Two men sit in a softly lit office on the third floor of an office building, an office building which is named after some benefactor that only few remember. It is connected to the medical campus across the road by an enclosed bridge, which allows the non-medical bureaucrats (who complain about customer service rather than saving lives), the doctors for the psychiatric ward patients and general population, as well as the financial officers, quick access to the inner workings of the hospital and by default by-passing the general public.
The first man sits behind a maple desk in a nice tailored light gray suit with a white collared shirt, solid red tie and a pair of brown Allen Edmond university wingtips. His neatly combed brown hair is speckled with white and shows no sign of hair loss. His matching beard is just as neatly kept, rounding around his sharp jaw line and connecting with his defining chin and mustache. His eyes, which peer through a pair of vintage, light gold, round shaped, wire rimmed eyeglasses, are slightly wrinkled in question. His hands are placed, palm down in a triangle position, upon a closed notebook, and a look of genuine concern and worry rests upon his stern face.
“Marcus, it has been two years now, since the passing of your daughter Jenna. You have made great strides to deal with your grief and move on with your life, but I have seen an increase in restlessness since you and your wife decided to part. Now, I know anger and sadness are natural reactions when losing someone dear to you, and with the pain, however dull it has become, from losing your daughter, it must be even more of a burden. That is why I am asking you to please confide in me and your loved ones so we can help you through this.”
Marcus sits with his face in his hands as tears run freely from his eyes, he looks up, his hazel eyes are distant and painful to look at. His clean-shaven face is red from crying, and his dark blonde hair falls a little to the right side covering his eye a little. He is dressed in a light blue collared shirt with a Rodd & Gunn sport coat, brown pants and a pair of Vince, graphite, ‘Manny’ Suede Buck Shoes. Marcus, now thirty-four, is the founder and CEO of a local digital marketing firm, which he started at twenty-five years old. He came out of college and started his firm with a dream and no money. By the end of the first year, he had secured contracts with five of the major players in his city. By thirty years old, he was married, had a two-year old daughter, his firm was being publicly traded and he was a multi-millionaire. But none of this matters now, because in the end he was broken.
His daughter was four years old when she was kidnapped, sexually abused, held for ransom and then murdered. Marcus provided the ransom but the police were unable to save his daughter. The man suspected was able to get away and made it out of the country. Marcus had a friend in the CIA who said he would help find the killer, and after two years of searching, the man was found in Australia. Without waiting to tell his wife he was leaving, Marcus took a plane to Sydney. He called her during the flight, and told her he had to hurry off on business. He tracked the killer to Denmark, and after a week of following him, kidnapped him and drove to William Bay National Park. The man struggled, but for all his effort, he was tied, gagged, kicked in the face, punched in the throat and tossed in the trunk for good measure. When night came, Marcus dragged the man from the trunk of his car to some rock faces away from the common visitor and tourist areas. The man pleaded for his life in frantic screams, which were barely audible due to the rope and cloth covering his mouth. Marcus just stared at him, a cold stillness taking him over, and said “You are going to die, not just yet, but you are going to die.”