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perpetual_motionI wrote this for my short story class, and it gets critiqued on Friday. I thought I'd post it up here for two reason. 1) I figured you'd guys would get a kick out of seeing something original from me, 2) I have no patience to wait for a Friday critique, so I'm going instant gratification.
Three Minutes, Twenty-Six Seconds
By Me
“You ready?”
Your heart is pumping and you feel jittery. You bend your knees to feel some sort of tension as you nod. “Let’s go.”
“She’s all yours.”
You press your back against the wall of the narrow hallway and eye the lock. It’s shiny, obviously new, but also obviously cheap. You raise your foot, cock your knee, and aim your instep at the middle of the lock. A gunshot goes off as the door splinters, and your adrenaline kicks up to double-time.
*
The first time you busted down a door you weren’t a cop. You were sixteen, and you were chasing your younger sister down the hall. Your parents were out for the afternoon, and she’d dumped ice chips over your head because you’d put empty ice trays back into the freezer. You’d chased her down the hall as she’d screamed your name, “Patrick!” yelled as only a fourteen-year-old little sister can, and slammed her bedroom door in your face.
You’d been running at full speed and your half-gangly, clumsy body couldn’t stop quickly enough. You slammed into her door and looked up just in time to see the doorframe separate from the wall. Katy’s shriek made you wince and you made a lunge for the doorknob. The door thumped against the floor, and you stared at Katy. “What did you do?”
“Me?” Her voice was perfectly pitched insult. “You broke my door!”
“You threw ice on me!”
“You broke,” her voice went into a shrill screech, “my door!”
You’d managed to put the door back into place, but it didn’t close properly. Katy had to keep something behind it to keep it latched. When your dad noticed the damage a few months later, he laughed loudly and pulled you into the room to show you the problem. “You reattached it upside down, genius.” He chuckled as you helped him pull the door down and flip it into place.
*
The bullet sears past your ear and slams into the wall next to your head. You crouch a little lower and try to aim, but there’s smoke billowing throughout the apartment. You don’t know if the meth has sparked a fire or if the meth cooks started it to burn the evidence, but you know it’s a meth fire. Your nose is going to burn for days. There’s another gunshot, and you charge into the main part of the room. You trip over something short and round. An ottoman, you guess, as you start to pull yourself up from the floor. Three more gunshots go off, and your left shoulder snaps back, knocking you back onto the floor. You stare up at the ceiling and realize the air is clearer where you are. You take a deep breath as a foot in a large boot lands next to your ribcage.
*
You were shot in the knee by a pimp just over a year ago. You were working a basic undercover, trying to pick up a hooker for the sole purpose of arresting her, and her pimp shot you in the knee. You’d crumpled to the ground and refused to scream because a shred of your macho cop self hung around after the bullet lodged into place just behind your kneecap. You watched people’s feet and calves as they ran around you, and you were probably the only person to relax when four guys in Kevlar and guns came pounding around the corner.
“Layton!” Cogan was the first around the corner and the loudest to yell your name.
“Someone fucking shot me!” You stared in amazement at the pool of blood forming around your knee. “I’m bleeding!”
Cogan dropped down next to you, and you noticed that he’d put on his control face. He looked completely calm and composed. It was the kind of face that made people calm down in high-stress situations. Except that you had a bullet in your knee and you wanted someone else to be freaking out with you. “Someone fucking shot me!” Repeating it didn’t make you feel any calmer or less alone in the moment.
“If you’d shut the fuck up for a goddamned minute I’d take a fucking look at it.” That’s when you got worried. Cogan didn’t go off and swear like that unless it looked bad.
You risked a glance at your leg and your eyebrows rose at the sheer amount of blood that was recoloring the sidewalk. “Fuck.”
“You’ll be fine.” Cogan’s tone was brisk. “You’re not bleeding that much.”
What you knew about blood loss informed you that Cogan was lying through his perfectly calm-looking teeth. You decided to go with the lie until someone told you otherwise.
*
The boot next to your ribs isn’t door-breaking police issue. As the boot takes a step, you grab it at the ankle and watch the person topple. The boot, and the foot in it, belongs to a very skinny, stringy-haired woman who points a small handgun at your head. You twist away as she fires a shot, and there’s a flash of heat next to your head. When you twist back, she’s already up and gone. You don’t see which direction she runs. There’s smoke over everything, and there are still gunshots deafening the room. You’re stuck where you are, on your back, on carpet that smells of some kind of rot, and all you can do is watch the smoke circle around you. If you stand up, you take the risk of someone blowing out the back of your head. Your only advantage at the moment is that very few people aim a gun at the floor.
*
During your first year as a cop, you were involved in a call that was almost a shoot out. You stood behind the door of your patrol car with your arms very straight and your eyes focused on the sight on your gun. You and your partner, an extremely foul-mouthed man by the name of Franson, had been on patrol when the radio had crackled and announced a robbery in progress at a grocery store. Franson had given you a grin that was all dangerous-looking teeth and gunned the car.
