End Night
This is a short story I wrote in 2008 for a contest. In typical fashion, I did not win. But here it is, for your enjoyment. It's dark and brooding, influenced by film noir and general dystopia. I enjoyed writing it, and it gives you a taste of the style and atmosphere in my novel.
End Night, © 2008, Thorax O'Tool
She lies there at my feet, the puddle of crimson blood diluted in the falling rain. The alley is dark and the cobblestone pavement glistens through the thick air, in the dull glow from the streetlights. I stand here, trembling with fear and anger, mostly directed at myself. My hand clenches the knife firmly and I can begin to feel it cramp up. Second by second, I am coming back to life and out of the haze. Footsteps disappear from audibility but I never considered them. A car splashes by and the sound wakes me out of my delirium. I snap into the moment again and see just what I have done. What have I gotten myself into? My eyes hurt from staring at her lifeless body. Why did I do this? All she ever did was show kindness to me, even in my most troubling times she was kind. Why did she do it? Why did I let my jealous heart blind me? My heart is racing and I hear it pounding in my ears. What if someone saw? What if someone knows what I have done? They could call the Metro Police and I know what would happen then, I'd be better off lying here dead. I look up through the bitter rain at the windows of the buildings. I see only a handful of lights on, most of them seem to be up past the tenth floor of either building. The buildings are old, from the last century and uncared for. These places are just so run down that only the poorest of the poor live here. The very poor don't care about crime, it is a part of life here. If the cops come to this slum, they always bust the poor for any trivial thing, anything they can find. The police are unwelcome in this neighborhood and they know it. But what if this is an exception? What if some old man was looking out his window and saw what I did? What if a young mother called the police after hearing screams? Every second longer I stand here, I put myself deeper at risk. I have to run, I have to run far from here but not make it look like I'm fleeing. That would make people suspicious! I have to stay calm and collected, not looking like a fugitive. Playing the part coolly is the only chance I stand to even hope to get out of this. But where will I run to? They'll look for me at my home, that is certain. They'll burst in, warrant or not and drag me away to their terrible machine. I can't risk that. I just can't! If I run to family or friends, the police will take them away for harboring a criminal. I can't risk that to my loved ones; this is not their stupid decision. I have to leave town, and I have to leave tonight. I just don't know where I'll run to. I step out of the alley and see the knife glisten in the streetlights. Shit! I have to do something with this bloody instrument. If I keep it on me, that is as good as death in their machine. I have to ditch it somewhere, somewhere they won't bother to look. I walk hurriedly down the block deeper into downtown. Of course the police will expect me to ditch it somewhere, their computer models and statistics will tell them that. They'll have that damn scanner of theirs searching through every trash can within ten kilometers. I have to ditch it, I have to. My very life depends on it. I see a vacant lot is off to my left, it looks promising. I walk over and peer into the lot through the chain link fence. Under a struggling sapling a homeless man sleeps under a tarp. I can't leave it here, he'll see me. The reward will be handsome and irresistible to a transient. They won't blame him, not with all the homeless having their biometrics on file. The lot is as much of a death trap as is having the knife in my hands. I move on briskly, hiding the knife under my soaked jacket. A silver, late-model car passes and slows down noticeably when the driver sees me. He looks at me suspiciously as I stand here watching him. What if he knows? What if he is an undercover cop? What if he saw the raw feed from a camera hidden in that forsaken alley? There could be fifty agents in the shadows waiting to spring at me on his notice. The car speeds up, leaving me soaked here on the street. I turn my back and look around, seeing nothing but wet streets and struggling trees planted along the sidewalks. I walk much faster now. Off in the distance, the looming towers of downtown look down on me, as though they condescend me in my shame. I step in a deep puddle. That's it! I can throw this knife into the river, it's swift current can wash away the evidence to the sea where none can ever find it, even that damn scanner. Block by block I work deeper into the urban core, headed to the dark waters of my temporary reprieve. Every street corner is a potential trap and cameras with watchful eyes are probably looking for me. No, they are watching me, I know it. I walk faster and come to the foot of the bridge. The Cherry Street Bridge is abandoned, and only the streetlights are on it. No cars, no cops around as far as I can see. I sprint onto the bridge and lean against the raining. The waters are black and choppy, flowing quickly to an absolution that I will not receive. I look again and see no one. Quickly I drop the knife into the waters below. I feel some relief when the splashing sound reaches my ears. I need to run still, I need to escape this hell before the goddamn cops get me. I can't go to their machine, I just can't. I would rather die an abandoned death on these cold streets than be put in that horrid device! Turning, I catch a red light out of the corner of my eye. My heart nearly stops and I see a camera atop a streetlight! Everywhere are these fucking cameras! Everywhere, watching my moves. Watching, watching, waiting for me to slip up to give cops an excuse to take me away. I have to hide for good now, they will see me on the film! I run across the bridge, back into downtown. The lights are brighter here and I see more goddamn cameras everywhere. All the light posts and street signs are looking at me, looking for me. They'll track me and the police will corner