Final Comprehension

Thursday 10:53pm

The last days have beengone in a blur. I barely remember putting on clothes, answering myphone or eating anything. Enzo has been trying to call me for almosta week after our altercation infront of the conference room after myhearing. I haven't returned any of his calls. Some of my formercolleagues have been sending little condolence notes to my place,telling me how sorry they were that I had to resign from the force(as if that had been my decision, I think over and overagain), and saying how I had been a true enrichment to the safety ofChicago.

What a load of bullshit.

I am sitting in thecorner of a dark bar, the McHale's, a scottish bar that Iused to hang out a lot with Wyatt when I had been fresh out of lawschool. He had shown me all of his favourite spots, introduced me tothe wonderful world of dark and bitter Ale, and I had told himeverything about me there was. Without realizing, I had deliveredmyself into his psychopathic arms.

I stare at myself in themirror behind the bar, seeing Derek, the bartender, polishing glassesand talking to a good-looking blonde from the corner of my eye. Ilook awful. Today's the first day after Captain Warden has made mesign my own resignation letter that I decided to go out of my housefor more than just some quick grocery shopping. I am still convincedthat I am being watched, that somebody is following me and is justwaiting for the right moment to strike. But as my hand brushesthrough the long brown hair that falls over my shoulders and halfwaydown my back, I feel the weight of the gun that is tucked inside ofmy waistband, under my long-sleeved, plaid shirt.

I am waiting, too.

An hour later, as my eyesstart to burn and I feel a weird lump inside of my throat, I decideto leave and go home. I put some cash on the bar and exit through thedoor into a cold, foggy night. I can see my breath that is dancinginfront of my face when I exhale, and I pull my black coat closeraround me, once again feeling the outlines of the 9mm Smith &Wesson pressed against my stomach. I take a look to the left, then tothe right. I know exactly where I have to go.

I take a right turn ontoParker Avenue, along a street that is lined with leafless trees oneach side. I turn around, thinking I've just seen the outlines of aperson emerging from the shadows, but I don't stop walking orquicken my pace. Instead, I keep my head down and march down thestreet and around a corner. I see a police car passing me by andstare after it as it slowly makes its way down the street and arounda corner. I can't help but think about my job. My former job.All the opportunities that I had seen when I held my exam in myhands. All the long, sleepless nights I had endured during difficultcases. All the scum that I had helped put away over the years. Allthe pain I had been going through while my ex-partner kept me in hisbasement, torturing me.

I know there is someonebehind me, I can hear the footsteps on the concrete floor that try tomatch my pace so I don't notice them.

But I do. My sense ofhearing has always been extraordinary.

I make a turn to theleft, around the corner that the police cruiser has disappeared justa few minutes ago, and I find myself right infront of a huge housewith dirty, white walls and all the sun-blinds pulled down. The grassinfront of the house has turned into a light brown, a sign of notbeing taken care of for a long time. The door only hangs on itshinges. It rattles in the slight wind that has come up.

I stop walking justinfront of the lawn. The footsteps behind me stop, too.

I slowly turn aroundwhile pulling the gun out of my waistband. When I face the personthat is now infront of me, I rise the gun infront of me, my right armstretched out, the inside of my elbow almost touching my chin, thebarrel pointing at my stalker.

"Hello, Wyatt."

He hasn't changed much.His hair seems a bit more gray than I remember it from the last timeI've seen him, chained to a chair in his own basement. His musclesare still very present – he must've worked out this past year,probably to be prepared for this exact moment. But what I notice thesecond I look at him is his face, and the sight of it gives me asickening feeling of pride and satisfaction.