It was a homicide. Just that. Another death. Another cleanup crew. We just had to write stuff down and send the right guy to jail. That was it.
It was depressing to hear that another person had died, but it was supposed to be just that. Another random stranger. Maybe a person I held the door open for at the cafe. Maybe they smiled at me once on the street. That was it. A stranger kept at arms distance.
Instead, it's you. You with your stupid smile, and your stupid laugh, and your stupid face.
It was you. Dead. Bleeding on the concrete in the middle of the street. Your blood was warm It still is, pooled in the center of your navy shirt, turning it black.
It was you who the officers had to hold me back from. I couldn't touch you. They wouldn't let me hug you. I couldn't hold your hand one last time.
It was you who they called me in for. I was almost done with my shift. You texted 'on the way home'. How long after that were you shot?
It's your blood smeared down my pant leg, soaked into my knees. It's you who is dead. It can't be. It can't be you.
YOU ARE READING
Night in the City of Paper
RastgeleThis is just a collection of short story's. Even though I am sure no one will, you can use any of these and expand on it as a prompt, just be sure to give me adequate credit. Enjoy.
