Creative Writing: Christmas Eve


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It all began yesterday with the discovery of a male body in the park
at 6pm. It was Christmas Eve and I was about to go home when I was
informed of the incident. I went to the scene with two other officers
but I was extremely eager to get back to my family.

As I walked through the park, snow started to fall and all I could
think about was the poor family of the man, unaware of his death. I
started to think about my own family, my children waiting for me to
come home so that they kiss me good night before Santa came.

When I got to the scene I looked at the man. His face was blank but it
was a face I knew. This man was someone I had known for many years and
the sight of his lifeless body sent shivers down my spine. What had
happened, he had seemed fine a couple of days ago. Was this death
natural? I was certainly going to find out.

A wave of sadness washed over me as I thought about how he had missed
Christmas day with his children. I immediately suspected murder;
disgust and hatred filled every part of my body. Although as I looked
more closely I realised that my quick assumption was indeed wrong.
Suicide, it was obvious now. Everything about him said it. The photo
of his family in his hand, the ring marks on his finger and the diary
with the rest of the year missing. He knew he wouldn’t be here because
he knew that he was defiantly going to die. He had taken his own life,
taken it away from himself but also from his loved one’s.

It’s depressing, death. Hidden away from the public but always there
staring at me. I wanted to be at home away from work and with my
family at this, supposedly happy time of year, but I knew that my work
here was not done.

I stood there staring at my old friend, knowing that if it was suicide

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I needed to find some sort of evidence. As I reached into his pocket
and pulled out his possessions I felt as if I was trespassing on his
memory. Snow was falling gently around us and fell softly onto his
cold face.

I took out picture upon picture, pieces of meaningless paper and his
wallet. As I looked through the papers I saw a note, a note to his
family probably written in his dying minutes. I immediately knew what
it was, a suicide note. It was too much, too upsetting, too hard to
bear. It’s my job yet when faced with the death of a friend I had
broken down so easily.

I left the snow-filled park and headed towards his house. This felt
like a dream, as if I would suddenly wake up from a bad nightmare, but
it wasn’t and I was getting closer and closer to the front door. I
entered the garden and glanced through the window to see his young
children laughing and smiling. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the
children who would not know their father.

I swallowed hard as if to get rid of the scared feeling in my throat.
I lifted my sweating hand to the door and knocked. His wife came to
the door, her face full of happiness and joy. Her eyes met mine and at
once she knew that this was not a friendly visit. Her face was blank
and colourless, as if all the happiness had been drained from it. She
stood there and cried. This once strong and independent woman was now
weak and vulnerable. The words ‘I’m sorry’ mechanically came out as if
I had no feelings at all. I was just a robot doing my job.

She sat down on the doorstep cold, crying and shaking. This is my job,
bringing news of death and sadness to otherwise perfectly happy
families.

She sat there with her head in her hands for what seemed like an
eternity. Her son came out and asked why mummy was crying. She just
held him in her arm not wanting to let him go. The look on her face
told me that she wanted me to leave.

So I just walked away, too traumatised to speak or think. He was gone,
gone like a bit of sand thrown into the wind, never to be seen again.


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