eulogy

Some pretty heavy language here, just to warn you. This is a story I've had on backburner for a while. I've been working on novel material lately and I've needed to get a break for it. I kind of had this idea in my head, but didn't have the time to turn it into anything. Finally, I did and here it is. It's a very experimental story told in first person. In typical WA Ross fashion, it's a heavy-handed story dealing with loss.

My mother died on Tuesday. Natural causes, but she could have lived longer if she hadn't drank and ate herself to death. Fat and drunk. That's my mom.

Love her to death though.

Loved.

And ha. To death.

I call her fat and drunk, but I can't mean it as an insult.

I'm just as bad.

Tried to quit a couple of times.

But y'know. Shit just happens, y'know?

I didn't find her body. Susan did. Susan's my sister. Susan said mom was laying there on the couch taking a nap and she wouldn't get up. She was dead. Susan called and I cussed her out. “Fuck you,” I said. Hung up on her. I hate Susan. She's the only member of our sorry excuse of a family to make anything of herself. I hate her and mom hated her, but mom would never say it. Susan loves to flaunt around her money and her husband and even her sobriety. I mean, what the hell, right?

Susan calls me back and I believe her. I didn't see mom's body. I didn't have to and I didn't want to either. It's just mom but she can't talk back. It's okay, I guess. I don't have to hear how much her government checks ain't cuttin' it. Mom could be a real bitch sometimes. She drove crazy.

I loved her though.

She was my mother.

Found myself at a bar for the next couple of nights. I don't remember what all I drink. It's all cheap stuff that makes you drunk fast. That's all I wanted.

I wanted to forget.

I wanted to forget my shitty little life.

I wanted to forget all the nasty stuff Susan said about me.

I wanted to forget all the crap mom said about me.

I wanted to forget trying to find that dickhead of a father I apparently had. Let us when I was four, Susan was like six.

I wanted to forget I had to keep living.

I wanted to forget mom ever even existed.

I couldn't though. I'd wake up the next morning hungover, my head shooting guns, and the memories and pain still there. It hurt, but it wasn't like getting punched. I got punched of times. It wasn't like getting stabbed. I got shivved before. It's not the same. You can not care about those things, but this? I've got no choice but give a fuck.

It was Thursday morning when I took a beer bottle and smashed it against my hand. It was a Heineken bottle. I remember because it was green. But yeah, I was hungover as hell and everything hurt like hell. I just wanted it to stop. I wasn't thinking and I just smacked it down. Damn bottle was still half full. Bits of the glass stuck into my skin, blood was everywhere and it was mixing with the alcohol. It hurt like all hell. I didn't care about my mom anymore though, at least not for a few minutes.

I had to call Susan to take me to the hospital. She got out of work to take me and yelled at me the whole way in the car. I don't remember what about. Not like I cared though.

We got into the ER and the doctors had to put in twenty-nine stitches and yank out the glass.

Everyone asked how it happened, but I wouldn't tell.

They didn't need to know.

And I didn't want my sister knowing I was hurting. She couldn't see that. You've got to understand, I couldn't give her another reason to think she's better than I am. Just because you're a professor or whatever doesn't make you better. It just makes you a proud bitch no one wants to be around.

When we left the hospital, I asked Susan for some money.

She said no.

Proud bitch.

The funeral was on Friday. I didn't really want to go.

Susan made me do it though. Apparently mom left a last will and testament. She had nothing to give except for a couple of worthless family heirlooms.

A quilt.

A dress.

A couple of ties my granddad wore.

Some other crap I don't remember.

But it said something else. It's like she had this vengeance scheme all built up when she wrote it. It said that she wanted me to give a eulogy. I mean, seriously? Me? And who the hell's gonna come to my mother's funeral? Nobody, that's who. And she wants me to eulogize to nobody. I'm not good at speaking, not at all.

Not even a little bit.

But she wants me to-

Dammit.

I got drunk again that night. Didn't smash anything on my hand though. I learned that lesson good. I tried my best to tie a noose that night though. I couldn't do it though. It's not because I had some kinda emotional breakthrough where I realized life was worth living or anything stupid like that. No, I just couldn't tie the knot. Not matter what, it wouldn't happen. I felt so damn worthless. Then I must have fallen asleep because I just don't remember giving up.

Can't even kill myself right.

The funeral was at ten in the morning. I got there at ten-fifteen, my head throbbing like a jackhammer on steroids and a bottle of cheap whiskey in my hand. Susan saw me and she was furious.

“Where have you been?” She shouted at me. Maybe she wasn't shouting and she just sounded loud. I don't know.

“Sorry,” I shrugged.

“This is your own mother-”

“I said I'm sorry. Nothing I can do about it.”

“And what's this?” She took the bottle right outta my hands. “You can't bring-”

I nabbed it back, “Yeah, I can. It's mine. Don't touch it.”

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, okay, whatever. You put something together for mom?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“You didn't, did you?”

“Look, I said don't worry about, so don't worry about it. I've got this.”

“Okay, fine,” she threw up her hands like it meant something. “The preacher's going to say something and then you're up. Don't screw this up.”

“I said don't worry about it.”

She should worry about it.

She should so worry about it.

I took a massive gulp of my whiskey before going into the church room. The preacher was in there saying some God stuff that I don't care about. He just went on an on. And when I knew he was about done....

I bolted.

I ran.

I couldn't do it.

I got the shakes real bad and I just ran.

It's not cause I don't love mom. I just got scared. Real scared and I can't explain it. What's there to explain? I pushed open the front door to the church and immediately slipped on the steps leading down the street.

It hurt, but whatever. I didn't care. I just lay there. I think I was crying. I don't know. I don't remember.

Susan came to my side soon and she asked, “Hey, what are you doing? Are you alright?”

I pulled myself up to where I was sitting and looking at her and I said, “I can't do it.”

“Oh, come on! All your life, you've-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Susan! I'm not a failure, I'm not.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you were going to do.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Just as good.”

She spat, “Stop it! Just stop it!”

“I can't do it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I- I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I just can't, alright?” I shook my head. “I didn't write her the speech. I got drunk last night.”

“I know.”

I scoffed, “Yeah, I'm sure. You think you're so much better, then why don't you give the speech?”

“Will you stop with that?” Susan looked pissed off. “I don't think I'm better than you. I'm not giving the eulogy because mom didn't ask me to. Mom wanted you to do it.”

“Funny how she gets back at us, right?”

She shook her head, “Do you know what the will actually said? It said for you to give the eulogy because she loves you. She gave me some crap on there, but she said she loved you twice. There wasn't- there wasn't anything like that for me. Mom loves you. Not me. She just wants you to say some nice things about her. You love mom too, don't you?”

