Curtis
“I don't want to grow too close to you and bring you into my world...”
“I don't want to grow too close to you and bring you into my world...”
He looked into my eyes, his right eye full of concern and care, a faded blue; his left an always seemingly mischievous and eluding fog. There was something about his blind eye that seemed to entrance me. Curtis had a way of making my heart ache and creating a sort of compulsion to run to his aid, be at his side. He had an average look, and average build. His attempt at the middle-age soccer dad was dead on, with his Nike golf shorts and button-up shirt, white tennis shoes, and baseball cap. “You want to blend so that you always go under the radar, and keep a baseball cap on with your eyes low so they never remember your face,” he explained to me several times while getting ready for “work”.
Curtis and I had been friends and teammates for about a month. We worked together. You could also very easily describe us as partners in crime. That, was in fact, what we were.
I had found myself seemingly incapable of looking after myself, with the impossible task of fighting CPS all on my own, fresh out of the hospital after being in a bed for two months, enduring a major c-section, after having magnesium that felt more like liquid cement pumped into my veins, in between the rotation of three different antibiotics with one that felt like fire. My water had broken at twenty-four weeks and four days. A week earlier and there would have not even been a chance of Jude's survival...After a month of staying pregnant and not being able to get out of a hospital bed, I continued to stay at the hospital for another month in an empty hospital room a floor below the NICU(neonatal intensive care unit). I only left the hospital once, to go to the pharmacy, between giving birth to Jude and being sent home, after the program that let me live in a spare hospital room so that I never had to be away from Jude for long was discontinued... I found myself back at my dad's RV in the woods with Jude's father Robby for all three days before he took off. I had barely walked in two months and was still healing from the surgery, forced to leave my now almost three-pound infant in an incubator, trying to comprehend the father who had doted on me throughout the whole six months of my pregnancy had truly just abandoned our new family, leaving me with the seemingly impossible tasks that CPS was asking of me. I was living in the woods in an RV that didn't run and had no electricity with a car that had been on its last leg all of the time we owned it and a cell phone that had just failed me for the last and final time. I tried to look at the daunting tasks ahead, with my sweet little Jude laying in an incubator with his tubes and monitors and breathing aid relying on me alone, as simple accomplishments I needed to reach. I had to get a home for us that was acceptable to cps standards for a child who was born extremely premature with a high probability of multiple health issues. I had to find a source of income until my disability was re-approved for my epilepsy and mental issues that had deemed me disabled during my first pregnancy when I was married to my husband. And I had to do all these things in one year while completing all the services CPS assigned me from the evaluations I still had to set appointments for and complete them. I had just barely beat my CPS case with my first son, Zeek, and knew that I would have to complete all these tasks with as close to perfect an appearance as possible. This meant I had to try to not cancel appointments and make it to them on time. If I was going to be late I needed to call at least fifteen minutes ahead, but I didn't want to call if I thought I might be late and look like an irresponsible parent; if I called within fifteen minutes of an appointment or visitation I would be deemed even more irresponsible and putting the child through unnecessary stress from being transported to visits that would be canceled, not appreciating the CPS
volunteer's and staff's time or the taxpayers' dollars these cancellations cost. So sometimes it was just better to cancel if it looked like I may be over 15 minutes late when I still had more than 15 minutes to be there. I would go that much longer without seeing Jude. Jude would go that much longer without seeing me... Basically, I was fucked.
About the Creator
Stach Nizzle
Cult leader, of a good cult-changing the negative connotations linked to the word cult like we’re changing the world.
