Dean Morley Monologue

I couldn't breathe.I couldn't think or know how to feel about any of this. I asked the cops with breathless words. “What happened to Dylan is he ok? Can I talk to him.” The cops looked down at my unvacuumed carpet and sighed with regret. “Robyn... after they killed and hurt all of those people. They killed themselves. Dylan is dead.” My heart sank into my stomach and I couldn't think about anything but how Dylan lied to me. Officer Peterson then looks at me in the eyes “Robyn we think you are involved of this shooting.”

The National Geographic film, A Portrait of a Killer, examines the types of stress that living beings can endure, and how it can thus affect the rest of their bodies. Severe chronic stress can lead even lead to the destruction of brain cells. Dr. Robert Sapolsky is a neurobiologist of Stanford University who has been researching stress for over thirty years. In order to study stress and its implications upon nonhumans, he went to Africa to study baboons. This species has only three hours of stress caused by eating, and the rest of their daily routine is consumed by about nine hours of free time. Much like Western society, baboons socially stress out one another, as they have social hierarchies to regulate how them interact with one another.

“Miss Fern, can you state your full name and date of birth for the records, please?” The black-haired detective in front of the nervous seventeen-year-old asked, nodding to the camera standing on a tripod behind him. The small red light indicating that they were being recorded gave the teen the desire to stand up and leave or scream for it to all go away. She didn’t want to be there; didn’t want to deal with any of it. She wanted to go home with her mother, curl up on the couch, and forget about all of it. Sadly, she knew she couldn’t.

There we were, lined up horizontally against my mother’s white pathfinder, being questioned by a rough-looking, southern, angry policeman. My friends and I were told that we had committed a federal offense, and that the chances of being taken to a holding cell were very high. A lump sat in my throat and I tried not to cry. I knew that everything that happened that night was my own fault. This was one of the scariest nights of my life so far, the night that an innocent attempt at making plans to see my friends had turned into a series of lies, tears, and anger.

I heard him scream as another Scanner forcefully grabbed his head. The Scanners simultaneously scanned our Identifiers, and all I saw in the reflection of the Scanner's black mask were big, bright, red letters. My head was completely restrained by the Scanner, but I knew where Gabriel was. I didn't have to fully see him to know that his scan was the same color as mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw red. However, it wasn't the same shade of red, and it wasn't in the form of letters or bright light. The redness I saw was a deep crimson, freely flowing and pooling quickly out of the body of the man I dedicated my life to. The Scanner who had been restraining me yanked my head in the direction of Gabriel, swiftly handcuffed me, and forced me to look at my partner. That beautiful soul who always had a smile streaked across his soft, flawless face, who always persevered with limitless strength, optimism, and confidence, and who always showed nothing but love and affection, lay lifeless on the coarse, wet

Before I could finish my sentence, the bullet had left the muzzle of the slick hand gun and straight into the once blood bumping heart of the victim. The power of one small, metal bullet was unthinkable, taking away another one’s unconditional love, a lifetime of memories. The gunshot cracked into the air as loud as the thunder. I examined Gavin’s face. Fear, guilt and regret was written all over it. He ran over to the lifeless body and attempted to bring it back to life. No luck.

Who knows if what happens today will leave me shattered and empty, unable to look at my family without the muffled whispered judgement that shakes me to my core leaving a hollow shell the rest of the public. Drawing what little strength I could muster, using it to stand up and walk to the office. My stomach did flips, my heart raced as fast as a jackhammer, all colour left my face. As if I was guilty of the world's worst crime and now it was time to face the cops leaving what most believed to be safety and security far away. Stepping through the doorway, realizing there was no going back to this time and the place nothing will ever be the same. The floorboards began to sing of the danger as my footsteps led the choir walked closer to the man who is responsible for my very being, soft tapping of the computer keys my father so passionately typed on now sounded in the same way as a horde of mice running from their own impending doom, and what at that moment could quite possibly be my own.

