Chapter Text
FRANK SAHWIT, 45, ARRESTED FOR THE MURDER OF CINDY STONE. UPDATES TO COME.
In today’s court case regarding the murder of Cindy Stone, the defendant, Larry Butz, was proven innocent after a thorough cross-examination of the key witness in the case, Frank Sahwit. Through a heartful investigation, the defence attorney, Phoenix Wright, managed to uncover Sahwit as the true culprit.
“That new defence attorney, Mr. Wright, he’s got his head in the clouds. He thinks he can go off of just luck to win every case! My witness had shown no hint of suspicion, and yet!” Mused Winston Payne, the prosecution of the case.
Despite having won the case and being proven innocent, defendant Larry Butz, the ex-boyfriend of the victim, appeared quite hysterical in his follow-up interview.
“You guys don’t get it! My world has gone into darkness! My darling, my love, my Cindy! She’s gone from me! Forever!”
Many have been trying to get an interview from Phoenix Wright. Who knows what this upcoming defence attorney will do next? Time will tell.
A newspaper from a few weeks ago, which I had bought for quite cheap, laid before me in the grass. In my hand, a sharpie. I had never tried blackout poetry before, but I figured a try would help pull me out of the burnout I had gotten myself into. For months now, I hadn’t picked up a pen, I hadn’t written a single word of a poem. If you asked me why, I couldn’t tell you. I might have just said I was tired, or forgot about my only comfort. Finally having dragged myself out of bed, I found myself sat in the open in the local park, the heat of the sun on my back.
The truth is, I hadn’t had a thing beautiful to write about. No muse to speak fondly of, no sorrow that could be put into words. It was as if my words had left me altogether, not even bothering to leave a note on the table. Every good artist knows that without a good reason, there is no true meaning to art, no true beauty. To create without purpose is as bad as not creating at all. At least, I believe that to be true. I stared at the newspaper, twirling the sharpie in my hand. My gaze kept drifting up to the park, where people were talking with loved ones or simply walking about. Since it was the beginning of the autumn semester for my university, and I didn’t have much work, I had managed to find some free time to come here and simply sit. I looked around, searching for something that resonated with my soul, even in the slightest. But my mind was empty. I had no purpose. I was stuck.
After a long time of looking around mindlessly, I decided to grab my things and walk around, as insects were beginning to crawl onto me where I sat in the grass. The city was not necessarily the most beautiful place to be, but I didn’t feel like driving out to another town. I was tired enough as is. It wasn’t super busy today, and I was thankful I wasn’t constantly bumping into people on the sidewalk. I walked past little shops filled with things that would catch my eye for a split second before falling away from my memory forever.
I walked like that for a while before I turned into an alleyway. Looking up at the building next to me, I saw that colourful, bright graffiti covered the wall. Next to it, a few city workers holding buckets of white paint and rolling brushes. I had always admired graffiti artists. I always viewed their art as some sort of light in the darkness, some colour in a world of black and white, some meaning in a hopeless world. But most importantly, it was art, which was probably the reason the workers painting over it caused me so much irritation.
Nonetheless, I walked past, a wistful feeling that would be gone as soon as I bumped into a stranger I hadn’t seen in my path. I blinked, murmuring out a quiet apology as I looked up at who I had ran into. Black hair, with a strip of blond that fell into his face, and piercing grey eyes. He wasn’t much taller than me, and wore a blue suit and white scarf that brought many words to mind; Rich, fashionable, fancy, stuck-up, and all their synonyms.
But one word stuck out the most; Poetry.
I’m still not sure what I saw in that man as he gazed down at me with disdain in his eyes. All I knew was that he lit a flame deep within my soul, one that had been extinguished for seemingly forever. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, something that screamed “I’ve seen you before.” And for a moment, it was easy to believe that I had seen him somewhere before, and that he was someone important and memorable in my past. He must have seen it in my eyes as well, because for a moment, his lips opened to speak soft words, only to turn into a grimace when the sound actually left his mouth.
“Watch where you’re going!” He exclaimed, glaring down at me as if I were a bug beneath his feet. It wasn’t hard to notice his nervous demeanour, despite the fact that he was clearly trying to act like a god.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’d better be!” He replied, already walking away out into the city streets. Gone forever. Our paths had crossed, only to go on in opposite directions. I knew I could not stand all day, waiting like a puppy for its owner to return. I had better things to do, though I did not know what. I turned and continued to walk into the alleyway. It wasn’t long before I ran into another man, this one appearing older than the last. He seemed furious, though I could tell it wasn’t directed toward me. At least, I hoped. His eyes, wild with anger, met mine.
“Have you seen a man? Black hair, blue suit, dumbass smug face?”
I paused. I had seen this man, I thought. But did I? Did I see the right man? There may be many smug, rich men with black hair and blue suits. Besides, even if the man from earlier was the correct one, I wouldn’t want to send this man on a wild goose chase through the city. I had no clue where he went. I tried to inquire further.
“Why do you-“
“THE DAMNED SCAM ARTIST TOOK MY MONEY!”
The man, before I could say anything, ran off into the city streets, clearly sensing that I would have been of no help. His words hardly registered with me. I continued walking through the city, once again going down my own path. My mind was still on the man from earlier.
Later, I sat in my bed. Words seemed to come with ease now, but none of them strung together nicely. I looked down at the newspaper from earlier, which I had marked up shortly after getting home. It now formed a choppy poem in front of me, but I suppose there was feeling behind it. It read;
“The murder of the heart, my head in the clouds. My muse, I follow you into darkness. My darling, my love, forever! Who knows what is next? Time will tell.”
An awkward mix of words that tried to form meaning. It definitely wasn’t my best poem. But there, before me, it read the only words I could put together at the moment. I cursed out the man from earlier in my mind. He had left me with feeling that threatened to burst at the seams, and yet for once in my life, I had no words to describe it. No words to put on paper.
It was hard to write poetry about him, when he was the best example of it I had ever seen.