“Those cocksuckers are about to fuckin’ get it!” He’d flipped the sirens, slammed the gas, and cut off a large truck. You’d wrapped your hands around the curve of the dash and wondered if Franson was completely out of his mind. You’d only been a police officer for three months. You didn’t know yet that the job could make you a little crazy.
The grocery was a small, triangular store tucked into the bottom corner of a building that held falling-down apartments on its upper floors. The robbers were teenagers, dressed in dirty jeans, huge T-shirts, and carrying very large guns. You’d stared at them as you stepped out of the car. Franson had to remind you to unholster your gun. He’d called you a “shithead moron”. You’d stood there, arms straight, eyes on the sight on your gun, and considered what it would be like if you had to shoot one of them. You weren’t sure you could do it. Before you could find out, they’d chickened out and dropped their weapons. Franson had called them “dried up pussies”. You’d just been glad that you hadn’t had to shoot.
*
You close your eyes in reflex as a shotgun blast reverberates through the apartment. A small shower of plaster chips falls on your face, and you press your lips together tightly so you don’t have to taste it. You know your guys have a shotgun-they’re standard for no-knock warrents-but you’re not sure what kinds of guns the other guys have. There are sounds of a fight but no more gunshots. You open your eyes and risk a sitting position. Your head doesn’t get blown across the room. You stand up and get your bearings. A few feet in front of you Menker, the guy in charge of the bust, has a guy on his knees, shotgun to the back of his head.
“Get your fuckin’ hands behind your fuckin’ head, asswipe! I will blow a hole in your head to skullfuck if I don’t see your fuckin’ hands!” Menker doesn’t spare you a look. “You gonna do anything, Layton, or do we get to watch you stand around like a fuck off?”
You brush the excess plaster off of your face and out of your hair and walk across the room to open a window. The smoke has lessened, but it’s still acrid and painful to breathe. The window sticks, and when you try to wrench it open, your left shoulder protests with a violent burst of pain that leaves you seeing pinpricks of light in your vision. Adrenaline let you forget that you’d gotten shot. You let out an emphatic “fuck!” as you step back from the window and start trying to remove your vest to get a look at the damage.
“Layton?” Menker’s tone is brisk, but you know he’s figured out what you’re doing. There’s an unmistakable look to a guy who thinks he’s been shot. They look like they’re about to piss down both legs and puke down the front of their shirt. “Layton, you good?”
You manage to yank off your vest and get a look at your shoulder. There’s no hole in your shirt. You didn’t dodge it, but you dodged it. “I’m good.” You take a deep breath and cough a little as the last of the smoke burns your lungs. “It stuck in the vest. I’m good.”
Three Minutes, Twenty-Six Seconds
By Me
“You ready?”
Your heart is pumping and you feel jittery. You bend your knees to feel some sort of tension as you nod. “Let’s go.”
“She’s all yours.”
You press your back against the wall of the narrow hallway and eye the lock. It’s shiny, obviously new, but also obviously cheap. You raise your foot, cock your knee, and aim your instep at the middle of the lock. A gunshot goes off as the door splinters, and your adrenaline kicks up to double-time.
*
The first time you busted down a door you weren’t a cop. You were sixteen, and you were chasing your younger sister down the hall. Your parents were out for the afternoon, and she’d dumped ice chips over your head because you’d put empty ice trays back into the freezer. You’d chased her down the hall as she’d screamed your name, “Patrick!” yelled as only a fourteen-year-old little sister can, and slammed her bedroom door in your face.
You’d been running at full speed and your half-gangly, clumsy body couldn’t stop quickly enough. You slammed into her door and looked up just in time to see the doorframe separate from the wall. Katy’s shriek made you wince and you made a lunge for the doorknob. The door thumped against the floor, and you stared at Katy. “What did you do?”
“Me?” Her voice was perfectly pitched insult. “You broke my door!”
“You threw ice on me!”
“You broke,” her voice went into a shrill screech, “my door!”
You’d managed to put the door back into place, but it didn’t close properly. Katy had to keep something behind it to keep it latched. When your dad noticed the damage a few months later, he laughed loudly and pulled you into the room to show you the problem. “You reattached it upside down, genius.” He chuckled as you helped him pull the door down and flip it into place.
*
The bullet sears past your ear and slams into the wall next to your head. You crouch a little lower and try to aim, but there’s smoke billowing throughout the apartment. You don’t know if the meth has sparked a fire or if the meth cooks started it to burn the evidence, but you know it’s a meth fire. Your nose is going to burn for days. There’s another gunshot, and you charge into the main part of the room. You trip over something short and round. An ottoman, you guess, as you start to pull yourself up from the floor. Three more gunshots go off, and your left shoulder snaps back, knocking you back onto the floor. You stare up at the ceiling and realize the air is clearer where you are. You take a deep breath as a foot in a large boot lands next to your ribcage.
