His Captured Curiosity

Chapter 10 - Muse or Misery

It didn't take long for my suspicions to be confirmed.

In fact, this whole exhibition has so far gone in my favor. I hate the way the thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

One quick sweep of Colin's office with the help of Reg provided me with a picture that I felt was best to investigate alone.

I'm now sitting in the dusty office chair, legs up on the desk that is starkly bare and I lift the faded picture up in the air, the sunlight highlighting the dust in the air and gleaming in my bright, green eyes.

I can hear Reg wandering around upstairs, he had muttered something about seeing Wendy's room for the last time as he left but I hardly paid him any attention with the evidence in my hand.

The grainy image showed four young men linking arms in front of a crumbled, gray wall, sinking into sand. There was shrapnel littering their army boots and judging by the dust covering their uniforms, weapons and even seemingly carved into their features I'd say that they were responsible for blowing up the structure.

Colin was in the center, chest swelling beneath the bullet-proof vest with pride in both himself and his comrades.

His jawline was sharp and peppered with a fair five-o'clock shadow, his blonde hair which matched his daughter's was buzzed tightly to the skull just like the rest of his troop.

But it was his eyes that made me hesitate.

This man had none of the warmth and care that the picture at Reg's revealed. The look in Colin's eyes in this image almost makes me believe that he could be capable of killing his own blood. His eyes were hooded as he stared down the camera, despite his body gloating at the carnage surrounding him, Colin seemed hardly phased by any of it, neither energized nor eager.

In fact, everyone's eyes in this image are hooded and bare of adrenaline. All except the cheek-cracking grin poser at the end of the line.

Omen.

His posture was lax, too relaxed for a good soldier really. He looked sorely out of place in a scenery of such destruction as his head was frozen, tipped back in most likely a side-splitting laugh.

He is much younger here, I'd say late twenties. While Omen now has limber strength, this younger version of him was far more defined, his chest surprisingly bulky. He looks to have had equal weight on both his legs that are in a wide stance. I note that he hadn't hurt his leg at this stage of his life. As my eyesight is drawn to his chest I squint and am left shocked at the amount of sand-covered badges littering and weighing down the top half of his suit.

It doesn't seem smart practice to be barging through war-ridden, poverty-stricken land with multiple shiny trinkets gloating of murder and pain, but I have no doubt that Omen insisted upon it. His ego is seemingly just as strong as it is today.

He's obviously the one in control of his comrades despite Colin being posed as the leader. Their drooping eyes being the dead giveaway.

Whether it is a psychology trick or something more. Omen has found a way to seemingly exhaust a person into total submission. If he manipulated a troop to do as he says, who's to say that he won't just manipulate war itself if he so feels like it?

So what's stopping him from manipulating me?

Or is me being here exactly what he wanted?

My fingers clench around the fragile picture as I continue glaring at the cruel soul. Images of Wendys' and Shanes' bodies flash abruptly past my lids and I realize with a jolt that I've clenched my eyes shut.