“Yeah,” I looked down at my bottle. “Yeah, I love mom. She was a good lady.”

“Yeah,” a tear came down Susan's cheek. “But she loved you more. I've got a lot of things you don't have. I've got a job, money, a house, and- but you've got the one thing I'd burn all of it to have. Mom loved you. She never loved me. As soon as I got ahead, she hated me.”

“She didn't hate you.”

“Sure she did.”

“She didn't hate you,” I put my hand on my sister's shoulder. “She just didn't know what to do with you. Mom always thought you were better than us. You are better than us. Mom just didn't wanna- I don't know. Look, I'll go in there and say stuff about her.”

I got up and started to walk inside. Susan grabbed my arm though and said, “Hey. Look, I know it's rough, but, look, no matter what, we're family and I love you.”

I put my arms around her in a hug and she hugged me back. By that point I knew I was crying. I wasn't just crying, I was sobbing, I was bawling. “I love you too,” I choked.

I let her go and we looked into each other's eyes. We both had mom's eyes. It was weird seeing her again like that. But she was there. I looked down at the bottle in my hand and I gave it to Susan. I told her to hold onto it. She didn't though.

The bitch threw it.

It flew right across the street and shattered onto the curb.

The amber juice splattered as the clear glass shattered.

It made me mad at first, but not for long.

I took a deep breath and told Susan, “Thank you.”

“Go,” she nudged me to the door.

I went in there and I stumbled through a story of two about mom doing nice things. I told everyone about how she used to go to the old people home and help them out. I told them about this time mom destroyed the clutch in our first stick shift. Twice. I lied about how great she was, but it felt good. It's like I was convincing myself how bad things weren't. Maybe they ain't that bad. Maybe.

But Susan found my afterward and hugged me again. I told her I was sorry for my shitty excuse for a eulogy. She said it was good and mom would be proud. I didn't believe her. Didn't matter though. Nothing felt better than having my proud old sister telling me I did good. We went out to lunch together.

She paid.

I didn't get drunk that night. I stayed at my sister's place. I told her I wanted to get clean.

I don't know if I really meant it, but Susan's reaction told me one thing. She smiled and encouraged me to find help. That told me one thing. It told me that when said she loved me, she meant it.

And that means everything in the world.

I love you.

week thirty-three: time and hope

The following story is written as a companion piece for the very first Story a Week story, "Time and Regret." It is recommended that you read "Time and Regret" first, but "Time and Hope" stands on its own.

Hard times befall even the very best of humanity, and such was the case was for Hope's family. She was born into a destitute family where successes were few and far in between. Despite the coming and going of victories, tragedy always followed. Such was the case for the birth of Hope, for as she was born, her mother passed on. It would be so easy to accept despair in these times. Hope's father had nothing left but a mortgage, unemployment, and a child to raise on his own. Any more wavering man would surrender, but her father was truly indomitable. On a simple piece of paper, he wrote to his daughter on the day she was born:

“Hope, you're everything to me now. Your mother would have loved you very much and I'm sure if she can see you, she still does. We had decided early on to name you Catherine, but when she passed away, I decided your middle name was better. Your name is Hope because that's all I can have now. I don't want you or me to ever forget that. Times are tough, but there will always be hope. You're my Hope and I promise you right now that I'm going to fulfill everything you could hope for. I love you and you're going to have it better than your mother and I ever did. I promise.”

He fulfilled his promises. Working tirelessly at two jobs and caring for a young daughter, Hope's father overcame the insurmountable woes of depression and poverty. He never remarried because his focus was solely on his one true love: his daughter. Her dark hair and cerulean eyes reminded him so much of his befallen wife. That was all he really needed to move them out of their one-room apartment and into a three-bedroom house. All was against them, but the tables turned with the greatest outlook: hope.

With her experiences and a great father, she became her namesake. Hope was an indefatigable optimist and saw the best in everyone. She could never look back and believe in failure; she could only look ahead to the rising of the sun in the next day. Hope could empower others with her unwaveringly rosy reverie. She had the gift of encouragement because she could see the beauty in life that all others were blind to. Hope inspired and attracted many, but she waited until she found truest and purest love.

And she would find such love in Nick. What she saw in a Nick was her complete opposite. He was pessimistic and often cynical, but there was something about him that made him never look back. Nick proved as idealistic as Hope, except he saw the problems to be fixed rather than the strengths to be built upon. Their pairing was a beautiful one and they found their individual faults and qualities complemented the other with perfection. There was something strange about Nick, but Hope could never place it.

As autumn dawned, as they strolled through the most gorgeous of parks, and as their hands embraced, Nick took a knee. Hope knew what he would say. These four words are some of the most important a girl will ever hear. They are as follows, “Will you marry me?” But those aren't the words Nick told her there. In truest and purest love, he took the ring from his pocket and opened the case before her.

And before he could say anything, before she even saw the ring, she exclaimed with all impulse, love, sincerity, and hope, “Yes!” So they kissed.

They found themselves at the altar. Instead of listening to the old priest read the marriage vows, they lost themselves in each other's eyes. Both knew what they were going to say. And when they said those two words, when their matrimony was complete, the universe was suddenly made whole. Hope could not have been happier.

Hope's father felt his purpose fulfilled. He had given Hope all the love he could give and it was time for her to move on; time for her to share that love. His tears fell as she embraced him after the wedding. These weren't tears of pain, or tears of sorrow, these were tears of true joy. When a man puts his entire life into a singular goal, and that goal is fulfilled, then he is completed. Hope's father was completed.

They spent the next four years living together in harmony. Of course, there were the occasional mishaps and fights here and there; these are human things to do. And their true love would not be complete without fault. To live with perfection is to live devoid of humanity, devoid of purpose. To truly love is to love despite all fault. Love lives on despite all blunder and imperfection, but accounts for all quality and novelty. Love is a passing feeling, but a lasting choice.

While love has no limits, humanity does. Love cannot be broken, but the humanity behind it can be. It was after those four years that Nick screwed up. Hope had no choice but to leave him. This is not a choice she can be faulted with and she made it. Despair and depression overcame Nick to the point that she could only see him as crazy.

Hope moved away. After a month had passed, Nick came to her doorstep and begged her to come back to him. She listened to every one of his desperate pleas and she felt for him; she truly did. In her heart, she still loved him truly and deeply. But Nick had become a madman. Just as she was to take him back, he babbled on about a power to go in back time. He explained that regret gave him the fuel to do this and that she took it away because she gave him hope. Somehow it made sense. Somehow, what Nick said appeared as truth should appear. Nevertheless, the power to wind back time is incredulous. She couldn't believe him. And who would?

