Straitjacket, Poetry in Motion

Straitjacket, Poetry in Motion: To End

- she's pulling me through -

I do not have a name, and long have I stopped yearning for one.

She shouldn't have answered the door. He had told, many times, to be careful about these things because people lie don't you know that better than most and one slip up and you're back on the street and drugs don't mix with your pretty face now do they just keep quiet and look twice for nothing is as it seems you can't trust anyone they're all going to hurt you now that -

She shouldn't have answered the door.

At first, it seems innocent enough. Two officers, a muscular man and a pixie-like woman. The police woman is all smiles and cheerful hello's, asking with outstanding manners where her room mate is. She tells the police woman, expecting that this will be another minor offence that he can talk his way out of, smooth and charismatic.

He rounds the corner, effortless grace halted as the police woman suddenly isn't so nice anymore, and horror fills them both. But he is always quick on the balls of his feet, and even she has trouble keeping up with the way he ghosts into the bathroom. The police man grimaces as he shoulders the locked door off its hinges, yet he is already dropping from the window, tossing a casual grin at her before letting go of the wall tiles and skidding down the roof of their penthouse -

She freezes for a split moment, her mind racing through heights and chances and possibilities of not crushing into the pavement.

And then she is running.

The police are hot on her heels, but this is a fact she can barely process. Her thoughts are fixed on one person, one name.

She turns a corner, jumps a set of stairs, and there - there is the door. Oxygen is no longer in her lungs. She doesn't spare it a thought, she can't, can't divert her mind from her goal because if she does she might stop to think why these cops are here, what they want, what he did, what may happen now.

She sees him.

He'd dropped from balcony to balcony, she understands now, and the relief makes her giddy. She drops to her knees by his side, and gathers him in her arms.

It takes her a moment to realize that he isn't moving.

As the police officers gather around her, she screams his name. There is no reply. Azure eyes remain shut against the world, pale lips parted. The pixie woman tries to pull her away but she thrashes around wildly, knowing that now it is over and nothing is important anymore she just wants to be were he is, wherever that is, heaven or hell or all the places in between.

He chokes her name, the sweetest sound falling from his lips and floating into her ears. He can only just about open his eyes, and there is blood on his forehead and skid marks on the second floor balcony were he slipped, but none of that matters when he chest is rising and falling like it is.

The police man steps forward at the same time the pixie pulls her away. He growls and tries to stand, only to fall back down again.

Finally, he breaks.

He pulls a gun out from his jacket, and waves it about. Police man - woman - bystander - himself - anyone, whoever, do you really want him to shoot, cause he will if you don't give her back to him.

The bullet slices through the air, though not from the gun she expected. It buries itself deep in his shoulder, and his blonde hair covers most of the pain on his face, but not all of it because she can still see it right there, calling out to her like a siren. He stumbles forward, one hand clutching the wound. It's the same, give her back.