I sit at a bar, sipping on my drink. My mind drifts back to the day of the incident, the murder in self defense. I remember the long hours at the police station afterwards, the dimly lit room they had me in and the officers I could see racing around through the small window on the door. I remember the questions they'd asked me and the answers I had given them.
"Was this man indeed your attacker?" Officer Bordon asked me, holding up a picture of the man.
I looked down at my hands on the table and answered quietly, "Yes."
"Why was this man after you?"
"A friend of mine owed him some money, I got too involved when he asked me for help," I told him.
"What friend?" he asked quickly.
"His name's..." I paused. "Andrew."
"And where is Andrew now?" he asked. "I'd like to question him too if possible."
"He's dead." I thought about my poor friend Andrew and back to the things that man had said to me 'Now I have to have another death on my hands'. Andrew was probably in a ditch now thanks to that asshole.
"Oh... I'm sorry to hear that." Which was about as much compassion this cop had given me that entire night because two seconds later he asked, "Why did your friend owe him money?"
"That man was a drug dealer and Andrew got too addicted when he didn't have the money to spend... He stole some weed from the guys house and when he found out, he snapped." I looked over to the other officer in the room for the first time, he was rapidly writing down every word me and Officer Bordon had said to each other.
"So he was in debt for drugs? And he came to you about it?"
"Yes. He came to my house a couple weeks ago asking to borrow some cash so I told him to go home and ask his parents for some, but he informed me that he had just moved out and he couldn't talk to them about what he needed the money for. Of course, I didn't give him any money but I'd known some of the other guys he was dealing with from high school. I tried to talk to them about it, but they just got more angry with Andrew and insisted that he bring the money within twenty four hours or they were going to kill him... Guess they got tired of waiting."
"And this is the reason they came after you next?" he asked me.
"Yes. It must have been."
"I need you to tell me something," he said slowly.
"What?" I asked.
"Why did you kill him, Miss Portman?"
"He chased me all around town, he broke down my door and when he found me at the bus station, he held me against the wall and choked me before he pinned me to the floor."
"How did you do it?" he asked.
"You all know how I did it," I stated, looking right into his eyes.
"I need you to tell me."
"I took the knife I had in my bag and stabbed him. Twice. Once in his side and another in his stomach."
"Why did you have a knife in your bag?"
"I figured if he found me he'd ask for the money and when I refused to give it to him, he'd try to get rid of me."
"And why would he get rid of you?" he asked, pacing back and forth in front of the door.
"Because at that point I would've been useless to him..." I said. "And he wouldn't risk getting caught."
"I have one final question for you, Miss Portman." I remember the scent of him as he leaned in closely, sweet and strong. He looked at me as if my answer could change everything.
"Yes, Officer Bordon?" I said politely.
"Do you regret what you did?"
And I remember my honest, straight forward answer, "No."
. . .
I tip back my third glass of absolut vodka, swallowing it completely without even the slightest flinch. I hold my hand up to the bartender and he hands me another. I swallow that one quickly as well then hold my hand up again. He hesitates. "One more Ben, that's it," I tell him. Five's my limit tonight. And I always stick to my limit.
"Gotta learn how to slow down a little, Hillary," he says to me. "You downed those like you'll never have another drink again."
I grin at him. After finishing my last drink, I pull out my phone and call a taxi. It arrives in ten minutes and I get in the back seat, making sure to tell the man my address before sitting back and watching out of the window as we pass by all the houses and the people walking down the streets of Toronto.
A few months after being let go at the station, I bought another bus ticket for Toronto and left my life behind in Blind River, not that I had much of one. My days consisted of five things: Waking up, going to work, coming home, eating, and going to sleep. And of course all the pesky little things in between like socializing (which I didn't do much of) and ignoring Andrew (which I did too much of).
We arrive at my house a few minutes later and I pull out the exact amount I owe the man. "Thanks, Ricardo."
"Anytime," he says in his Spanish accent. "You should really do something other than going to the bar every night."
"Yeah, yeah," I laugh.
He grins and looks at me through the rearview mirror. "Seriously, it's a rare thing for a taxi driver to have a regular customer."
"And I thought our relationship was so special," I say and pretend to pout. I pat his shoulder and get out of the car. "See you tomorrow."
He sighs and drives off. What could I say? Routines are my thing. Routines are safer. There aren't any bad surprises when you stick to a routine. My smile quickly fades as I walk up to my front door and slide the key in. I walk in, closing the door behind me and hanging my coat on the hook. I turn the living room light on and lay down on the couch. What I meant to do was go up and lay down in my bed, but sleep claims me almost as soon as my head hits the couch.
