Less Than Seven

Chapter 1 - So It Goes

The ties were black, the lies were white.
In shades of gray, there is no candlelight.

The sky that people are seeing today are the skies filled with nothing but darkness.

Its gloomy, obscure, and tenebrific appearance has brought fear, worry, and even such chaotic episodes.

Its episodes saddened countless of innocent people turning them to worry about everything.

LIFE WAS NEVER WORSE, BUT NEVER BETTER.

It seems like, these people who are wearing a black pair of outfits with a black-tie were being poisoned by the sharp venom of cash and coins and even cents.

All my life, my so-called stupid ultimate dream was to be a journalist someday.

There is innumerable news that had been modified or for easy understanding, changed.

Something has to be unfolded.
Something has to rise from the grave.

The grave of lies has been covered by the vivid colors of cash, by the squeaking sound of coins.

Innocent journalists have been murdered, tortured, some of them drastically experienced agony.

Their articles have come from sweat and tears just to make the news powerful and authentic. But then, all they receive is their own flowing river of sticky, fresh, and hot blood of their own bodies.

DROWNING INTO IT.
GETTING KILLED.
GONE MISSING.

It is now my job to turn the tables into the favor of light. So silly of me, but it sounded for a moment that the term "job" isn't something applicable in both the reality of life and the world of journalism. Therefore, I will be using the term "mission" instead. It sounds big and I know that. Personally, my version of journalism's purpose is to bring justice into the world and to provide a bunch of daily informative information to all the families.

MY BROTHER DIED.

I will always remember the night when we heard the news of his death. He was a writer. Not just a writer of stupid stuff, but a news or an article writer in a big publication in the country.

HE WAS MURDERED.

But no one knows the reason why.

In the middle of that night, he said that he will be home late, because he was busy writing some articles.

After a few hours of that text from him, our mother got a phone call from an unsaved contact, saying that my brother was found dead.

We immediately went there. Crying.

Mom didn't stop crying until we got there in the publication office where he works.

We see him on the floor, lifeless and full of blood.

There was nothing found in the table, it's totally clean. No papers, no pen or pencil.

He was lying on the floor and we couldn't do anything. We just cried and cried and cried until the policemen that have just arrived brought him to a funeral.

No one knew what happened.

But someone will know what really happened that bloody night.

By the way, the autopsy report stated that he was shot in the head, chest and somewhere below the chest, I couldn't specify that because I don't know what it is called. I am trying to sound funny here because it really punches me every time, I am remembering that scenario of my life I couldn't and wouldn't forget.