In My Arms: A Salex Story

The Aftermath

Alex's ears rang and his vision blurred. For a moment he forgot where he was -- entering into some kind of shock-induced vision. Instead of being in an abandoned banana factory, he found himself sitting on a log in the woods behind his parents' house where he grew up. It was snowing gently, and the dead leaves that surrounded him were coated in a thin layer of white powder. He looked down at his hands, which were pink from how frigid it was. All he had on was a zip-up hoodie, t-shirt, and jeans. No wonder he was so fucking cold. He shivered before glancing over his shoulder at his house; all the lights were out and suddenly it was dark outside. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sam, except he looked like he did back in high school. Even though the two are still close, it was like seeing an old friend. Alex opened his mouth to speak but had no idea what to say, so him and Sam just stared into each others' eyes. He didn't feel so cold anymore. Sam took his hand and led him to the creek. He followed him all the way down to where the water was deep, and by the time they stopped, their hair was coated in snow. Sam climbed down the creek bed and stood on the ice. Alex followed close behind, and all he could see were Sam's big brown eyes -- he had a soft expression on his face. The two embraced, clutching each other desperately, bathing in their warmth. Then there was a loud crack; the ice broke and they fell through. 

Alex gasped for air and was thrusted back into the cold reality of a lifeless body in front of him. He could faintly hear Julien's voice and see the outline of her body beside, well... Will Toledo's.
"Is 911 on their way? Fuck, what do we do, I'VE NEVER BEEN PART OF A MURDER BEFORE!?!??!" The contents of her backpack were all scattered around on the ground, because she was desperately trying to find something to help him. A first aid kit was open, but they all knew Will was already dead. There was nothing they could do to save him at that point. Now their only decision was where to go from here. 

Their choices were simple, really: call the cops and Alex goes to jail for life, ending his music career and disappointing countless adoring indieheads, or... they discreetly dispose of the body and Alex gets off scot-free, with a small chance they all go to jail for covering up a murder. 

Alex's, Sam's, John's, Julien's, Lucy's, and Mat's lives were about to change forever.

Meanwhile...

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In a small, dusty apartment on the outskirts of Omaha, Carrie Brownstein sat at her kitchen table, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee with her dog laying by her feet. It had been years since her band Sleater-Kinney broke up indefinitely, and she was feeling aimless. She had moved away from Portland to distance herself from her failed joke of a TV show, Portlandia, which only ever had a pilot because no one wanted to fund an idea so outrageous. She winced as an idea for a comedy skit came to the forefront of her mind; she whispered to herself and hit her palm to her forehead: "Leave! Leave! I don't need any more creative ideas...." she sighed.

Trying to find meaning in her life after disappearing from the limelight, Carrie had taken up odd jobs here and there. First a dog walker at the local shelter, then a substitute teacher, then an NPR music journalist, and finally, a detective for the Omaha Police Department. She wasn't very busy, since Nebraska was a surprisingly quiet place to live. Every once in a while she'd get a call to investigate some petty theft or a missing teenager who just ran away to be rebellious, but it was never anything too serious. She was surprised at how calm things were. Suspiciously calm, she would say. 

She enjoyed the quiet life, though, as much as she could. Here and there she'd catch up with old friends when they passed through town, and reminisce about how life used to be. She kept a polaroid picture of her bandmate, Corin Tucker, under her bed in an old shoebox. She often found herself awake at odd hours of the night, kneeling on her bedroom floor, staring at the photograph. The two had been in a short-lived relationship in the 90s, but Carrie didn't even want her anymore. What she really longed for was to return to the life she had before. Touring all the time, getting to play music for a living and achieve her dreams. Now she just sat around the house with her dog, aimlessly searching for meaning.

Ring ring riiiiinggggg

Ring ring riiiiiinggggggg

Carrie's vintage rotary phone that she took work calls on to keep things interesting was ringing for the first time in weeks. Usually she picked it up exasperatedly, because the calls were always boring. Another bored housewife stealing cheap jewelry from the department store; another teenager spraypainting dicks on the side of an abandoned building; another Omaha snoozefest. However, this call felt different. Carrie just knew it was something good. 

She stumbled over to pick up the phone, her foot still asleep and her coffee mug still in her hand. "Hello...?" she answered expectantly. 

"Brownstein, we've got a case for you. I think it could be something big. We got word that someone's been squatting in the old abandoned banana factory up on the hill. We want you to check it out. Foul play might be involved, a bystander reported hearing a gunshot around 9 AM today." Carrie couldn't believe the words coming out of her boss' mouth. She finally had a real case, something interesting that needed solving. Her stomach filled with butterflies, she started kicking her feet and smiling like an idiot.

"I'm on it!" She said with a flair that only an ex-rockstar could exude. Just seconds after hanging up the phone, she slipped on her Keds, grabbed her police badge and gun, and of course a magnifying glass (just in case). She pat her dog on the head, "Don't worry, I'll be back later," she quickly breathed in its direction as she sped out the door. Detective Brownstein was back in business.