me. Yes, they'll come with that terrible sound gun and destroy my eardrums before they take me to that machine. I cannot let that happen, I will die before they get me. I move briskly down First Ave, taking erratic and random turns down alleys and streets, always coming back to First. If those cops want me, they'll have to catch me, and I will do everything I can to stop that. I cross a street and on the other side a man in a taupe trench coat walking a small brown dog looks at me. He looks with suspicion at me. What if he knows? He can't know, can he? He must suspect something, the way he watches me. Yes, he must think I am guilty of something. I see him pull out a cell phone. That is it! He is going to call the Metro Police! If I go to the Extraction Machine, he will get a reward from the city, and in these hard times everyone needs money. The situation is even worse than before and I sprint off up and towards the Financial District. I see a bus pass me by and an idea strikes me. I can get a ticket to anywhere at the Greyhound station! Yes, yes that is it. I will go to Alaska! No, no that will not work. They'll expect me to run and the police will expect me to run to Alaska or some other empty state. I can't go to New York or Los Angeles, the cops there are even more aggressive and use the Extraction Machine for parking tickets, I've heard. They will single me out for anything, even a guilty conscience. I stop at the station, panting with my heart about to jump out of my chest. On the station window near the door I see an LED reader board. There is a bus to Montpelier leaving in twenty minuets. They would not expect me to run to Vermont. No one hides from the police in New England. I hope. I walk through the doors and approach the woman at the counter. My shoes squeak on the terrazzo floor and she looks up at me. She looks sour and tired. ''One ticket to Montpelier, please” I ask, my voice weak and trembling. She glares at me and I k now she reads my face and sees my guilt. She does not answer me for a moment, and my heart feels like it is in my throat. ''One hundred and ten dollars” she says coldly as she types something into her computer. I hand her my Visa card. I don't care about the thirty percent interest rate on the card now. It will not matter no matter what happens now. She swipes my card, and I sign a receipt. She hands me the ticket with long, cigarette stained fingers and worn down cuticles. She does not take her eyes off me. I turn and head towards a door marked departures. There is all kinds of signage and ads on the walls, and I see one of Uncle Sam staring at me. ''Help Homeland Security” it says. ''Report anyone or anything suspicious to the Police immediately, you can help fight crime and terrorists”. I glance back at the ticket woman and see her on the phone. Shit! She's talking to the police now! She has to be. In my head, I see her lying there in that alley. I don't know why stabbing her seemed like a good idea, but now I wish my hot temper and jealous heart had never cursed me to this. Nothing, nothing is worth this kind of a price. If I still had the knife I would stab myself in the heart repeatedly rather than sit in that Extraction Machine. They will keep me in there and turn up the intensity until I confess, confess to anything they accuse me of. I cannot face that! I jet outside onto the platform next to the buses. If I get on, they will stop the bus and drag me off. If I don't get on they'll know since the cameras will show me running. What the hell should I do? I turn and find a big man in my face. At first I think it is an officer, but he is wearing denim and not the black uniform of the Metro Police. He takes a step back and I see a gleam of malice in his rough, bearded face. “Your money, your wallet NOW!” he shouts and pulls a sawed-off gun on me. I've never been mugged before and I am speechless. “I said, give me your wallet and don't try anything funny!” “I got no money” I say weakly. “I spent it all on this ticket.” He pushes the barrel of the gun into my chest. “I said, give me your goddamn wallet.” I begin to fumble in my pocket for my wallet. I touch it and the shrill scream of a siren pierces the night. It catches both of our attentions. This is it, I know it! They are coming here to come get me. They will torture me for days on end in that horrid contraption and then torture me to death for my crimes. I cannot do that, mugger or no mugger I must get the hell out of here. The police do worse things to murderers than just petty criminals, I do not want to suffer a fate worse than death at their cold, mechanical hands. I push away the mugger who ignored the siren. He looks furious and swears at me. The gun explodes and a searing burn not unlike the burning of my guilt tears into my gut. I fall to my knees while the mugger pulls my ticket from my hand and disappears into the buses waiting to leave. I put my hand on my stomach and see the dark red blood. I feel myself fall on my face into a cold puddle, though I do not recall falling. The sirens get louder and louder, the police will be here any moment. I hurt and I am so cold. I see Jamie's looks of terror before my waking eyes. I hear her screams louder than the sirens. God, why did I do that? Stupid! Stupid jealous fool I am! I cry, or so at least I think I am, I cannot tell anything anymore except for the coldness. My blood feels so hot against my frigid skin. Oh god, why did I ever do this? Why did she have to be out with that man? Why did I have to see them out together? We had problems, but nothing we could not fix. The sirens disappear and I see shades of darkness looming over me. Something sharp kicks me over on my back. I strain my tired eyes and the shadowy figures of the Metro Police surround me, guns drawn. They talk and I can't understand them. All I see is the look of terror in Jamie's eyes. “I'm so sorry” I say. The cops stop their talking and I wonder if they hear me. Everything is so dark and so cold now, I am so lightheaded and weak. I don't feel my heart anymore. “Oh god, I am so sorry Jamie” I say. It strains me to talk. I don't even feel my lips move. “I am so sorry. I am coming to you, Jamie. Forgive me, oh god forgive me.”
ARSNIC|2009