Weight of Yesterday

Hidden Potential

It's unseasonably cold—rainy, windy, air gelid, and uncomfortable. Downright dreary.

I frown at the pools of water collecting along the glistening sidewalk.

There is a certain beauty to the rain, of course. A poetic beauty—white and red reflections of taillights, the glow of neon signs turning hazy in the mist, and whatnot. But the images are easily soured by the feeling of drenched socks and soaked denim hems, both of which plague me as I attempt to relax within the local coffee shop.

It had been roughly a week, no—two weeks since the incident in Raccoon City, and I was so graciously saved by a rookie cop whom I still have trouble remembering the name of sometimes.

I don't feel like I should have graduated from the academy at the same time as him. It's obvious his skills were much better than mine, and I feel my attempts at rescuing myself were deemed unsatisfactory, hence my gratitude toward him. How coincidental that we were both assigned to the Raccoon City Police Department as our first duty as rookie cops, yet I fell short and he continued on heroically.

I tighten my grip on my mug, desperate to absorb my drink's residual heat, and continue to look out of the window. I check my watch, my foot tapping aggressively on the wooden floor. He's late, again.

He's always late, though; I'm not sure why I'm surprised.

I inhale deeply through my nose and take delight in the soothing scents of dark roast coffee and fresh croissants.

The coffee shop typically isn't this deserted this early in the morning. There are two other patrons besides myself: one middle-aged man reading today's paper with a huge headline saying "T-Virus Outbreak! Raccoon City Destroyed!", and one woman who appears to be in her early twenties blasting music through her white earbuds. She taps away at her laptop, seemingly transfixed. I notice that she takes a sip of her drink. It's steam curls upward in wisps before disappearing. Her music sounds angry.

I turn my attention to the window again and shift in my wooden chair. I wish briefly that I had occupied the secluded booth in the back. It would have been warmer.

I consider leaving, consider calling him with a passive aggressive tone about how I waited in the coffee shop for 30 minutes before resigning to go over the notes on my own. Melodramatic. Immature, too, considering both of us were recruited by the United States government to become agents due to our exponential performance demonstrated during the outbreak of the T-Virus. But this is the second time he's missed a meeting and I'm far too tired to wait around.

After the rookie saved my life, we found refuge in Washington D.C. close to the capital where we were quickly questioned by reporters on the events that took place in Raccoon City. I don't think I looked too familiar to him, but I sure knew who he was. I was envious, of course. I don't think I truly deserve to be alive, even recognized for my "achievements". I did absolutely nothing to save myself and failed at my title as police officer. But as soon as I told him was a cop too and he noticed my uniform, I think he found solace in that.

I feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing; I'm going to be trained as a human weapon having done nothing at all. Why am I being recruited by the military by being a failure? I guess I should keep my mouth shut and be thankful. Both of us are survivors and I should embrace that, and if I'm qualified to handle this from my prior police training, then I guess it's okay that he's the one who saved me from Raccoon City.

I move to pick up my worn leather messenger bag that I bought cheap at a second-hand store recently, but I'm stopped by the ringing of a bell perched above the front door.

"Hey," the rookie pants, blue eyes brightening in recognition as he sees me sliding a strap over my shoulder, still sitting at the only table by the window. "Did you just get here?"