Pieces Part 1

Dream (Start)

It was the FIN.

I dug my fingers into the carpet floor I laid upon. A gritty sensation laid pricked my skin—the surface was excellent and hot, tempering the nerves that lunged within my body.

You're not dying. You're not dying—

Blood. Blood was everywhere.

It seeped into my clothes and hooded my eyes in an awful rouge haze.

I had to get out of here.

Yet, my eyes refused to remove themselves from the splattered mess that coated my clothes. A pool of tears gathered at my eyelids—this was it.

I reached a dead end.

My eyes ultimately wandered, but not in search of a breakaway. I noticed the picture clutched tightly within my hands, so tightly its edges burned indents into my palms.

And I dared to ask myself while regarding it, "Did I frame this picture for myself, or did it frame me?"

Age clouded the picture. Not so worn that its whites went yellow, but my olive skin reflected a ghastlier hue than your run-of-the-mill outdoorsy kid would have.

I instinctively got up to my feet. My weight slumped against a wall once I rose, but I slowly found the strength to stand straight.

I was blanched. The picture was washed out. How could something change so drastically with time? A smiley, bright-toothed kid could spiral to this—whatever this meant.

As I staggered down the apartment hallway, my blurred vision caught notice of blue and red lights. They flickered a faint glow in the distance, after that, blazing into a force so blinding I had to squint to walk any further.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

I threw one arm over my sweating forehead. Rain was pelting the windows everywhere I looked. Could look. My scope of sight was narrowed to a slit, from which I barely made out the silhouettes of two shadowy figures stalking in my direction.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

Rain's pitter-patter mellowed to a hum in the background. In its place, my throbbing forehead and the shrill of sirens took over the apartment. I wanted it to stop so I could return to the semblance of quietness I had grazed before.

But there was no silence where I was. I'd fallen into an utter disaster.

I nearly stumbled right into the line of fire, having barged into the vestibule; two policemen advanced up to me with their guns drawn. "Moe Richardson, you are under arrest for murder!" One shouted through the smoke.

My heart plunged to a lower depth than I'd ever imagined possible. Fighting through the knot that twisted my stomach, I collapsed to the floor and raised my hands.

This couldn't be true. I wasn't a criminal. But they were already after me, and what choice was left for me but to plead my case?

I pressed my knees against the carpet and cried, "I'm innocent!" Tears streaked my dampened cheeks.

One of the cops shouted back, "That's what they all say, get up!" The officers didn't even flinch—their cocked guns stared at me, and their dispositions remained cold like they were creeping over a criminal and not some 19-year-old boy.

"I didn't do it; I didn't do it!" I wailed even louder, this time flinging my hands anxiously. I couldn't grasp how this was happening. It was like one of those moments that were so wildly cruel that they just had to be a nightmare, but somehow, you blinked your eyes hard and discovered it was reality.

Was I blind to the truth? How did I not pick up on the pieces sooner?

Alas, my desperate actions only worked to anger the cops even further. "Moe, if you don't get up right now!" One crowed. His cheeks were flamed in a scarlet color. None of the men's faces showed a glint of sympathy—They discarded me. The truth was written and ready to be shipped off to whatever court hearing I was about to be thrust into.

I didn't want to believe this, but what was the truth but a story that was accepted by all?

At that moment, it was like my brain fried into shutdown. I kept repeating, "Why does this always happen to me," each regurgitation drifting me out of this world. Even my senses couldn't bear to perceive life crumbling all around me.

No future and everyone will hate you. You've ruined everything, Maurice.

As I spoke, my voice grew louder and louder. It took a while before I heard it.

"Moe, wake UP!"