Deadly Secrets. Part 44.

My week was pretty ok, though I’ve been wrecked for the last few days, unbelievably tired, it seems to be fading thankfully. Do not want to go back down that road again. No thank you. I’m lazy enough as it is, never mind when I’m so tired I need a half an hour build up to actually get up from bed or moving in general. I have stuff to do still and of course, being the screaming genius I am, I’ve arranged for a busy weekend. At least it will be interesting!

I also finished reading the Newflesh Trilogy by Mira Grant, which was really, really awesome. The novella and short story, she has set in the same world were also good, but I much preferred the trilogy itself. I really connected with the characters.

And so we reach the end. I can’t say I’m displeased that I’m done with this. I always enjoy the feeling I get when I finish something so long. Like a big bubble of happiness that sits just below my collar bones, kinda weird sounding but there is no other way to explain it!I also usually end up grinning away like a fool.

Next Friday will be the beginning of a new series. On Wednesday I will reveal some more information about it. Until then,

On with the show!


Part 1, Part 43

The lights were so incredibly bright. He squinted, trying to see. everything was white. A light blanket was resting across his body, that alone was too heavy. Pain shot up and down his body as he moved, he groaned slightly. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick and heavy. There was an IV snaking from his arm, the wire twisting and curving into a bag of clear fluid. A small button was resting on the bed by his hand, he reached forward and pressed. After a few seconds, blessed relief, the pain faded. His head felt too heavy, he let it drop back, trying to piece together what had happened.

The man.

There was a man, a man that was cutting him, again and again. It all seemed so far away and distant. Ariadne. She was there too, she attacked the man. She cut him loose. She was hurt. The shock and worry were comfortably buried beneath a layer of calm. She was fine, she had to be. His eyes scanned the room, looking for some sign of her, but he was alone. Just outside the door he could see a blue uniform. Police. Why where the police here? The man must have gotten away. A nurse walked in, she was saying something, he needed to focus. He squinted, hoping it would help. Her lips continued to move and noise continued to come out, but it was gibberish, he spoke, words forming slowly, “I don’t speak English.” Then his head dropped back and he was asleep. The nurse checked him over, then left the room. He had been through a lot, he needed sleep. It was better for him to have a few hours of peace. What had happened to him had filtered through the paramedics and soon the cops and all the nurses knew what happened. Talking in hushed tones at the nurses’ station, worried he might over hear. That poor, brave girl. He had been mumbling about her when the police arrived, telling them how she saved him, how they had to save her. The nurse shook her head and went about her tasks.

Patrick woke up, the pain was back, he didn’t want the pain, but he needed to be aware. He tried to call out, but there was no noise, he coughed painfully. He found a button again, it was red, he pressed it. A few moments later a nurse appeared. “How are you feeling.” He tried to speak again, “hold on a second.” She disappeared and returned a moment later with a cup of water, a pink straw stuck in the cup. “Sip.” She allowed him to take a little and pulled the cup away from his mouth. “Thanks. Sore.” She nodded, “you’ve been though a lot.” “How’s Ariadne?” “Who?” “The woman, in my room.” The nurse glanced back. “Hold on a moment.” She left the room and gently touched one of the cops shoulders, they talked in whispers, Patrick strained to hear, the cop shook his head. After a moment the nurse glared at the cop then left. One of the cops ambled in. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you a few questions, if that’s ok.” Patrick nodded, “If you tell me what happened to Ariadne.” “Once the questions are asked, I can tell you.” Patrick felt a deep weight in his stomach. They weren’t telling him in the hopes of keeping him calm. They didn’t want him to know something. Patrick sighed and nodded. He would have painkillers to numb any pain afterwards. The cop took out a small notebook and a recorder, “Ok, tell me what happened.”

Patrick was proud of himself, he didn’t press the button once, no matter how much he wanted. He went through what had happened, about Diane’s body, about the crazed man attacking him, about how Ariadne had come in and attacked the man. The cop turned off the recorder and slid the notebook into his pocket. “Ariadne, how is she?” The cop sighed. “She was hurt pretty badly, she’s in surgery at the moment, the doctors said it was touch and go.” Patrick wanted to punch him. “She’s still alive?” the cop nodded, looking confused. “Are her parents here?” “No, we had no way of contacting any family members.” Patrick struggled to remember the number, then he gave it. As the cop left the room, Patrick muttered “asshole.” He reached towards the button and as he pressed it, he noticed the bandages around his arms. He’d have some gnarly looking scars, a few seconds later, he didn’t care.

He opened his eyes slowly, there was pressure on his hand. There wasn’t pain yet, just pressure. He looked to his left, Ariadne’s mother was sitting there, holding his hand. “I’m so sorry this happened.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t The Lambs.” His words were slurred, it took a moment for her to understand. “If we hadn’t…” He shook his head. “It was some psycho. I don’t know how. It was my fault. How is she?” “Still in surgery.” He wanted to ask why they were here, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. They shouldn’t be with him, they should be with her.

The haze was still there when the doctor walked in. He asked to speak to Ariadne’s parents outside, giving Patrick a meaningful look. It wasn’t long before he could hear them crying in the hall. They came in, clinging to one another, he knew what had happened. He pressed the button again. There was nothing else he could do.


The funeral was a short affair, with few people in attendance, Patrick, her parents and a few people she had become acquainted with while she had been free. Patrick was asked to speak, and he did, he spoke of how courageous she was, how resilient, how she had saved his life and finally, how she had died in doing it.

He sold his house, keeping a few mementos. There was nothing there that he wanted. The business went soon after. He had plenty of money, not quite enough to retire on, but enough to keep him comfortable for the next few years at least. He didn’t want to be in the city, he didn’t want to be around people. He needed to get away. Maybe he’d returned in a few years, he didn’t quite know. He guessed it probably wouldn’t be somewhere hot. He couldn’t bring himself to wear t-shirts now. The scars that criss crossed his arms were too much to look at. He didn’t want people gawping at him in the street, they already did that enough when they saw his face. The scars there weren’t as bad, but people still stared.  The ones on his legs weren’t seen, he never wore shorts anyway.

There was no need for a trial, the man that had attacked him was dead. Once it was discovered how many people he had killed, reporters started looking for him, he was the only surviving victim of a serial killer. Two people he loved had died for him. He couldn’t handle the questions, the constant badgering. He had to get away. He hadn’t decided where he would go yet, the only thing he knew was that it would be far, far from the city he had once loved.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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