As he sneaked crossed the hallway in silence making sure he heard no police sirens. ' I not getting caught today.' He thought, he neared room 132 that's when he heard a click. And the door eased open slowly, ' The police, run, run away' is the last thing he thought before a little head with black hair and blue eyes peeked thru. Charles had just got thru the door unnoticed, he closed the door as quietly as he could absolutely worried he would be caught. As he turned around he realized it was already too late a tall, thin, man was standing there smirking but Charles noticed he had a speck of fear in his eyes. Charles ran, ran not away from the intruder but away from his

“The police are here!” She tugs on my arm in relief, but I don’t remove my gaze from the car. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see his snowy wings twitch at times. The sirens grew closer and I rip my gaze from the car and down the street where a cop car had just skid to a stop and watch as two men get out and hurry towards us. “Are you two okay?” He questioned, quizzically. “Did you see it?” He asked peering over at Sophia’s car. “We’re fine. He’s still in there.” I manage to say through the knot in my throat that has just formed as reality crashes down on

Katherine Sky slid quietly along the wall of the silent corridor. Beads of sweat were running down her face and dripping onto the slick floor. As she wiped them away, she checked her watch, for the hundredth time that hour. If she didn’t find it soon, then there was nothing that she could do. She already pictured in her mind, that crazy, sick son of a b*tch ripping off the head of that man, enjoying the blood running down his rough hand. The same hands he had used, all those years back. She had read about this evil man, in the newspaper, in her school textbook, and even on the television. Everywhere she had gone, his name had been mentioned, his sly-looking face staring back at her with a demeanor that spelled “psychopath”. But no image on

You loved Sam and Dean, you really did, but sometimes they were just a little too much for you. They required what seemed to be a ridiculous amount of maintenance and care. Even with them gone, working on a case, they left a boatload of their laundry that they expected to have done.

On October 21, 2009, 9 year old Elizabeth Olten of Cole County, Missouri went missing. Over the next 48 hours, the authorities searched high and low in the hopes that she would be found still alive. Hundreds of volunteers gave up their time and energies to find the missing girl and figure out who could have taken her? (Romano, Tricia)

My red converse pounded the rainy sidewalk as I dashed down Main Street. It's about midnight, and it was raining cats and dogs outside. I had been running away from the hospital, and the gang. Johnnycake, our Johnny, didn't deserve to die. The kid had a rough life, there is no doubting it, but he had hope. Shoot, he was just a kid. Johnny and I were buds, I'm sure of it. We both didn't have it so good, and it was like I was his guardian in a messed up way. I soon run out of breath and stop abruptly. Hands on my knees, I'm panting hard. If I kept running I'd run clear out of town, but I'll go mad if I just stood here. I jam my hands into my jean jacket pockets and my fingers clasp around my cold, metal gun. I close my eyes, trying to relax. ‘Don't do it man, don't do it.’ A voice inside my head urgently shouts. Johnnys voice urgently shouts. With a surge I run off and burst through the open doorway of the nearby mini mart on the corner. The calm voice that was trying to soothe me goes away and only an angry voice speaks. I scan the small shop. It's empty, and only Mr. Dean, the store owner is here. He backs up in terror as I walk at a fast pace toward him. I grit my teeth as tears stream down my face.

Frantically, I fumble for my phone, dropping it in a scarlet puddle and picking it up again. Call the police, that is what you are supposed to do. You want to be a good person, right?. You can’t call the police, or anyone, are you trying to land us back in there? In that damp, dark room, with nobody except yourself to talk to? Two opposing voices compete for my compliance. I try to reason with them but I can hardly hear either through the stressful whining in my ears. My fingerprints are on the weapon. I’m covered in her blood. I have no alibi. I’ve only just been released from prison and I am a criminal, charged and sentenced for assault. Calling the police would be the end of my newfound freedom. Even the end of my life. The phone falls once again from my shaking hands. I stumble backwards over a rock, falling, skin from my brow now on the stone, contaminating the crime scene even further. My chest is heaving. My liquefying legs make me feel sick. My fearful heart is in my mouth, trying to get out. The familiar sound of distant police sirens shrieks in my ears. I’m not sure if it is real or just a manifestation of my paralysing terror.

Let me recount to all of you the tale of Reginald. Reginald was a corporate lawyer based in New York and lived there with his wife and four children. Reginald’s life was rich and full of joy and happiness. Years went by and Reginald retired with his family and moved to the great state of Utah. Months later Reginald’s wife died of cancer and his children all moved away to start their futures at college. At that point in time, Reginald found himself completely alone, depressed, and unable to leave his house without assistance. But why is he depressed? Some would argue that he lived a successful life and he has no reason to be depressed. While this is true some of the time what most people don’t see what is really going on. Reginald often finds himself stilling alone day after day with no one visiting him and being unable to leave. Reginald is suffering from social isolation however this does not just affect the elderly or those who don’t have family around.