Nick told the truth. All of his life up until he asked her out, he been rewinding time and fixing his mistakes. He told no one; this power is impossible to demonstrate and even more so to believe. But he professed the truth to her. If he had not told her about his power, if she did not hear the truth, then she would have taken him back. Hope could only watch as Nick tore his life to shreds. He put himself in support groups and took medications of all kinds, but there was no helping him. Her lover faced despair. And it was all because of her.

Nick was suicidal; she knew this. And if he did it, if he committed the unforgivable sin, how could she live with herself? It might as well have been Hope who had killed him. But everyone around her told Hope to stay away.

She could not listen. She went to his home, completely unaware of her intentions. Maybe she would just check on him, maybe she could just see his face, maybe she could cure him. Hope always believed in the best in people. Nick was a great man, but he was a broken one. Broken men can be lovers, but there is a line too far. Sometimes people break into insanity. And that was how everyone saw Nick. But Hope still loved him.

Hope sat in her car and turned off the engine. His home was before her. She could go inside, she could fix this, maybe they could be together one last time. But no. No. He's insane. The man inside is broken beyond repair. Hope had to see him. She threw open her car door and resigned herself to just looking into his window. She hoped to see him and know how he was. She had to see the insanity, the cracking, the breaking for herself.

Hope surprised herself by what she saw. Nick sat in there on his couch with a weary smile, but a hopeful one. There was just something about that smile that told her all she needed to hear. Hope believed then that everything would be alright, that they could move on. Life could change. Perhaps Nick would mend and he could live without her, just as she was doing. Hope had learned to live a better life. Or she thought.

The next day brought tragedy. Hope's father passed away. He had been fighting heart disease for a very long time and finally, it overtook him. Hope couldn't be there for him, she couldn't hold his hand as he died. He was at work, sitting in his office, when the attack came. He fought and fought, but lost the battle. His doctors would later tell Hope that his dying words for her. As Hope's father fought for his last moments, he cried out her name. His battle was hopeless and he died with his daughter, his one true love, in agony over her lost husband. But her father lost his grip on life. He fell into the abyss of death.

As Hope drove to the funeral home, she answered a phone call from a disgruntled Nick, “I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. I love you.” And at that he hung up. Those were his lasts words.

When she arrived at the funeral, there were so many people. They all smiled, but all sorrowed over this lost man. Hope's father was a great man. A man giving a eulogy made note of his triumph over poverty and despair. He told them all about how he brought hope to everyone he met. There was something about this man; something about his very being that drove people, that inspired people. That both literally and figuratively, the man lying in that casket had brought Hope into the world. She kissed his aged forehead before they closed the casket. They came to the disturbed dirt at the hallowed ground and echoed their goodbyes from before.

In her shaking fingers dangled a folded page.

“What's that?” the man to her left asked.

“Oh, this? Nothing,” Hope answered politely. The man lost interest and that was her chance. Just as the casket hit newly-broken earth, Hope threw the paper into the dirt. This was just something that she had to do. It was that one last deed for her faltered father. It was a useless gesture. Dead men need no gestures; the living around them must give gestures to the dead because men need conclusion. They must do the last deeds so that all ends are met. All there knew that the only end left was Hope. She was alone. Her husband was a psycho and her dad was dead. The people there offered Hope comfort and encouragement, but these words are hollow. Hope doesn't need any of that. She needed her love back.

But duty came first. She drove to her father's house to go through his belongings. In this she found so many cherished memories; even some she had long stored in her heart, but lost in her mind. There was everything, from her impoverished yet jovial childhood to her father's eventual success. Even her wedding with Nick was well-documented in all of it. She put the things to keep in boxes and the rest she left as it were. These things were to be sold; gone forever. Like her father.

There was a trunk in her father's bedroom which Hope had never opened because her father had forbid it. All of her life she wondered what could be inside. Hope almost left it shut and would move the trunk to storage, but she had to know. What would her father keep from her? The mystery's answer was not quite as stellar as her childlike imagination had led her to believe. Inside were scraps, memories, and pieces... of Hope's mother. There were pictures, random trinkets, letters, poems, and more; all things only valued by those who cherished them.

But there was also a box; a black box. Hope snapped it open and inside she found a revolver. It was small, silver, and loaded. Somehow as she held it in her hands, she felt cold. And afraid. In her mind, she heard whispers. They were in a strange voice, but audible nonetheless. They said, “Take me.”

Without resistance, she slid the pistol into her purse.

That evening, when darkness of night stood fullest, her phone rang. Somehow, Hope knew she was about to hear some horrible, horrible news. And, of course, she was right. The call came from the police department, who called simply to inform her that Nick had put a bullet through his brain and was dead. No. She saw him. He had been fine the other day. No, no, no. This could not be. But it was. And hope knew that this was all her doing.

If she hadn't left him, he might still live.

If she had believed him about his power, he might still live.

If she walked through his door to be with again, he might still live.

If she had never met him, he might still live.

Despair took hold of her being. Hope lost all of her namesake. She heard the revolver's calling once more, “Use me.”

“Use me.”

“Use. Me.”

But Hope resisted. She could go on; she would have to. At the end of every night, there is day, is there not? There is an end to every madness, is there not? Every road, no matter how long, how dark, had to turn at some place. Hope would wait for this sunrise; she would find the turn in the road. Her father had done the same, so she must have it in her.

Doubt is a slow, silent predator. For days, doubt crept through her mind, feeding her despair. She looked in all places to find her her namesake, but doubt and despair choked her being. There was no one and nowhere she could turn to. Because of doubt, she had walked so far down the path of darkness that she could see nothing. She could see nothing except for one small light in the distance. She knew what it was.

“Use me.”

This road was death.

“Use me.”

Hope crept towards death. She went to her end slowly, only toying with the idea as she held the gun in her fingers. Of course, she told herself in her mind that this was something she could never do. Her thumb pressed against the hammer. Only crazy people like Nick actually do it. Click, whispered the hammer. Ha ha, this is all a just a joke or merely a dream. The cold steel pressed against her temple.

Far off down in her father's grave rest the paper Hope had buried with him. On it was written, “Hope, you're everything to me now. Your mother would have loved you very much and I'm sure if she can see you, she still does. We had decided early on to name you Catherine, but when she passed away, I decided your middle name was better. Your name is Hope because that's all I can have now. I don't want you or me to ever forget that. Times are tough, but there will always be hope. You're my Hope and I promise you right now that I'm going to fulfill everything you could hope for. I love you and you're going to have it better than your mother and I ever did. I promise.”

Why did it have to come to this? How had it come to this? What went wrong?

