365

jan.11.22

Murder she wrote....

In his headphones, happy pop reggae music drifted in, making him calm. As he walked downtown, he stepped in pace to the beat. He felt happy here, lost in his music. Lost in a happier place.

The sky above was gloomy, and the streets dirty with melting snow and unused sand and salt. The streetlights were on, though it was only two in the afternoon. Cars roared past on the street, each desperate in their destination. Sirens came from several blocks away. Traffic grumbled with exhaust fumes and car horns.

He couldn't hear the city over his music, much to his relief. As far as he was concerned, the city was a simple background. It was just there. It didn't matter much, and he tried not to take it too seriously.

Murder she wrote....

He knew these streets decently well, having lived downtown for a couple years now. He knew what the city was known for, and how the fancy people who could afford the expensive life covered it up and swept it all under a rug. Like if the rich people had to realize a mess they helped make, it would upset their stomachs. And they needed their stomachs, for escargot, fine champagne, and the cleanest cocaine money could buy.

He knew the police sirens like an alarm clock. He knew the drug busts like a bad wakeup call. He knew the suits like an untrustworthy person. He knew the shadows, wandering around after dark, were the angels who simply lost their halos.

Murder she wrote....

He crossed the street on Queensway and Fifth. A police cruiser at the light watched him, like the cop wanted him to be a bad guy. And if he wasn't a bad guy, the cop would make him one.

When the light changed, the cruiser followed him, slowing on the street to match his walking pace.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the cop. He was staring death in the face. He knew, as he'd seen many times before, this was the last person to see him alive. He knew cops. He knew his end.

He forced himself not to run, as much as he wanted to. He knew if he ran, that gave the cop a reason. If the cop had a reason, the cop would win anything. Instead, he kept his pace even to the music.

Murder she wrote....

The cruiser's lights flashed, and the cop pulled into the mouth of a back alley in front of him, blocking his way. The cop got out of the driver's seat.

The cop spoke; he couldn't hear the cop over his music. He didn't want to hear the cop.

The cop slammed the cruiser door, its lights still flashing, and the cop walked up to him. He didn't move. He stayed where he was.

Murder she wrote....

The cop ripped the headphones off of his head, pushing him back a couple of steps. The music was gone. The drab and drag of the city filled his ears.

"I'm talking to you, damn it. Where are you going?" the cop asked, anger clear in his poor professional voice. The cop's voice was like nails on a chalkboard, like walking on shattered glass with squeaky shoes.

He took a slow breath before speaking. "I'm going to my therapy group, Sir."

"Therapy group?" The cop's tone was mocking. "Where is that at?" the cop asked, still angry. "Are you lying to me? Are you hiding something from me?"

"Seventh Avenue, Sir."

"What did you just say?" The glass in the cop's voice kept cracking. The cop pushed him back another couple of steps. "What did you say to me?"

He took another slow breath. He knew not to react. The cop was looking for a reaction. And a reaction was an excuse, a reason. "My therapy group is on Seventh Avenue, Sir."

"What building–" The cop suddenly stopped. The cop knew what was on Seventh Avenue: City Hall on one side, and a whole city block of youth services aids on the other. The cop knew there was a mistake made. A mistake made by a cop.

The cop handed the headphones back. The cop avoided eye contact. Embarrassment flowed on the cop's face. "Have a good day." The cop went back to the cruiser, and drove off, the lights fading once gone.

He stood, frozen. He wasn't dead. He was alive.

He put the headphones back on, and continued walking. What was the cop thinking? Did the cop think he was a criminal? Sure, he was dressed in a black hoodie, jeans, sneakers, and had a backpack on. And his headphones. Who or what did the cop think he was?

If the cop searched his backpack, he wouldn't have found anything: a sketchbook, a couple notebooks, some pens, and a couple of crushed wagon wheels.

He escaped death. He was alive. Because a cop stopped judging a person after learning about them. After.

Walking along Seventh Avenue, he sat in the doorway of the building he'd be going to at six. The church bells on Queensway rang three times. It was three o'clock. He had three hours left.

He exhaled, letting the music seep back into his shaken bones.

Murder she wrote....