The old telly played a broadcast of Family Guy, casting its light across the homely living room floor. I sat on the shiny leather cushion of the couch, shaping it as much as I could. An average Friday night, I’d say. My chest started to tighten and I grew a feeling of anxiety, my eyes started to glaze over the colorful imagery of the telly. I knew this feeling, I needed a smoke.
I drew myself up from the padded leather cushion, nearly knocking over a full ashtray of cigarettes. I rolled my neck to relieve the pain that spiked and pulled a cigarette from a pack resting on the windowsill. Can’t smoke inside though, I would get it all smelling like shit in here. The door to the outside was in slight disrepair, I told myself I would get it fixed one of these days. It groaned loudly as it passed the “creak-point”. The outside air came in harshly, like a cold punishment to my skin. Overhead, I could hear the nearing sounds of a helicopter. Out of instinct I had my head craned towards the sky, darting across the inky void in search of it.
I lit the cigarette in my hand with the lighter from my pocket. Taking a drag from it sated the anxiety, but the whirling blades of the unseen helicopter continued to assault my senses. I grabbed onto my front balcony’s wooden railing. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply, as if to will the helicopter away.
It only got worse however, the sound of it gnawed on my ears as if goblins had materialized and only sought to tear my ear from my skull. I looked back up into the sky, spotting the helicopter for once. It was a police helicopter, blaring some kind of warning and hovering right over my home.
“You’ve a warrant?!” I shouted into the sky, knowing damn well that they could not hear me. I watched the helicopter continue to hover above me, the drowning downdraft of the helicopter ceased any attempt I had at making out what they were shouting at me.
Took another drag of the cigarette, relieving an aching pain in my heart. I released the railing and turned back towards my home, which is when I caught the glint of metal in the alley between the house and neighbor’s fence.
I grabbed the side railing of my porch and peered over to the brush alley. Looking back at me was the barrel of a long gun, being carried by a fellow. The spotlight illuminated them clear as day, sweat beading down their forehead.
“They here for you?” I tried to ask, nearly dropping the cigarette from my mouth. I doubt he could hear me over the helicopter. I was scared. No doubt ’bout that, but I could also see the long gun shaking in the fellow’s hands. He motioned at me with his gun, swinging it to the side. I stood frozen still and watched. He dashed forward, bracing himself against the brush, nervously darting his eyes between the helicopter and I.
Only a manner of time, till he’s caught. I thought to myself, I almost wondered if I should’ve given him shelter from the damn loud mechanical beast above. His eyes shimmered a little, through the spotlight I could see that he’d been crying. He turned the gun around, I could see it as the shotgun was clear as day now. Shiny new metal tubes that rolled from the wooden grip all the way to the man’s head. He was crying a lot. Didn’t recognize what he was doing at first. The helicopter now seemed quiet compared to that blast. He collapsed immediately, the blood stained the fence and bits of him must’ve ejected a few feet all around him.
I could taste the metallic liquid drip from my cheek and lips into my mouth, blood that had splattered across my face. His body laid, the stump of a neck cauliflowered into a disgusting mess of viscera.
Police surrounded me for what seemed like a moment later, I was stuck there, dumbstruck at the body that laid bleeding in front of me. He was young, couldn’t have been more than twenty. I was questioned, wrapped in a space blanket and sent off to a nearby police station. All routine, as if this happened everyday.
The next day, I found footage of it, a perspective from the helicopter above. It was all in IR, the kid that I’d watch blow their brains out was now just a white rectangle dashing between houses. I watched as he reached my home, out of breath, it looked like. Saw me too, frozen, watching as he turned the gun around on himself. The IR caught every bit of it, could see where every piece of him went, splattered across my beige outside walls.
I looked at the crime that the fellow was facing, whatever hint of punishment the justice system had extended to this man that led him to do what he did. Carjacking, it read. No more than a ten year sentence.
Quit smoking after that, moved homes, tried to put it behind me as much as I could’ve. I’d never forget the kid’s face, just before he took it off of himself. Not a restful night’s sleep since then.
I’m posting this here now, nineteen years after the incident, to pray to God there may be to let that night stop replaying in my head.
[ LOST OPTIC - BASED ON A 2007 CRIME ]