No. She could never again bear to think through it ever again. The trigger pulled, the hammer fell, the powder lit, the bullet spun through the rifling and into her skull. Her limp, lifeless body fell to the floor.

week thirty-two: ccu

The Year 2249 (Approximated)

At something about twelve-forty in the morning, Officer Terrence Vicar sat in the passenger seat of the Cadillac and looked forward to the end of his beat. He and his new partner, Mick Janus, had barely spoken the entire day. It wasn't because they disliked one another, it was because there was little left to talk about. And both were so tired. Their shifts had begun at two in the afternoon and lasted until two in the morning. And, unfortunately, very little actually happened during their beats. Often speaking, they would be following leads, but other days, such as these, there was nothing.

The streets were mostly empty, except for the occasional hoodlum or crazy person. In this part of East London, you would have to be crazy to be out at this hour. The alleyways ran rampant with the desperate and the greedy. Vicar always hoped that he would run into (and bust) some crime or another, maybe a mugging, but criminals had gotten smart and knew even when an undercover unit such as Vicar's was around. Even so, common crime was not his job. No, Vicar's job was to put down cyborgs.

In the year 2198, the first fully-autonomous and technically intelligent computer system came online. The system eventually created software which rendered all computer technology it could access under its control. By this point, most of the world was dependent upon robotic and cybernetic technology. A war broke out between human beings and the automatons. After forty years of long, bloody war, humanity won out. The technology to create intelligent artificial beings was completely destroyed and severe legal limitations were placed on what technology could be created. Some of the robotic forces, however, survived. Since the technology to create more autonomous cybernetic beings was lost, the remnants needed to seek new hardware. It was quickly discovered that the only remaining hardware capable of supporting intelligent life was the human body.

The computer systems found ways to adapt the human brain and its body to cybernetic technology. The earliest cyborgs disguised themselves as humans and then kidnapped human beings in order to install the necessary hardware. These humans were taken over by robotic consciousnesses; possessing little to nothing of their former personalities. Cyborg human beings are faster, smarter, stronger, and generally better than organic human beings. To the common observer, cyborgs are completely indistinguishable from normal humans. There were ticks here and there but, generally speaking, converts could blend into the background very well.

When searching for a new person to convert, cyborgs would generally search for an able-bodied someone with minimal connection to other humans. Since much of person would be lost, family members or friends would pick up on the fact that they were dealing with a cyborg. If little human contact remained, there was a smaller chance of the cyborg being discovered. Many believed that since the brain was mostly left intact, that the human inside remained. Officials shrug this off as wishful thinking. There is no known technique for converting someone back from being a cyborg. It has never formally been confirmed or denied whether it is possible or not.

“Need some joe?” Janus asked as he gently turned the steering wheel. He kept his eyes on the road. The drunks tend to come out around this hour. It never became uncommon for them to be the cause of motor accidents.

Vicar replied, “I could use something, yeah.” He had actually just been thinking about how a shot of caffeine would help him get through the night. Janus turned the car in the direction of a gas station.

Of course, the biggest question asked about the cyborgs is why. Why do they kidnap and convert humans? The answer is simple and most easily answered in the form of another question: why does any species try and reproduce? The only way for the cybernetic race to multiply is to assimilate organic life. Just as natural as the human sex drive is the cybernetic need to convert humans. The other “why” question about cyborgs is why there is no attempt to coexist with them. The answer is very simple: fear; both a logical and an illogical one. Logically speaking, if the cyborgs were to gain sufficient number, they could attempt another uprising. Humanity may not be quite as lucky in a second war. Illogically, it was simple fear, and even, as some might put it, racism. Of course, the overwhelming majority stood unsympathetic to the cybernetic cause.

Janus pulled into a 7-11 and stopped at a gas pump, “Grab me a coffee, black.” He shut down the engine. “I'll tank us up.”

Vicar got out of the car just as Janus did. He asked, “Anything to eat?”

“No, I'm good,” Janus put his credit card into the machine.

“I'll get you a donut,” Vicar told him as he turned to head into the convenience store.

“I said I don't want anything, boss,” Janus argued.

“Trust me, kid, you'll get hungry as soon as you see me eating,” Vicar didn't turn to face his partner as he said these words. To him, this was fact and whatever argument Janus gave wouldn't matter.

Janus had no retort; he knew it was best not to argue with his partner, who was a good twenty years his senior. Instead, he pumped his gas and minded his own business.

Vicar pushed open the glass doors to the convenience store. The interior was run down and disorganized. A few products were on the floor, the paint was peeling, and the floor dirty. Vicar had even noted graffiti sprawled on the outside windows. This truly was a bad part of town. The clerk behind the counter reclined in a chair and read a newspaper as he stroked his thick, bushy, black beard. He gave Vicar almost no heed whatsoever.

There were four other people in the room. The first three were a group of youths standing around the beer section. They talked to themselves and laughed loudly at their crappy inside jokes. Each of them had a piercing somewhere on their face and their unsleeved arms were tattooed like mad. Vicar could only assume that they were in some kind of gang. He reasoned that he could arrest them for loitering if he really wanted, but that would be about it. And that was just idle, stupid fantasy. Vicar had no desire to arrest anyone whatsoever and just wanted this calm, dreary night to end.

He grabbed a pair of stout cups and started filling them with the lukewarm coffee from the machine. As soon as they were filled, he realized that there was only one lid. He turned to the attendant and said, “Hey! There's only one lid.”

No answer.

“Hey!” Vicar exclaimed. “There's only one lid over here! I need another.”

The clerk replied, “We are out.”

“You don't have any in the back?” Vicar cocked his eyebrow.

“No, sir,” the clerk shifted his newspaper.

Vicar rolled his eyes. He very briefly fantasized about whipping out his badge and gun to force another lid out of him. But that was just another idle, stupid dream.

The fourth person in the room was a lean, blond woman who read a copy of The Weekly Girl. She was only barely attractive; striking maybe, but beautiful was simply out of the question. And it was clear that she knew this; the cleavage on her top said it all. She looked up to Vicar and said, “He's always like that.”

“Is he?” Vicar snapped the lid onto the first cup and then decided he didn't want coffee anymore. Instead, he walked over to the refrigerators and pulled out a Coke. The teenaged gangsters paid him no heed.

“Yeah, I don't usually come at night cuz of him,” she said as she twirled her hair in between her fingertips. She put the magazine back in its spot and approached Vicar. He immediately reasoned that she was a hooker. “What brings you out here? Never seen you around.”

“Work,” Vicar opened up the glass case containing the donuts. He grabbed a pair of the regular glazed variety and put them in a box. He would later realize that he should have gotten a half dozen; more bang for your buck. “My partner's out pumping the gas.”

“Oh, so you're a...”

“Cop,” that's when Vicar started getting suspicious. In his mind, he went through his mental checks when trying to spot a cyborg. She fit the usual bill: athletic, doesn't stand out too much, lonely. “Sometimes we get hungry.”

She smiled and suddenly lost interest in him, “That's nice.”

