A policeman heard sounds coming from a trash can, and when he drew closer, he realized it was a little child crying. He helped the child and she brought him joy.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Scott Wilson muttered to himself as he walked the dark night on patrol.
He was a 30-year-old cop with a chip on his shoulder and a permanent frown on his otherwise attractive face. His colleagues called him the Grinch because of his perpetually morose countenance, but none of them truly knew him.
Wilson found a little girl crying from inside a trash can | Source: Shutterstock
Wilson had been transferred to the suburbs a month after he hunted down the serial killer who took the life of his wife and child. Of course, his supervisors kept it hush-hush because they also needed the killer put down for killing so many people.
While he hunted for the killer, Wilson did not eat, and he only slept in snatches, often startling awake because of the nightmares he had of his wife and child’s death.
When he finally took the man down, he expected all the rage to disappear, but it remained, and it made him even angrier. His saving grace was that he knew how to bury it deep within himself.
Still, his supervisor had decided that some time in the suburbs, away from the city he lost his family, would do him some good, so he was transferred, despite his pleas against it.
When Wilson finally took the serial killer down, he expected all the rage to disappear, but it remained, and it made him even angrier | Photo: Pexels
“I’m perfectly fine right here, captain,” he’d said. “I just need to be able to do my work and keep my mind off what happened.”
“And that’s why I’ve had you transferred to the suburbs where things are less chaotic,” the captain had replied. “You could lose your life if you’re caught off guard on patrol and I will not risk the life of one of my best. Take some time and return feeling better.”
That was how Wilson ended up in the quaint town he now lived. The place was truly serene. The worst he had been called to had to do with a...
