howled at him as he pulled the body away from the, still burning, building. "Casson, are you all right?" Casson tried to mumble out an answer, but his muscles relaxed a bit too much, making him incapable of moving. His sight was blurring, his mind was a mixed bunch of polar-opposite emotions until his eyes finally dropped; he was knocked out. After a long while of sleeping on Casson's part, he eventually opened his eyes a few days later on the hospital bed. Every sense of heat he felt, every sense of loud noise, all caused him to shiver and turn frantically in all directions. Casson wasn't the same, but it was not just his overwhelming PTSD that affected him, it was also the thought of the note Henry had given him before he died. There was just one thought in his mind during his stay in the hospital, ignoring all other things inside of the hospital. After his stay, he couldn't even remember the names or faces of the people that had helped him recover even if he wanted to, the most he remembered is the slim bed he was on inside of the cramped square, milk-white room. Casson, now a changed person with only one straight goal in his mind, was set free a few weeks after the fire. He was quite relieved to get out of the hospital building that stunk of illnesses, with people interviewing him left and right. Beelining for the old detective's building, he finally arrived at his old office, looking the same as it was before. The quivering memories of Henry stuck with him, prickling upon him when he sat upon his leather chair, examining the desk, and there it was, the note Henry gave him right before he died. His hand extended forward and grabbed the note, reading it steadily, so as not to miss a single detail. "Frederick Larson: 49, location: Grinton; 143 Harrison Street." He read the note repeatedly, memorizing every detail, holding his breath in the process. Finally, gasping for breath, he stared at the new flier pinned to his wall; saying desperately that he needed to investigate it. The flyer read about how the murderer just killed his 53rd known victim; Henry.

Gripping the note tight, he realized that that was the last straw, he must end the reign of terror once and for all! That was when he felt another tingling sensation on his neck, which caused him to look up. In front of him, was the mirror which caused him to gasp as he saw what was on the mirror. In front of him was Henry, but that was not all that was in the mirror. Behind Henry was the blacksmith with his beard as dark as ever. But it was not only them that was in the mirror, but dozens of others were also there, all victims of murders. This sight gave him great motivation for what he was to do, still gasping until he finally closed his mouth and pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen. After scribbling down some words, he hurried off, grabbed his thickest boots, and his ragged coat, pocketed a firearm, and hurried out of the building. Crossing through the dark street, it started to rain, causing the place to become foggy and harder to navigate past. The further he walked, the harder the rain bombarded him, the more his coat became more drenched, and the more his boots became muddier.

"Splash! Splash!" The sounds of the water splashed into different directions as he stamped onto the filled puddles. After a large amount of navigating and time, he was there. The building of the murderer was towering above him, looking grim. Without hesitation, he pulled up on the door, but not surprisingly, it was locked. Swiftly, he pulled out a paperclip and proceeded to unlock the door, it opened quite easily with a small clicking noise. Inside of the room was a shadowed room, with nothing but an amber light at the very end to lead him. Walking inside, he didn't even bother to close the door for this was going to be over quickly if this goes as planned. Although the ending had a shimmer of amber, the room was pitch black. The drenching coat was heavy on him, with the overwhelming amount of mud stuck to his boot paralyzing him in place, if that wasn't himself standing still to try to consider things through. His mind was a discombobulated mess with no clear thoughts circulating anywhere, all that was in his mind was his goal of revenge.

Finally, after a slight bit of consideration, he continued his path. Every step he took inside this house, he felt his emotions become clearer, until finally, quite unexpectedly, there was the source of the light. It was from a bedside lamp, with a person lying in bed. Casson's vision was blurred, all he could see was the person, but not the person as a whole, just the objective. He couldn't see the features of the murderer's face or body features. Nothing was more clear to him now, just one emotion rushed through his mind; rage, a murderous rage. His hand dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his gun, not even thinking about the possibilities such as if this person was the murderer, he pointed it at the sleeping body, and fired. The bullet roared across the street, with every home waking up. None knew the source of the noise, with many running amuck and trying to escape their own homes as quickly as possible, thinking another murder was happening. But Casson didn't care, nothing mattered to him more now than what he just accomplished. He took a life but prevented dozens of others from being taken. Not regretting his decisions at all, he held the gun to himself. Just before firing, he whispered one sentence, "I'll see you soon, Angelica, I'll finally be able to meet you again, Abigail."