Vicar stepped over to the counter, only to realize that the teenagers were finally buying a case of beer a piece. He stood there in line and watched the young lady became more and more nervous. So, Vicar decided to test her, “You from around here?”

“Oh, yeah, I live real close,” she replied with a quiver in her voice. She avoided eye contact, which was natural. Cyborg eyes had a strange tendency to continuously expand and contract. It's a subtle tell, but a damning one. They did this because their hardware had them constantly analyzing visual information at almost every level of detail.

“Know any good restaurants?” Vicar realized then that both of his hands were full. If he needed his weapon, he was doomed.

She bit her lip as she made for the door, “Look, mister, I gotta run.”

“Oh, yeah, where do you have to be in such a hurry?” Vicar figured then that he could stall her at least until he could set his things down on the counter. The first gang member had paid, the second was paying, and the third waited.

“I just,” she stammered. “I just have to go.”

The second finished as Vicar asked, “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,” she pressed her body against the glass door and it opened. She looked right into his eyes. There it was: her irises flicked like a camera lens. There could be no doubt.

Vicar debated pursuing her at all. Perhaps he could just call it a night. No, there's a job to do. He dropped the coffee and donuts, then reached to his back where his holster rested. Just as he felt his fingers touch the wood, the woman broke in a straight sprint. As the refreshments hit the floor, Vicar's Smith & Wesson Magnetic Police Special swung out in his hands. He took aim at the young woman and fired a shot. Because of the high kick of a magnetically accelerated bullet, he only got the one shot. The glass in the door shattered before blood splattered from her arm as she stumbled forward, but ultimately kept running. He took aim to fire again, but realized that he was at a gas station; a major incident could happen if he hit a pump. He slid the pistol back into his holster and bolted after her.

Janus only watched with wide eyes she ran by. Vicar shouted after him, “Don't just stand there, get her!” Janus shook his head and then snapped back into readiness. The cybernetic woman had already gotten herself down the road a decent ways. “Take the side road, try and cut her off! I'll keep after her!”

“Yeah, right,” Janus replied as he took off. He eventually left Vicar's sight as he ran into the adjacent road.

Vicar knew to keep her in his sights. A cyborg would be far too fast for him to actually catch on foot; not to mention the incredible endurance they typically possessed. Every cyborg is different; they usually don't have the exact same upgrades, but it could always be assumed that they were physically superior to humans. She ran, pushing her way through the few people who hung around, clutching her bleeding arm. Vicar considered drawing his pistol and shooting again, but she was too far to guarantee a shot. Plus, there were innocents standing around. Hitting them would guarantee a suspension... and a headache.

Vicar's plan then became to rely on Janus coming through. Janus had only been with Vicar for a week and so he doubted whether or not he could trust the kid. Janus had never killed a cyborg before and he was fresh out of training for the Cybernetic Contingency Unit. Vicar seriously doubted that they would get this woman, but failing is a vital part of learning. It took Vicar seven months before he logged his first kill. Twenty-seven years later, his scratch record is up to ninety-three.

Vicar once felt remorse for his killing, but eventually overcame this guilt. They were just machines, after all; dangerous ones at that. Vicar never subscribed to the McCarthianistic kill-all philosophy that most in his unit shared. In fact, he no longer shared much enthusiasm. Being in the CCU was a job and really not a thing more. Vicar was in his fifties; far too late to find another profession. There was a time when he had a desk job at the CCU academy, but he found that even worse than cyborg hunting.

Suddenly, the woman turned into an alleyway. Vicar followed her in to find her standing there frozen. On the other side of the woman was Janus, who trained his very modern Colt MatchMag Semi on their target. He just stood there, shaking. Vicar whipped out his own pistol and shouted, “Janus, do it!”

There was no answer. The woman looked back to Vicar, frozen in terror.

“Janus!” Vicar pulled back his hammer. “Come on, shoot her!”
The youthful of the two shook; nothing coming from his pistol or his mouth.

Vicar rolled his eyes and then pulled his trigger. He watched as the round slammed center mass into the woman. She lost her balance and fell to the floor, only to pick herself back up again and run at Janus, who still did nothing. Vicar fired again, this time piercing her shoulder. The woman still charged, this time grabbing the boy. He tried his best to shake her off. He cried out in fear.

Vicar took careful aim and then fired his fourth and final round. The back of her blond head exploded in a cloud of blood. She finally fell limp; dead.

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” Vicar put his pistol away and ran over to the dead woman. He checked to make sure of two things. One, that she was actually dead. Two, that she was actually a cyborg. Both, fortunately, were true.

Janus holstered his pistol and took two steps back.

“Hey, kid, what the hell happened?” Vicar stood and wiped sweat from his brow.

“You hit me,” Janus suddenly noticed the pain. He clutched his arm.

“Well, you should have taken the shot when you had the chance! You had a clear shot, why didn't you take it?!” Vicar growled.

“I just couldn't!”

Vicar grabbed Janus by the shoulders, “Pull yourself together, man!”

“Boss, sorry,” he looked at his wound. “I don't know what happened back there.”

Vicar looked into his partner's eyes, “Alright, look, don't let that happen again. I won't mention you froze; I'll just say you got caught in my crossfire. How bad is it?”

Wait. Was that...? No, it couldn't be.

“It's just a graze; I'm okay,” Janus said as he bent down to the body. “Looks like you got her good, boss.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Vicar looked at Janus's wound and squinted to confirm what he saw. He saw the glistening of metal inside his partner's arm. And before, he had seen his the dance of his irises. But... how? Why?

“Looks like cleanup's got quite the job ahead of them,” Janus laughed. “Should I phone 'em in?”

With the utmost secrecy, Vicar drew his pistol and said, “No, I'll take care of it.” He pointed the pistol down at his partner's head.

Janus looked up to see down the barrel of Vicar's Smith & Wesson. His breathing snapped to a sprint and formed his lips for his last words. But Vicar denied him these last words. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. Once, twice. Blood sprayed all over; Janus' head was left in pieces all over the alleyway.

Vicar wiped the blood from his gun onto his jacket. He popped open the chamber and loaded six fresh rounds as he stood over his dead partner and target. Vicar looked down to see the metal components attached to Janus's brain; there was no doubt that the kid was a cyborg. For just a few moments, Vicar wondered what the hell a cyborg would be doing in the Cybernetic Contingency Unit. He suddenly understood why Janus had failed to take the shot. Somehow, it was much more difficult to kill a fellow. Vicar knew that he would have a problem killing another person.

But that's when he realized that assessment was wrong. Vicar had seen Janus as a person; a pure human being. Only perception changed when he realized that his partner was what they were trained to hunt; trained to kill. The person inside Janus was still the same. It hit Vicar then and there. The person inside. Despite the truth of having killed just another cyborg, Vicar had, in his mind, killed a human being.

