The Crime Scene Cleaner – A Flash Fiction

It was not that Mr. Annar had forgotten to close his blinds as everyone had suspected, it was that he had dismantled the installation, making it impossible for anyone to block his view of the entire parking lot.
The central bay window was perfectly spaced, allowing him to take advantage of the lucky occurance of being the renter of P-91.
The friendly, lady with the three cats next door on the other hand was not so lucky.
Living next to someone shaken by paranoia, her gentle smile, directed toward him, cost her her life.
Watching both bodies leave in bags, Ben nodded at the detectives and officers, watching them leave one by one, until he was finally alone.
Sighing, he raised his head toward the ceiling at the bloody mess above, already regretting,that he gave his new employee the day off. Cleaning up here alone, would surely take all night.

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2015

The Cop – A Flash Fiction Story

Grieving families. My personal nightmare.
And I am a part of their nightmare.
I have to poke into their lives, dig deeper then anyone would like me to.
Really, I do care.
Still, I have to do my job.

It is not my fault, that I uncover mistresses and secret bank accounts.
I am aware of the dilemma an no longer hidden drug problem will be for the family and with your friends.
Yes, I am sorry to hear, that the man in the bag, being driven away,  is someones father. Someones friend.
It touches my soul deeper then I will ever share with anyone, and definitely not with you
.
Even my wife, and absolutely not with my children.
Keeping a brave face for their sake.
And for yours.

Never-less, the scars this and every death leave upon my soul, are deep.
They wake me from each sleep, never restful, always disturbed.
Nightmares of tangled bodies, and the ability of human disdain of one another.
How can people be so cruel?

Yet, between the wanting to drown your and my sorrows in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, I return.
I always return.
Because someone has to.
Someone has to clean up, make sure that at least some of those scumbags will be locked up, away from you.

So I return.
Again.
Tonight.
My badge and gun always in reach.

But the question remains.
How can I survive another death?

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2013-2014

This story was originally posted in one of my older blogs before moving over here to the wordpress platform