TANK

1 (plot)

I'm moving as fast as I can to get one foot in front of the other, it's 12 am, and I'm attempting to head home from the BLM protests. Stupidly, I went alone and stuck around too late. There are a few people walking near me in the same direction and others scattered here and there, but they're the same, head down, silent, moving as fast as they can to leave safely.

The pig presence was closing in, and with slimmer pickings, it was more likely I'd be cornered or arrested by them. I needed to keep moving forward, eyes down, but a commotion startles me out of my focus. I hear it before I can react, "TEAR GAS!" A not distant enough voice shouts. Fuck.

Frozen, I watch the stream of gas streak across the sky, headed to land no less than a foot from where I stand. My arms react before my legs and I jerk to cover my face with my arms, swaying back on my feet trying to get my body to move. I hear the distinct clink of the canister on concrete, and the hiss of the gas before I feel a sting on every inch of my exposed skin. Despite being covered, my eyes swell with tears, only partially from the irritant. Then, I hear shouting,

"FUCK YOU PIGS."

The voice shouts, dripping with vitriol, followed by a strong grunt and whir of the dissipating gas canister being thrown back.

He shouts again, "MOTHERFUCKERS," then the voice addresses me, "Hey, hey, are you okay-" a large hand curls around my shoulder and I jerk away, devolved into a full body sob. "It hurts," I manage to choke out. "I know, I know, it's okay now, it's gone," the voice addresses me again, softer, lower. The tension stringing my body tight relaxes slightly and I nod. I feel scared, I know I won't be able to make it home alone, at least not like this. "I can't open my eyes," I manage to express in a timid whisper between sobs to the stranger.

"I- is it okay for me to touch you? I need to take you somewhere safe." He asks me. I nod, vigorously, and unwrap my arms from around my body and reach tentatively toward him. Once I find him my fingers grip tightly to whatever jutting piece I can find, grounding me. Through my blurred vision I can just barely make him out. I know he's tall, wide, and he appears to be in some type of armored riot suit, with welder's gloves on his hands. I wouldn't be able to see his face in my current state, even if he wasn't masked. One of his gloved hands comes and wraps around my shoulder then I'm suddenly pushed forward.

We're running forward, me blindly, I have no choice but to trust him. My lungs burn, from a mixture of the tear gas and from the running, but I keep up, even as the muscles in my legs scream for me to stop. As we run with the night wind whipping against us I hear the sounds of yelling, and banging, knowing it's the pigs brutalizing other protestors, growing more distant. There is some whooping, cheering, and chanting from other protestors who have made their own small victories, but me and the stranger are silent.

As we pass the 6th block running I feel a squeeze on my shoulder signaling me to slow down. We slow to a brisk walk and he addresses me again, "We're near my apartment, you can wait out here, and I'll bring you some water so we can flush your eyes, then we can work on getting you home, okay?"

I nod, still too shocked to make much of a response. I hear another loud bang and a yelp no less than a street away. Both of our heads jerk up and point toward the noise, his hand slightly tenses upon my shoulder again. I can feel the heat of tears begin to well in my eyes again, a pit forming in the base of my throat. "I'm sorry-" I begin, cut off by a whine low in my throat, as another bang echoes in the streets.

He pauses for a moment, thinking, before spurring into action once again. "Scratch that," he says, "It's not safe out here." His voice takes a calmer, more commanding tone, "I will take you up to my apartment and show you to the bathroom. You can patch yourself up there, and I'll come back out here to see if there's anything else I can do, after that, then we can work on getting you home safe." He looks at me, "Are you okay with that? I need to know." I manage another nod, and find my voice, "Yes, th-thank you for helping me." The, 'I trust you' implicit in my tone.

He moves behind me, huddling me through the door on our right and up the narrow stairs. On the third floor we swing left and he steps in front of me to unlock his door. At some point my arms have come back up to wrap around myself like a protective barrier. I'm ushered into the apartment, and the smallest part of the dread within me begins to settle. He points to a door at the end of the hallway.

"The bathroom is in there." His speech is short and direct. "My room is directly across from it, you should change into something once you wash the tear gas off or you'll just be re-applying it to your skin through the fabric. All of the clothes in the closet are clean. I promise I'll be back." I look at him directly, as well as I can manage and nod in affirmation. "I know this isn't ideal," he begins again, "but I can't retreat while I still might be able to help, okay?" He waits for me to nod once again, "Stay safe," I manage to say back. He then turns sharply on his heel and walks back out of the apartment, locking the door behind him with a click.

Alone in the apartment, I take a shaky breath and spur into motion before I can collapse in on myself. I make quick work, as quick of work that I can, scrubbing myself in this stranger's shower. The gravity of the situation threateningly looming in my head as I scrub myself with a stranger's loofah, and a stranger's charcoal scented soap. I press my head against the wall of the shower letting the water flow over my body and begin to cry. I barely have any tears left by the time the emotion swelling in my gut subsides.

I finish my shower and wrap myself in a towel big enough to wrap around my body twice. I catch myself breathing in the slight scent of the stranger on the towel. Embarrassed, I wander into where I was indicated to find clothes. I grab the first t-shirt I see and rush back out of the room without pause to look around. I hang the towel back up and slip into the soft threadbare shirt that falls just past my mid thigh. The garment swallows my figure. I pause, as I realize I have no fucking idea who this guy is, my fingers nervously plucking at a loose grey thread. I hardly have any idea what he looks like, I don't even know his name, but I'm here, in his apartment, in his clothes.

I sit, tensely, on the edge of the couch in his living room, and stare resolutely at my hands, thoughts making my head swim. I didn't bring my phone, I couldn't afford to replace it if it got broken or lost. My roommates went back home for the weekend, I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Today was Friday, and it would be Sunday, or even Monday before anyone noticed I was missing, if that. My gut tells me I'm safe, that I can trust this guy, but my brain and experience tell me that it isn't worth the risk, and if he's a good guy, he'll understand why I need to leave.

I stand up, resolutely. On autopilot, I find a sticky note and pen and write.

"xxx-xxx-1234,
Sorry for taking off,
I hope you understand.
Call me tomorrow and we can arrange a time for you to get your your shirt back.
Thank you for helping me."

I stick it to his fridge and grab a rolled up grocery bag and stuff it with my old clothes, tie off the bag, and rewash my stinging hands. I slip into my shoes, bag in hand, and walk for the door and unlock it. My bravado falters for a second, hand hesitating at the door knob, and I remember the stinging of the tear gas, the bangs, the yelling, the fear, and I'm frozen again. Just then, the door swings open, the air rushes from my lungs and for the first time that night I'm face to face with the stranger who helped me, able to look right at him.