Understand, however, that these thoughts lasted very briefly. It wasn't long before he pushed them back into the bowels of his mind and went back into duty mode. He phoned in to the department to get them down for cleanup. Until they arrived, Vicar was stuck there. He sat down against the wall and lost himself to thought. No, it wasn't philosophical thought about the measure of a man, the cost of murder, or the value of life. It wasn't even ramification or guilt. Vicar's thoughts were back to the convenience store. Vicar wondered if the donuts would still be there.

week twenty-nine: coward in the rye

Warning: this week's story contains strong language.

“911 Emergency.” “Oh, God, oh, God! Help, Help!” “All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!” “He’s got a gun and he’s shooting at all of us! Oh, God!” “Calm down, ma’am, try to stay-“ “Oh, God, he’s coming this way! No! NO!” “Uh, there’s only one and he’s got a gun- a pistol! A handgun!” “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” “I don't know what he's screaming!" “I can hear them! I can hear the shots! They’re coming this- they’re coming this way!” “We’re heading westbound, we’re going as fast as we can!” “This is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“ “Negative! Negative! Wait on the SWAT team!” “Mom? Mom!” “Hold together, help is on the way!” “Mom… I’ve been shot. There’s a guy here and he- ah- mom, I just- Oh, God, no!” “SWAT team is inbound, ETA five minutes.” “I love you.” “This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

…

In his dorm room at just before eight in the morning, Scott Green stood before the mirror and worried about his hair. As is typical in college sophomore males, his hair's a mess; a dirty blond mess. At the same time, however, a calculated mess. He hoped his hair would offset the fact that he was a little overweight, so he paid it particular attention. After once again straightening his thick-rimmed glasses, he grabbed his tan messenger bag and stepped outside. His class is at 8:30 so he knows he has time. He always hopes to run into someone on the way, but no one is much for conversation at this hour in the morning. Thus, deciding that no one would say hi, Scott put in his earbuds and turned on his iPod. He put it on shuffle, he didn’t care what, but he needed some of kind of sound.

How It Ends – DeVotchka

Scott needed something to concentrate on besides either of two things: Class and his parents. He didn’t want to think about class because, well, it’s class. There’s little else to say about that. He could worry about his homework or fret over any upcoming quizzes or exams, but the point to that is nil. Having music in the ear deafens any apprehension. And of course, the latter of the two is the more complicated issue. Scott wanted nothing more than to be completely independent of his family. He loved them, but tired of them dangling money over his head like the proverbial carrot on a stick. As such, Scott didn’t talk to or call them much. He felt bad about that, but this is his way of convincing them that he can do life on his own.

His first class is the only class he really cares about: Postmodern Literature. Scott always enjoyed English classes, and especially enjoyed this one because it dealt with modern issues, perspectives, and emotions. In other words, it applied. Upon arriving in class, he turned off his music, sat down, and eagerly awaited continuing their ongoing discussion of The Catcher in the Rye. Although Scott had read it before more than once, hearing Doctor Spencer analyze and explain every detail never failed in yielding new insight. It was as if hearing speech, but for only the first time understanding the words.

They were at the part of the book where Holden reflects on his old friend, Jane Gallagher. Interestingly, Jane never appears in the actual narrative; she only shows up in reflective passages. For some reason, Scott found himself oddly connected to this passage. Scott felt Holden’s pain as he misses an old and dear friend, who, Scott felt, could be a romantic interest. There is definitely something anyone could relate to in this section, especially those with the proverbial teenage angst, however, Scott felt as though it spoke directly to him. He could never fully place it, though. Perhaps, however, the biggest parallel Scott drew to his own life is Holden's constant self-victimization.

Doctor Spencer always liked to end his lessons with some kind of life lesson or application. He tried so hard to make his class practical rather than merely informative. And so he told his students, and Scott listened carefully, “You’re reading Holden’s story here and I’ll bet a lot of you are thinking about how much it applies to you or how you can relate. I don’t think anyone can read Catcher and not relate in some way. That’s the beauty of it. But I want to encourage you not just to accept Holden’s little pity party. You need to look at it, reflect on it, and, most importantly, do something about it. Is your life as bad as Holden Caulfield’s? Well, that just sucks, doesn’t it?” The class laughed. “You can do something about that. Don’t run away to some hotel; don’t run away at all. If things are bad, then do something about it. Holden is a lesson on what not to be. Don’t be Holden.”

With a grandfatherly smile, Doctor Spencer ended his class, “I’ll see you all next week.”

Scott left the classroom and immediately realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast. His stomach cried for nourishment. He had gotten to the point where it didn’t exactly matter what he ate so long as he was fed. Fortunately, Grove University is a big school and the western campus has a smaller cafeteria with all of the necessities. Scott made his way there, grabbed a single-serving bowl of Fruit Loops, and filled it with milk. Scott was one of those people who liked a lot of milk in his cereal, his reasoning being that the milk afterward is the best part. Hoping to find someone to sit with, he stood there and looked over the morning faces. There was no one. Only somewhat disappointed, and not at all surprised, Scott resigned to sit by himself. As he sat, he felt his loneliness, but laughed only slightly when he realized it just made him feel more like Holden Caulfield.

“Don’t be Holden,” he remembered with a smirk.

That was when he smiled, looked around, and labeled everyone a phony. Everyone there in their own tight-knit circles with no time for Scott was officially a phony. That felt good. Oh, you bet it did. Phonies.

…

Now, let’s take a look at a real phony:

Police Sergeant Jack Maurice drove his patrol cruiser right past Grove University. It was just another morning with just another cup of coffee. There was nothing really planned except for work. Well, work, and Jack had a meeting to attend; a very shady meeting. On his left, is Grove University, but that isn’t his destination. No, his destination is on the right in a residential neighborhood.

And look, college kids do drugs. Or at least most of them, right? But how do they get them, you wonder?

Luce Montenegro.

Montenegro sold crack cocaine and needle heroin to Grove students and made a killing. Through comprehensive investigation, Jack uncovered no signs of drug dealers in this area. None at all. Grove students must have gotten their stuff elsewhere. People like Montenegro don’t exist around here. Well, that’s what the official report will tell you.

Unofficially, Jack knew exactly where Montenegro was and had enough hard evidence to put him away for life. So, what’s stopping him?

Ten thousand dollars every month, that’s what. That’s enough to set Jack for life; something his policeman’s salary could never do. It’s truly a sad state of affairs when the men in blue are barely paid enough. Of course, you never joined the force for money. You joined so you could “help people” and “make a difference.” Jack did that. He just took a little extra on the side, that's all.

