and give him the kick.
“The lake!” he cried. “Get me to the lake!” If
anyone was there, they’d be wondering who the old detective with an initial for
a name was talking to.
D. found himself crash landing again. Hopefully
this didn’t happen too often, he made sure of that. Now what to do when he
reached the bank? If he reached West Lake, what was he to do next?
Like a toddler, D. was on his arms and knees
crawling. Every inch counted, they mattered to him like the air he breathed and
the food he ate. The lake got closer – no, he got closer as he went on. He was
the one who got closer, not the lake. West Lake would always be in that part of
the city no matter how far D. was, or anybody else living for that matter.
It’ll stay there unless massive evaporation or worldly destructions and/or
changes happened hundreds of years in the future. But by then he’d still keep
this in mind, and he still thought this when the longest of his fingers reached
the water, cupped some into his hands, which went into the parched mouth of the
old detective who thought he couldn’t go any farther.
But West Lake held nothing new. It was still the
same lake he had seen before, nothing special about it to deepen the case he
held responsibility for. He doubted it had anything to do with the man named
West Lake who coincidentally shared the same name. Reading the profile
description again, none held information about him or the lake. All that was
left was something D. found strange: Failure in attempted fire at police
department and mayor office in synchronized time. Continues to stalk the
department for unknown reasons except for cryptic reasons both officers and
investigators are still searching for – could this be related to the web he
found earlier in both Chief Advert's office and the locker room before?
D.’s heart sank deeper
into the internal hell provided in his stomach when he read the poem and
searched the lake. None of this had to do with the case he begged from Chief
Advert earlier, but it brought chills and pain nonetheless. He surveyed the
whole bank in a loop, searching for anything that might take him to another
clue. The unidentified sender must have known what he/she was doing; otherwise
this would all have been a waste of time. When it looked like he was done, D.
went over to the trees and observed from a higher standpoint.
The Chinese poem mentioned lotuses, but D. didn’t
find any lotuses surrounding the lake or pressing onto its shallow surface.
Color didn’t matter; if it was there, it meant something. It’d be symbolic or
literal but it had to be something, D. knew it in his heart and in his mind (or
was it only in his mind and never in his heart?). Like a child looking for
something that can never be found, again D. reenacted the same poses and
reactions. On the ground where he landed, D. inspected tiny blades of grass,
going through them like hairs. Denial always came before acceptance, but D.
still kept himself in the denial stage. He choked up on his tears, preventing them
from flooding all over the place like projectile bile filled in sadness. There
had to be something in the poem that might help. He read it until he could
remember it (and would soon forget the whole damned thing from his near-perfect
memory loss) and even read in between the lines, probably giving it too much
credit for what it was worth.
Lotuses, water lilies, red in the sunshine . . .
did scholars have the same trouble D. was going through? He supposed that maybe
the poem couldn’t be solved – it wasn’t supposed to be solved. Maybe it wasn’t
about the case he had dived into but rather a little gem for him to keep in
private matters. Nobody else would see it, D. made sure of that, even if it were
meant for him or not, but its meaning was lost in itself, which he found
unusual. Obscuring its meaning was
“The lake!” he cried. “Get me to the lake!” If
anyone was there, they’d be wondering who the old detective with an initial for
a name was talking to.
D. found himself crash landing again. Hopefully
this didn’t happen too often, he made sure of that. Now what to do when he
reached the bank? If he reached West Lake, what was he to do next?
Like a toddler, D. was on his arms and knees
crawling. Every inch counted, they mattered to him like the air he breathed and
the food he ate. The lake got closer – no, he got closer as he went on. He was
the one who got closer, not the lake. West Lake would always be in that part of
the city no matter how far D. was, or anybody else living for that matter.
It’ll stay there unless massive evaporation or worldly destructions and/or
changes happened hundreds of years in the future. But by then he’d still keep
this in mind, and he still thought this when the longest of his fingers reached
the water, cupped some into his hands, which went into the parched mouth of the
old detective who thought he couldn’t go any farther.
But West Lake held nothing new. It was still the
same lake he had seen before, nothing special about it to deepen the case he
held responsibility for. He doubted it had anything to do with the man named
West Lake who coincidentally shared the same name. Reading the profile
description again, none held information about him or the lake. All that was
left was something D. found strange: Failure in attempted fire at police
department and mayor office in synchronized time. Continues to stalk the
department for unknown reasons except for cryptic reasons both officers and
investigators are still searching for – could this be related to the web he
found earlier in both Chief Advert's office and the locker room before?
D.’s heart sank deeper
into the internal hell provided in his stomach when he read the poem and
searched the lake. None of this had to do with the case he begged from Chief
Advert earlier, but it brought chills and pain nonetheless. He surveyed the
whole bank in a loop, searching for anything that might take him to another
clue. The unidentified sender must have known what he/she was doing; otherwise
this would all have been a waste of time. When it looked like he was done, D.
went over to the trees and observed from a higher standpoint.
The Chinese poem mentioned lotuses, but D. didn’t
find any lotuses surrounding the lake or pressing onto its shallow surface.
Color didn’t matter; if it was there, it meant something. It’d be symbolic or
literal but it had to be something, D. knew it in his heart and in his mind (or
was it only in his mind and never in his heart?). Like a child looking for
something that can never be found, again D. reenacted the same poses and
reactions. On the ground where he landed, D. inspected tiny blades of grass,
going through them like hairs. Denial always came before acceptance, but D.
still kept himself in the denial stage. He choked up on his tears, preventing them
from flooding all over the place like projectile bile filled in sadness. There
had to be something in the poem that might help. He read it until he could
remember it (and would soon forget the whole damned thing from his near-perfect
memory loss) and even read in between the lines, probably giving it too much
credit for what it was worth.
Lotuses, water lilies, red in the sunshine . . .
did scholars have the same trouble D. was going through? He supposed that maybe
the poem couldn’t be solved – it wasn’t supposed to be solved. Maybe it wasn’t
about the case he had dived into but rather a little gem for him to keep in
private matters. Nobody else would see it, D. made sure of that, even if it were
meant for him or not, but its meaning was lost in itself, which he found
unusual. Obscuring its meaning was
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