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He Confessed to a Crime He Didn’t Commit
M Mehran The confession came at 4:46 a.m. Detective Ayaan Sheikh stared at the recording screen as the man across the table folded his hands and said calmly, “I killed her.” No hesitation. No trembling voice. No lawyer. That alone made it strange. The accused was Bilal Hassan, a 29-year-old school teacher with no criminal record, no history of violence, and no clear motive. Yet here he was, confessing to the murder of Sana Mir—one of the most high-profile cases the city had seen in years. In criminal investigations, confessions are supposed to bring relief. This one brought questions. The Body by the River Sana Mir’s body was found near the riverbank, wrapped in a white dupatta, hands folded neatly over her chest. There were no defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. The autopsy revealed death by poisoning—slow, deliberate, and personal. Sana wasn’t just anyone. She was a popular investigative journalist known for exposing corruption and organized crime. She had received threats before. Many. Bilal Hassan was not on that list. According to CCTV footage, Bilal was seen near the river that night. His fingerprints were found on Sana’s phone. The evidence lined up neatly—too neatly. Criminal cases are rarely that generous. A Confession That Didn’t Fit During interrogation, Bilal repeated the same line again and again. “I poisoned her tea. I walked with her to the river. I watched her die.” But when Ayaan asked details—what poison, how much, where he got it—Bilal’s answers became vague. “I don’t remember,” he said softly. “I just know I did it.” People who commit murder remember something. Fear. Anger. Regret. Bilal remembered none of it. The Forgotten Connection Digging into Bilal’s past, Ayaan discovered something buried deep—a connection from seven years ago. Sana Mir had once written a small article about a private school accused of covering up student abuse. The case disappeared within weeks. No arrests. No follow-up. Bilal had been a student there. When Ayaan visited Bilal’s old neighborhood, he met Bilal’s younger sister, Hira. Her eyes hardened when Sana’s name was mentioned. “She destroyed nothing,” Hira said bitterly. “She exposed it—and then she walked away.” That night, Ayaan reread Sana’s old notes recovered from her laptop. One line stood out: “The real criminal isn’t always the one who commits the crime—but the one who makes others carry it.” The Second Voice The breakthrough came unexpectedly. A prison psychiatrist requested a meeting. “Bilal isn’t lying,” she said. “But he isn’t telling the truth either.” Bilal suffered from dissociative identity disorder, triggered by unresolved childhood trauma. Under extreme psychological stress, another personality emerged—one that accepted blame easily. But DID doesn’t create murderers. It creates victims. Someone had manipulated Bilal—fed him a story, planted memories, pushed him to confess. The question was: who? The Man Behind the Curtain Ayaan returned to Sana’s final investigations. One name appeared repeatedly but never publicly—Rashid Kamal, a powerful education board official with deep political connections. The same man who shut down the abuse investigation years ago. Sana had been working on a follow-up story. One that could end Rashid’s career. Phone records revealed Rashid had met Sana two days before her death. He had also visited Bilal’s neighborhood that same week. Rashid didn’t poison Sana. He did something worse. He convinced Bilal that he had. Using fear, guilt, and carefully planted information, Rashid recreated the night of the murder inside Bilal’s fractured mind. He knew Bilal would confess—and the case would close quickly. In criminal psychology, it’s called manufactured guilt. And it works frighteningly well. The Truth Breaks Free Confronted with evidence, Rashid denied everything—until Ayaan played the final recording. Sana’s hidden audio file. “I know what you did,” her voice echoed. “And if something happens to me, your name goes public.” Rashid panicked. He poisoned Sana himself—then created a scapegoat. The case reopened. Rashid Kamal was arrested on charges of murder, manipulation, and obstruction of justice. The media erupted. Protests followed. Bilal Hassan was released after six months in prison. Six months stolen from an innocent man. The Weight of a False Confession Before leaving the station, Bilal looked at Ayaan and asked, “Why did I believe it so easily?” Ayaan had no easy answer. Because guilt is heavier than truth. Because criminals don’t always use weapons—sometimes they use minds. As the city moved on to the next headline, Ayaan filed the case under a personal category he never spoke about. Crimes where the real damage can’t be measured by law. Because Sana Mir was dead. Bilal Hassan was broken. And Rashid Kamal was only one man among many who knew how to hide behind power. In the end, the most terrifying criminal wasn’t the killer— It was the one who convinced someone else to carry the sin.
By Muhammad Mehranabout 10 hours ago in Criminal
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