Jack pulled up to Montenegro’s house and schlepped his way to the front door. With his fist, he pounded and soon a tall, lanky Hispanic man opened the door: Montenegro. “Ho, officer Jack! You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Jack replied shifting uncomfortably. But he stayed firm. “You boys still being good?”

“As good as you’ll let us be,” Montenegro laughed. “You know, officer, I just gotta say man, we really appreciate bent cops like you helpin’ us out like this.”

“Fuck you,” Jack sharply exhaled. “Just give me the money so I can go.”

“What? You scared more coppers like you are gonna show? Don’t worry about it, homie,” he must have been at least a little high. Jack always thought dealers never did their own stuff, but Montenegro was his own man. Let him be. “Hey, Paulie, get this man his dough.”

“Thanks,” Jack grunted as soon as Montenegro handed him a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

“Look, man, you can come by any time and we’ll fix you up, man, okay?”

“No way, I don’t want to smell like you,” Jack turned and didn't lose any time making it back to his car. Right there he considered flaunting his badge and arresting them all. But no, not now.

“Real funny!”

When Jack looked back and rolled his eyes, Luce had already closed his door. The bent officer climbed back into his cruiser and resumed his patrol. Since his beat was in the area, he could keep other officers away from Montenegro. Ten grand a month is a good deal; no taxes to screw it up, even. Of course, Jack felt bad about it, but come on, Luce sells to college students. They’re gonna do drugs anyway, right? Not like anyone’s getting killed.

Yet.

…

Well, Scott labeled everyone a phony except for that pretty girl sitting alone just a few tables down. He wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Brittany. Ever since his first semester, Scott had admired Brittany, but couldn’t muster the courage to talk to her. He couldn’t even recall the sound of her voice. But to him, she was perfect: brunette and, though hidden by glasses, eyes green as spring. She was even in his literature class, evidence being the copy of Catcher she held in her hands.

As Scott enjoyed his Fruit Loops, he’d occasionally look up at Brittany. He loved the way she would subtly lick her upper lip before she turned the page or how she futilely tried to keep her bangs out of her eyes. But then, as she pushed her hair away once again, Brittany looked up and right at Scott. Man, she was pretty. She really was.

Stop staring, Scott.

His eyes locked with hers. He couldn’t look away. Brittany smiled patiently and might have even giggled a little before she returned to Holden’s world. Smiling, Scott returned to his cereal.

And then….

BOOM!

BOOM, BOOM!

Screaming. Bloody, bloody screaming.

BOOM! BOOM!

BOOM!

Everyone froze. The sounds and screams came from down the hall. No one dared move….

Someone finally cried, “Are those gunshots?!”

“Oh, God!”

Frantic screaming.

“Someone lock the doors!”

A young man ran to the doors and closed them. This was the only entrance. He cried, “There’s no lock!”

The shots and screams would not let up.

“Oh, no, oh, no… this doesn’t happen to me!”

“Dude, someone call the cops!”

“I’m calling my mom!”

“But what if it’s something else?!”

“Do you really want to take that chance?!”

Scott fazed himself out of the chaos as he realized he didn’t have his cell phone. He couldn’t call his mom or anyone else. Scott looked down at this breakfast and wondered what to do. It was all of a sudden that no one but everyone mattered. Scott glanced back to Brittany and saw the horror in her eyes as she looked to him. For an instant, a powerful connection manifested. Scott jumped to his feet. What are you doing, Scott?

“I don’t know,” he would reply.

A couple of bigger guys, the football type, stood and started trying to take command, “Everybody find somewhere to hide! Turn tables over!”

“These windows don’t open!”

“Oh my God! We’re trapped! We’re going to die!”

…

“All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!”

Officer Maurice was the first man on the scene. Since his patrol was right next to Grove, he pulled in only an instant after the all-units call was given. Jack just couldn’t believe it. These school shootings happen; you hear about them on the news all the time, but it’s just one of those things that could never happen to you.

Or so you thought.

Jack pulled onto the fire lane at the western campus and radioed to dispatch, “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” He drew his Beretta 9mm and took cover behind the car.

“On the way, 432, hold tight until backup arrives.”

BOOM, BOOM!

Jack heard the bloodcurdling screams and shouts as the gunfire continued. There could be no mistake; all hell was breaking loose in there. “Goddammit, this is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“

“Negative, negative! Wait for the SWAT team!”

Jack slammed his fist onto the car. He stood there, listening to the piercing gunfire and harrowing death. There wasn’t even imagining the terror inside. How could he just sit there while this happened? You know what? He couldn’t. Before tossing his radio into the car, he said only three sentences:

“This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

...

Despite all best efforts, there was no organization, there was chaos. Most froze, while others frantically stumbled about. There was literally nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.

Scott pushed through the fray and on to Brittany. He ignored everything; the screaming, the terror, the sporadic gunshots.... For some reason, this one pretty girl mattered above all else. Scott knew very little about her, but in his naïveté, he loved her. And with that, nothing else matters.

But before he could reach her, the door burst open. Everything stopped as everyone gasped in horror. It was that one kid. Everyone knows who he is; or knew of him. He’s that kid you see around, but never say anything to. No one knew his name. Sweat engulfed his angered face, his nose ran, and his furious eyes were constricted. Blood spattered his clothes. And in his hand was a semiautomatic handgun.

Grunting, this kid surveyed the room, shouted slurred, unknown words, and then opened fire.

Scott watched with wide eyes as blood sprayed and people fell. Dead. So much screaming, the gun blaring, spent casings hitting the floor.... Scott looked to Brittany. He could see nothing more than confusion and absolute terror. And he could sense the lingering question, “Why?” Their eyes locked. Both felt as though this would be the last thing they would ever see.

Brittany was right.

Her temple burst in crimson. Scott watched with utmost shock, horror, and sorrow as she fell from her chair and hit the floor lifeless and limp. Her table obscured his view, but he heard both her body and her book hit the ground. Why?

Scott turned to the shooter, who screamed completely unintelligibly as he showered random death. The slide locked, then the killer ejected his magazine.

Scott.

This is your chance.

The gunman pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and slapped it in. The slide racked forward.

Scott.

You know what Professor Spencer told you: “Do something about it.”

So he did.

…

Officer Jack knew to follow his ears. Keeping his Beretta raised and ready, he ran the halls. For every shot he heard, he had to assume someone lost their life. This is too much.

As he ran, he saw hundreds of horrified faces. They all looked to him as most bled, some cowered, and others still were merely corpses. Jack looked to them as if to say, “It’s going to be alright.” But he had to push aside thoughts from his head that he could have saved them if he had acted sooner. If only he had acted sooner….

But in a situation like this, you can’t think like that. You just can’t. You can’t think at all; just do. Jack needs to find this shooter and take him out. That’s all that matters; lives hang in the balance.

