A Short Exercise
Just a little something to get my brain moving. The basic idea was to write about an experience that you, yourself, have never had before.
They say animals can smell fear. This one could certainly smell mine.
Jackie G, local purveyor of chemically-enhanced happiness. Slick suit, hundred-dollar haircut, tattoo of a spider on his neck, Ray-Bans cocked half-way down his nose so he could look over them at me. Three months ago, he'd started hanging out in this neighborhood. Three days ago, my daughter was checked into St. Joseph's rehabilitation facility.
“Whatchoo want, old man? I ain't got all night.” Theatrically, he looked at the watch on his wrist. I thought about the bandages on Laura's wrist and steeled myself.
“Come to get something nice,” I told him in as even a voice as I could manage. I stepped towards him, pulling back my hood.
He smiled, turning his head to laugh. “Man, you ain't here to buy nothin' from me.”
“What makes you think that?” I stepped closer, a slow but even pace towards him.
He gave me a tired expression and said, “You ain't never done no kinda shit before, or you'd have named your poison, and you ain't nervous enough to be any kinda first-timer. Too much hunger in your eyes.”
“What do you think I'm doing here, then?” I was trying to keep him talking, still stepping closer, heartbeat by heartbeat.
In smooth, quick motions, he reached under his jacket and whipped out his handgun, pressing the barrel up against the skin of my forehead. “You're here to kill me,” he said, matter-of-factly, and pulled the hammer back in a crisp click. “What happened, old man? Daddy's little girl use her babysitting money to sniff her way into popularity? Your sagging wife decide she'd had enough boredom out of you?”
I bit my tongue and reminded myself that he was trying to goad me into a mistake. I looked him in the eyes under the gun and told him, “You misunderstand me.”
“Oh, I don't think I do.” He pressed the gun harder into my head, his voice building.
“Seriously. Look.” I gingerly pulled my trenchcoat open, sliding it down off my shoulders. Underneath was nothing more than my slacks and my undershirt. “I'm not armed.” Spreading my arms out wide and open, I told him, “I'm just here to talk, to ask you to just leave.”
He watched my eyes for the span of a moment, then quietly started to laugh. “Man, you either stupid as hell or ballsy as all get-out.” With a flourish, he whipped the gun back under his jacket. “You really think I'm gonna ...”
I slammed the palm of my hand into his throat. His larynx collapsed with a sickly crunch and his eyes went wide. He fell back against the alley wall and looked at me in shock as he slowly started to slide down onto his butt, his hands clutching at his throat. A thin, raspy sound struggled out of his nose as blood bubbled out between his lips.
“It was her college money, and she was already popular.” I told him, snatching his gun out of its hiding place.
I stood there and watched. I made myself watch him die, no matter how much it sickened me to think I'd killed him. An hour later, I'd be throwing up in my toilet, crying like a baby and begging my wife's photo for forgiveness, but for now I made myself watch his eyes go dim and still. I wanted to think of my daughter and all the other innocent lives he'd ruined, but that was a lie.
Instead, I thought of his parents.
They say animals can smell fear. This one could certainly smell mine.
Jackie G, local purveyor of chemically-enhanced happiness. Slick suit, hundred-dollar haircut, tattoo of a spider on his neck, Ray-Bans cocked half-way down his nose so he could look over them at me. Three months ago, he'd started hanging out in this neighborhood. Three days ago, my daughter was checked into St. Joseph's rehabilitation facility.
“Whatchoo want, old man? I ain't got all night.” Theatrically, he looked at the watch on his wrist. I thought about the bandages on Laura's wrist and steeled myself.
“Come to get something nice,” I told him in as even a voice as I could manage. I stepped towards him, pulling back my hood.
He smiled, turning his head to laugh. “Man, you ain't here to buy nothin' from me.”
“What makes you think that?” I stepped closer, a slow but even pace towards him.
He gave me a tired expression and said, “You ain't never done no kinda shit before, or you'd have named your poison, and you ain't nervous enough to be any kinda first-timer. Too much hunger in your eyes.”
“What do you think I'm doing here, then?” I was trying to keep him talking, still stepping closer, heartbeat by heartbeat.
In smooth, quick motions, he reached under his jacket and whipped out his handgun, pressing the barrel up against the skin of my forehead. “You're here to kill me,” he said, matter-of-factly, and pulled the hammer back in a crisp click. “What happened, old man? Daddy's little girl use her babysitting money to sniff her way into popularity? Your sagging wife decide she'd had enough boredom out of you?”
I bit my tongue and reminded myself that he was trying to goad me into a mistake. I looked him in the eyes under the gun and told him, “You misunderstand me.”
“Oh, I don't think I do.” He pressed the gun harder into my head, his voice building.
“Seriously. Look.” I gingerly pulled my trenchcoat open, sliding it down off my shoulders. Underneath was nothing more than my slacks and my undershirt. “I'm not armed.” Spreading my arms out wide and open, I told him, “I'm just here to talk, to ask you to just leave.”
He watched my eyes for the span of a moment, then quietly started to laugh. “Man, you either stupid as hell or ballsy as all get-out.” With a flourish, he whipped the gun back under his jacket. “You really think I'm gonna ...”
I slammed the palm of my hand into his throat. His larynx collapsed with a sickly crunch and his eyes went wide. He fell back against the alley wall and looked at me in shock as he slowly started to slide down onto his butt, his hands clutching at his throat. A thin, raspy sound struggled out of his nose as blood bubbled out between his lips.
“It was her college money, and she was already popular.” I told him, snatching his gun out of its hiding place.
I stood there and watched. I made myself watch him die, no matter how much it sickened me to think I'd killed him. An hour later, I'd be throwing up in my toilet, crying like a baby and begging my wife's photo for forgiveness, but for now I made myself watch his eyes go dim and still. I wanted to think of my daughter and all the other innocent lives he'd ruined, but that was a lie.
Instead, I thought of his parents.