*
You were shot in the knee by a pimp just over a year ago. You were working a basic undercover, trying to pick up a hooker for the sole purpose of arresting her, and her pimp shot you in the knee. You’d crumpled to the ground and refused to scream because a shred of your macho cop self hung around after the bullet lodged into place just behind your kneecap. You watched people’s feet and calves as they ran around you, and you were probably the only person to relax when four guys in Kevlar and guns came pounding around the corner.
“Layton!” Cogan was the first around the corner and the loudest to yell your name.
“Someone fucking shot me!” You stared in amazement at the pool of blood forming around your knee. “I’m bleeding!”
Cogan dropped down next to you, and you noticed that he’d put on his control face. He looked completely calm and composed. It was the kind of face that made people calm down in high-stress situations. Except that you had a bullet in your knee and you wanted someone else to be freaking out with you. “Someone fucking shot me!” Repeating it didn’t make you feel any calmer or less alone in the moment.
“If you’d shut the fuck up for a goddamned minute I’d take a fucking look at it.” That’s when you got worried. Cogan didn’t go off and swear like that unless it looked bad.
You risked a glance at your leg and your eyebrows rose at the sheer amount of blood that was recoloring the sidewalk. “Fuck.”
“You’ll be fine.” Cogan’s tone was brisk. “You’re not bleeding that much.”
What you knew about blood loss informed you that Cogan was lying through his perfectly calm-looking teeth. You decided to go with the lie until someone told you otherwise.
*
The boot next to your ribs isn’t door-breaking police issue. As the boot takes a step, you grab it at the ankle and watch the person topple. The boot, and the foot in it, belongs to a very skinny, stringy-haired woman who points a small handgun at your head. You twist away as she fires a shot, and there’s a flash of heat next to your head. When you twist back, she’s already up and gone. You don’t see which direction she runs. There’s smoke over everything, and there are still gunshots deafening the room. You’re stuck where you are, on your back, on carpet that smells of some kind of rot, and all you can do is watch the smoke circle around you. If you stand up, you take the risk of someone blowing out the back of your head. Your only advantage at the moment is that very few people aim a gun at the floor.
*
During your first year as a cop, you were involved in a call that was almost a shoot out. You stood behind the door of your patrol car with your arms very straight and your eyes focused on the sight on your gun. You and your partner, an extremely foul-mouthed man by the name of Franson, had been on patrol when the radio had crackled and announced a robbery in progress at a grocery store. Franson had given you a grin that was all dangerous-looking teeth and gunned the car.
“Those cocksuckers are about to fuckin’ get it!” He’d flipped the sirens, slammed the gas, and cut off a large truck. You’d wrapped your hands around the curve of the dash and wondered if Franson was completely out of his mind. You’d only been a police officer for three months. You didn’t know yet that the job could make you a little crazy.
The grocery was a small, triangular store tucked into the bottom corner of a building that held falling-down apartments on its upper floors. The robbers were teenagers, dressed in dirty jeans, huge T-shirts, and carrying very large guns. You’d stared at them as you stepped out of the car. Franson had to remind you to unholster your gun. He’d called you a “shithead moron”. You’d stood there, arms straight, eyes on the sight on your gun, and considered what it would be like if you had to shoot one of them. You weren’t sure you could do it. Before you could find out, they’d chickened out and dropped their weapons. Franson had called them “dried up pussies”. You’d just been glad that you hadn’t had to shoot.
*
You close your eyes in reflex as a shotgun blast reverberates through the apartment. A small shower of plaster chips falls on your face, and you press your lips together tightly so you don’t have to taste it. You know your guys have a shotgun-they’re standard for no-knock warrents-but you’re not sure what kinds of guns the other guys have. There are sounds of a fight but no more gunshots. You open your eyes and risk a sitting position. Your head doesn’t get blown across the room. You stand up and get your bearings. A few feet in front of you Menker, the guy in charge of the bust, has a guy on his knees, shotgun to the back of his head.
“Get your fuckin’ hands behind your fuckin’ head, asswipe! I will blow a hole in your head to skullfuck if I don’t see your fuckin’ hands!” Menker doesn’t spare you a look. “You gonna do anything, Layton, or do we get to watch you stand around like a fuck off?”
You brush the excess plaster off of your face and out of your hair and walk across the room to open a window. The smoke has lessened, but it’s still acrid and painful to breathe. The window sticks, and when you try to wrench it open, your left shoulder protests with a violent burst of pain that leaves you seeing pinpricks of light in your vision. Adrenaline let you forget that you’d gotten shot. You let out an emphatic “fuck!” as you step back from the window and start trying to remove your vest to get a look at the damage.
“Layton?” Menker’s tone is brisk, but you know he’s figured out what you’re doing. There’s an unmistakable look to a guy who thinks he’s been shot. They look like they’re about to piss down both legs and puke down the front of their shirt. “Layton, you good?”
You manage to yank off your vest and get a look at your shoulder. There’s no hole in your shirt. You didn’t dodge it, but you dodged it. “I’m good.” You take a deep breath and cough a little as the last of the smoke burns your lungs. “It stuck in the vest. I’m good.”