That was when Jack made the conscious decision to shoot first and ask questions later. There was no way he could risk anything at all. So Jack flipped off his safety and put his finger firmly on the trigger. These are two things against everything the books taught. But this is no place for the books.

There: the west side cafeteria. Every gunshot and holler came from there. In all of his visits to Grove, Jack knew that the cafeteria was a dead-end. If the shooter is in there, he’s stuck. No way out. Get ready, Jack, no turning back now.

…

Scott mustered everything and bolted the shooter. Before the gunman could react, Scott slammed into his side, bringing them both to the ground. With fury, fear, and courage, Scott bashed the shooter’s neck not once, but twice. That was enough. The madman released the pistol as he gasped for air.

In a frenzy, Scott grabbed the gun and came to his feet. He kept it trained on the laying gunman and considered exacting revenge. He should pull the trigger. He should kill this- this phony! For everything he’s done, for the unknown number of people he’s just murdered… for Brittany. Scott readied himself.

BOOM, BOOM!

Pain. Immeasurable pain.

What?

Scott looked to his side and saw a lone policeman at the door, smoking gun raised. He tried to say something, but nothing came. His chest was pierced and bleeding. Scott’s lungs faltered and breath came not at all.

Limp, Scott fell to his knees and then the floor. As he lay there, life draining, he looked to his side and saw Brittany’s lifeless body looking to him. Next to her, he saw the sleeve of Catcher in the Rye. For a brief moment, he put himself in Holden’s shoes again and she was Sally Hayes. Could they run away together; leave this world of phonies? Yes, but not together. Scott, if he could, would have sworn he could see her smile just that one last time. He really did.

…

Jack holstered his pistol and, with a hint of triumph, asked aloud, “Is everyone alright?” From what he could tell, that was the only shooter. It’s over; it’s all over.

And then a chubby girl in the corner shouted to him, “You dick! That guy just took down the killer! He’s the hero! You just- you just killed him you stupid pig!”

There were no words.

Jack holstered his pistol and cut out any remorse. There’s no time for that. “Then who is it? Who’s the real killer?”

The girl pointed at the floored kid who still gasped for air, “It’s him, dumbass!”

Jack glared at her before rushing to the killer. With the utmost precision offered by his training, Jack slapped handcuffs on his man. As he was lifted, the kid shouted again. Jack couldn’t understand him, but as he looked into the kid’s eyes, he saw the tell-tale signs of heroine abuse: constricted eyes, slurred speech, runny nose…. Oh, God.

As he led the killer down the hall, some of the kids were cheering. Jack couldn’t stomach it. He didn’t do this; it was that kid lying dead in the cafeteria. He's the hero. What’s his name? Officer Maurice looked no one in the eye. Officer Maurice is a goddamn phony and he knows it.

The killer screamed the whole way. No one could understand him. Maybe it was some foreign language or something, but it was slurred. Either way, the kid needs help and not just for his apparent drug abuse. Jack could only pity him, but more so all those kids inside. Especially for whoever that “hero” was.

After throwing the killer into his car, Officer Maurice radioed dispatch, “I’ve got the suspect in custody. Situation is under control.”

“What?! You had orders not-“

Jack turned off his radio. He didn’t have time for that bullshit. Jack knew he had done the right thing; it just didn’t turn out so well. In fact, it turned out in the worst possible way. There will be hell to pay. As the SWAT teams, ambulances, and other officers arrived one by one, Jack could only think, about damned time.

…

The lovely young reporter broke the story, “Just hours ago in the building behind me, the western campus of Grove University, a massacre unfolded. A single gunman, who I am told is a student, armed with a single handgun, came to class and started shooting at random. Seventeen students and faculty were injured and twelve were killed. Remarkably, the perpetrator was captured alive by police Sergeant John Patrick Maurice, who is now being referred to by some as the hero of Grove University. There have, however, been conflicting reports that perhaps it was a student who took down the killer. Here with me is Police Chief Armin Williams to answer some questions. So, tell me, what really happened?”

“Officer Maurice is one of the best men on our force. He took total initiative and stormed the building alone. He went in, found the suspect, and took him down.”

“Some students have told us about how another student took the shooter down and Officer Maurice killed that heroic student. What do you have to say about that?”

“Those reports are inaccurate and probably conjured up by do-gooder hippies trying to make us look bad. Jack Maurice is a hero and should be treated as such.”

What a phony.

Epilogue

That night, Officer Maurice just couldn’t get the image of Scott Green out of his mind. Jack’s district head had decided to let Jack go home that night and rest it out. The full investigation would have to wait until tomorrow, where Jack was sure to face consequences. Sure, the police chief had decided to play this for the media, but justice, and the truth, would have to be served. They’d make this private and secret. Jack would probably be forced to retire or something. Either way, his badge is as good as gone.

After a long, cold shower, a shave, dinner, and an hour of contemplation, Jack found himself staring at the blued-steel of his Beretta 92FS 9mm semiautomatic handgun. He slapped a fresh magazine inside and chambered the first round. Jack knew he had to do something with it. Something.

Scott Green came back to his mind. He could see Scott down the sights. And then the muzzle flare: Once, twice. He remembered his momentary relief and the shattering when he found out he had just murdered the real hero. God, Jack, what have you done?

That was when suicide presented itself as an option. He could do it; take the coward’s way out. He is, after all, the real villain in all of this. If Montenegro had been put away, then that kid would never have gotten heroin and maybe this would never have happened. But no, that’s too easy. Any honor left in Jack would never have permitted it. And then he got it.

Montenegro.

It’s time to do the right thing.

Officer Maurice grabbed his badge and his gun, put on his coat, and got in the car. That’s right: he’s going after that drug-dealing bastard. The drive was an easy one. It’s ten at night; there’s not much traffic. He passed by Grove and could see there were still emergency vehicles around; likely just to keep order. How do you go on after something like this?

Jack pounded on Montenegro’s door and drew his pistol; he kept it in his hand, but hidden behind his thigh. Luce, clearly high, opened the door, “Officer Jack? Yo, man, hella you doing here?”

“You’re under arrest.”

“Wait- what? Is this some kinda joke?”

“Yeah, it is.”

BOOM!

Jack blasted Luce all over the wall.

Satisfied, Jack dashed back to his car and grabbed a full jug of gasoline. He rushed inside the house and searched every room to make sure it was empty. Thank God it was. After spreading the gas around and taking samples of the drugs laying around for evidence, Jack flicked his lighter.

Flames, glorious flames.

The whole neighborhood looked on as Jack walked away from the blazing home. And as they watched, Jack drew his badge and a slip that read, “I’m not a hero.” Without any second’s hesitation, he put the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

This is as much atonement as it is cowardice.