<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Tim, Alice, Jung Hua<br/><hr/>Drake said nothing as the shrink spoke, electing to nurse his cigarette and stare gloomily at nothing.  Like some of the others, this meeting served no real purpose other than to fulfill some requirement on some court papers somewhere.  He was here to do his time, nod and smile when spoken to, and then get on with his business.<br/><br/>Nevertheless, he couldn't help but listen as some of the others told their stories.  He avoided, if he could help it, looking at any of the younger women, but he couldn't help but notice Alice.  She was so unlike the others: meek, subdued, small.  She moved slowly, as if in a trance, or a dream.  Drake had missed her confession, but one glance at her defeated, whipped expression told him all he needed to know.<br/><br/><em>Not hard to guess the story here.  Loyal housewife, married to a louse of a man who pushes her and pushes her and pushes her until she can't take anymore and then, one day, she pushes back.   Look at her.  It's obvious she's gone away, probably to someplace deep inside her own head. Someplace safe, someplace where she won't be hurt anymore.</em><br/><br/>Drake couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman.  The world was a cold, cruel place, sometimes, where the good and virtuous suffered and the evil bastards were allowed to roam free.<br/><br/>The Asian girl, barely a child, had a similar expression, and probably a similar story.  How many women were like her, Drake wondered?  How many bastards were out there, destroying the ones that they promised to love and cherish?<br/><br/>A chill that had nothing to do with the cold outside ran up the back of his neck, causing him to shiver violently.  He grit his teeth and pulled his coat tighter around himself.  Wincing, rubbing his temples as if he had just experienced a severe migraine headache, he shook his head.<br/><br/><em>I'm not going crazy. I'm not.  I'm sane. My name is Drake Holland, and I'm sane.</em><br/><br/>Then the penny dropped, and so did his cigarette.  His blood turned to icewater as something somebody said--something the big guy in the orange prison jumpsuit said--replayed itself in his ears.<br/><br/><em>Marilyn used to wear red.  It was one of her favorite colors.</em><br/><br/>Suddenly, he found he couldn't breathe.  The walls seemed to close in on him. All around him were jeering faces, mocking voices.<br/><br/><em>Was she wearing red the night she died?  God help me, I can't remember.</em><br/><br/>He stared, paralyzed, at the big man, while the abyss opened up beneath him.  The awful silence stretched on and on, punctuated only by the dull thrum-thrum of his own heartbeat, which was deafening.<br/><br/><em>No, I need to be sure.  I can't make a mistake again.  I need to know for sure.</em><br/><br/>Then, slowly, time began to speed up again.  Color returned to the world.  He stepped on the glowing ashes of the dropped cigarette, snuffing out the flame.<br/><br/>"These people you killed," he said to Tim, in a casual, conversational tone of voice.  "Sorry, these...demons.  Were they all in the grocery store?  Do you remember what they looked like?"