Regrets
Title: Regrets
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 683
"Have you ever done something you wish you could take back?"
I nod, but he wants me to say something so I say, "Yeah. I think about it every day."
He chews on his bottom lip for a second. The lip's all chapped up and bleeding a little. He says, "What'd you do?"
Now usually I'd make some joke here, or find some other way to change the subject. You know, make it clear I don't wanna talk about it. But, well, there's the gun sitting next to his hand, so I say to him, "I made my sister paralyzed."
He stares at me, his eyes wide. "No shit? How'd you do that?"
I shift my weight a little bit, but I can't get comfortable. The marble floor is hard, and the handcuffs are digging into my wrist on account of the angle. "We were playing around. You know, roughhousing or whatever. She ran into the kitchen and my mom -- my mom was putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher -- my mom says 'Kids, stop running around like that, somebody's gonna get hurt.' Except, you know, we're kids, so we don't listen. And I was chasing my baby sister around the kitchen, and she was laughing up a storm, all giggling or whatever, and I grab her arm but she pulls outta my hand and she falls and she lands right on the open dishwasher door and hits her neck on the edge."
He nods real slowly and takes a drag of his cigarette and says, "Damn."
"Yeah," I say. "She wasn't moving and my mom was freaking out or whatever and when we take her to the hospital the doctors say she can't walk anymore."
He takes one last puff, drops the cigarette onto the floor, and puts it out with the tip of his boot. The butt landed in some half-dried blood, so it squeaks when he twists the remains of the cigarette under his foot. "She got one of those...what are they called? Those, uh, motorized wheelchairs?"
I nod, but he wants me to say something to I just tell him, "Yeah."
The phone is the on the table next to him, on the side where the gun isn't, and it's starting to ring, but he doesn't pick it up. Instead he says to me, "That would kill me, man. Hearing that motor coming around the corner in my house everyday. It would fucking kill me. Every time I heard it, I'd think of what I did to my little sister. I bet it kills you, don't it?"
"Yeah," I say. "It kills me."
He nods, except this time instead of a neat up-and-down bob it's more like a crazy jiggle and I can see he's crying a little bit. His eyes are getting red and there's mucus landing on the stubble of his upper lip. "This is kinda like that, man. You know what I'm saying? This is something I wish I could take back."
The woman sitting next to me, the one who has been silent for the last hour, straightens her back in her neat little power suit and says, "You still can, sir. You can still take this back. The police have said they're willing to work with you."
The phone is still ringing. He picks it up and puts it back down again without having put the earpiece to his ear. "Miss," he says, looking at Mrs. Power Suit, "look at that boy." He picks up the gun and gestures to the floor. No, to the body on the floor. The one none of us can look at. "Miss, this is something you can't ever take back."
He walks across the bank floor, blood sticky under his feet, until he is so close to me I can smell the sweat on him. "I gotta know, man. That motor sound kills you, right?" he asks me.
"Yeah. It kills me."
He shuts his eyes and there are big fat tears rolling down his cheek now. "This is kinda like that," he says, and he puts the gun to his temple and we all shut our eyes and turn our heads away.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 683
"Have you ever done something you wish you could take back?"
I nod, but he wants me to say something so I say, "Yeah. I think about it every day."
He chews on his bottom lip for a second. The lip's all chapped up and bleeding a little. He says, "What'd you do?"
Now usually I'd make some joke here, or find some other way to change the subject. You know, make it clear I don't wanna talk about it. But, well, there's the gun sitting next to his hand, so I say to him, "I made my sister paralyzed."
He stares at me, his eyes wide. "No shit? How'd you do that?"
I shift my weight a little bit, but I can't get comfortable. The marble floor is hard, and the handcuffs are digging into my wrist on account of the angle. "We were playing around. You know, roughhousing or whatever. She ran into the kitchen and my mom -- my mom was putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher -- my mom says 'Kids, stop running around like that, somebody's gonna get hurt.' Except, you know, we're kids, so we don't listen. And I was chasing my baby sister around the kitchen, and she was laughing up a storm, all giggling or whatever, and I grab her arm but she pulls outta my hand and she falls and she lands right on the open dishwasher door and hits her neck on the edge."
He nods real slowly and takes a drag of his cigarette and says, "Damn."
"Yeah," I say. "She wasn't moving and my mom was freaking out or whatever and when we take her to the hospital the doctors say she can't walk anymore."
He takes one last puff, drops the cigarette onto the floor, and puts it out with the tip of his boot. The butt landed in some half-dried blood, so it squeaks when he twists the remains of the cigarette under his foot. "She got one of those...what are they called? Those, uh, motorized wheelchairs?"
I nod, but he wants me to say something to I just tell him, "Yeah."
The phone is the on the table next to him, on the side where the gun isn't, and it's starting to ring, but he doesn't pick it up. Instead he says to me, "That would kill me, man. Hearing that motor coming around the corner in my house everyday. It would fucking kill me. Every time I heard it, I'd think of what I did to my little sister. I bet it kills you, don't it?"
"Yeah," I say. "It kills me."
He nods, except this time instead of a neat up-and-down bob it's more like a crazy jiggle and I can see he's crying a little bit. His eyes are getting red and there's mucus landing on the stubble of his upper lip. "This is kinda like that, man. You know what I'm saying? This is something I wish I could take back."
The woman sitting next to me, the one who has been silent for the last hour, straightens her back in her neat little power suit and says, "You still can, sir. You can still take this back. The police have said they're willing to work with you."
The phone is still ringing. He picks it up and puts it back down again without having put the earpiece to his ear. "Miss," he says, looking at Mrs. Power Suit, "look at that boy." He picks up the gun and gestures to the floor. No, to the body on the floor. The one none of us can look at. "Miss, this is something you can't ever take back."
He walks across the bank floor, blood sticky under his feet, until he is so close to me I can smell the sweat on him. "I gotta know, man. That motor sound kills you, right?" he asks me.
"Yeah. It kills me."
He shuts his eyes and there are big fat tears rolling down his cheek now. "This is kinda like that," he says, and he puts the gun to his temple and we all shut our eyes and turn our heads away.