The Dead Story of a Birthmark

Heavy panting, bleeding arms, and intense fear. All of which were the only things I currently knew. My polished dress shoes were no longer a sleek black, and were now ridden with dust and blood. My once clean, black business suit was now wrinkled, and ripped at certain spots. I held my aching left arm by my side, and limped forward as fast as I could. I couldn’t tell where I was… or even who I was. All I cared about was escaping from whatever was chasing me.A tumult of voices yelled from behind. It sounded like multiple men's voices, but I couldn’t tell if they were shouting for help or in pain. Behind me, sporadic patterns of footsteps approached, and fled my ears in random intervals. I could hear the people swinging around, and bumping into the nearby surroundings. Something must’ve been released in the office, since someone grunted, “Dammit, I can’t see!” to himself. In a moment of pure anxiety, I stumbled over something on the ground and fell, hitting a sore spot in my right knee

I paused, waiting for the punchline of his joke. I soon discovered that there was none. “Ehhh I think you need to work on that one a bit,” I confided. “I don’t see the punchline. Is it supposed to be some sort of dark humor or…?” Flint impatiently waved his hand. “No no no! I’m serious!” he persisted. “You– with the– err–,” he stuttered, looking around the room. “Here, just read this section.” Flint flipped back to the page he was just on and handed the book to me. The top of the page read Birthmarks: indications of past-life trauma. I looked up at him skeptically, still waiting for him to admit to making a bad joke. When that expectancy didn’t come into fruition, I began to read aloud. “Most recently, theorists around the world developed the idea that birthmarks are evidence of past life trauma. This leads to the presumption that birthmarks are an indication of how one had died in their previous life, which supports the reincarnation theory (see page 39). Experts say that if such i

A surplus of food trucks was lined along the walkways in the open quad area. The large field directly behind the quad area was filled with chattering people who had laid out blankets and chairs to watch Scream on the giant projected screen. Flint and I had just ordered from Sam's Grille, which apparently had gourmet-Esque sandwiches and burgers. "Fifteen bucks for a steak sandwich… this better be the best damn thing I'll ever eat," Flint bitterly scoffed. We walked away from the truck but made sure to stay within earshot of our order. "And that's not even counting the side of steak-fries… that was twelve bucks! California inflation is brutal." "To be fair you went here first," I pointed out. "I was the one that originally wanted to go to that pizza truck." "Yeah but that's boring. And plus I was supposed to pay," he angrily accused. I looked away and started whistling, pretending to have not heard his question. "Once we're done with this, drinks and desserts are on me." His tone did

Flint and I read through the rest of the book to ensure there weren’t any other possible candidates. Nevertheless, we found that all the other claimed victims had no occupation related to an office job. Not wanting to rely on one conclusion, we looked through different books to learn more about Samuel Platt’s death. Interestingly in Cold cases: Brixton’s Dark History, we found a detailed description of Samuel Platt’s seemingly unusual death. “What the hell?” Flint remarked in response to the grotesque page. Both of us were in mute shock at what we were looking at. On this page was a passage that went into deep detail about the death scene, which was associated with a grotesque on-site picture. The black and white image depicted a twisted, bloodied body at the bottom of concrete stairs. The dried stains on the walls implied an apparent struggle, showing that this was no accident. The neck was bent at the most unnatural angle, with a pool of blood pouring from an open wound on the head.

As I pedaled through the darkening night, the freezing wind blew on my arms and face. Students were leaving buildings as classes began finishing up. A few times, I nearly crashed into some students for the sole reason of them not paying attention. Even after avoiding an obstacle course of people, I was still a good few minutes away from the library– and even then I still had to lock my bike at a nearby station. “Shit shit shit… sorry!” I yelled to the side as I cut off a large group. I couldn’t pay attention to their crude replies, so I continued pedaling to the extent of my ability. Once their annoyed yells faded in the distance, the library finally loomed into view. I glanced briefly at my phone to see that it was now six twenty-seven. It would be a miracle if she had waited patiently for almost thirty minutes, but even I knew she’s probably left already. Nonetheless, all I could do was hope. After a final stretch of intense pedaling, I finally reached the closest bike station to t