Creative writing - Sean Breton had always been a psychic. He had often been encouraged to become a criminal profiler.

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The bus unloads and three get off. One boy with baggy jeans crosses the road and moves with speed down a shaded, long road. A man follows in a shining black car. He had been waiting on the side of the street for some time. Waiting for this innocent young man to begin his walk home. The boy could be no older than twenty, with brown hair and a strong face.. The man wants him gone. Wants him gone bad. The car follows slowly at first, and then stops beside the boy…

Sean Breton had always been a psychic. He had often been encouraged to become a criminal profiler. He sometimes received spontaneous visions of crimes being committed. So he had followed his newfound dream of being a profiler upon ending his career as a forensic scientist. He had been able, during his career, to "become" a maniac, to view the world through the eyes of a psychopath. His job had taught him many things. He had left with a new look on life. The gruesome deaths of men and women he had worked on
did disturb him, but the whole experience did not leave him suicidal or change him into a forever-grumpy man. Rather, it showed him there was so much more to humankind than what people saw.

The boy is uncertain about the man as he peered into the car. Oh God, does this man need him gone. Powerful arms wrap the boy into a hug, around the car’s front bumper, kicking, scratching, and the man throws the boy inside…

Sean pushed the images from his mind and smiled to himself, driving down the street in his black Porsche. He had recently won the lottery, and had taken early retirement. His girlfriend, Gina, sat beside him in the passenger seat, busily adjusting the radio channel. He was always patient with her, even when she annoyed the hell out of him.

When he felt like throwing his fist through the radio, he said, “This is the life, isn’t it?” He looked out over the mountainside, twisty roads stretching along for miles and miles. Sean looked at the endless ocean below the cliff, smiling once more.

“It really is beautiful. But the drive isn’t part of the holiday,” Gina’s expression twisted into irritation as she met his eyes. “Is it?”

Sean sighed. “No, not if you don’t want it to be. It is for me.” He smiled. “I love to drive.”

“Glad you do,” Gina said and started fiddling with the radio dial again. Sean counted down from ten, letting his anger slowly release.

The farmhouse where the man parks the car. The boy is drugged and sleeping. The man brings him inside, shaking he staggers under the weight of the boy. What is he doing? No it’s got to be done.  

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Sean caught himself frowning. Many people had explained to him that the criminal mind would eventually go away when he stopped using it. Unfortunately, he could not rid himself of the burden. Horrible killings still filled and cluttered his vast mind.

Reaching the coastline, he pulled over and referred to the map. The boat station was only over the hill and a mile to the right. He traced his finger on the narrow black line that dead-ended along the coast, and tapped it twice. He folded the map and tossed it on Gina’s lap. She sighed and violently shoved it in ...

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