Not a Bestseller

Oof

I could go on and on with some chase scene details, describe a gunshot or two... anything to push this tale as something you'd be interested in. But I don't want that. I need you to hate me. 

I'll just tell you this: I'm not a fast runner, and the police are good at their job. 

I don't know what the fat, angry man said when he dialed the police station...which happened to be a mere three blocks away. Certainly, he didn't state the truth about my hydration needs. Was this whole thing really about a water bottle? Maybe I'm remembering wrong. But let's go with that.

Two blocks of watching my feet chase each other, and my breath didn't pump fast enough for my lungs. A cop car caught up to me, but it didn't look like one. Not like the crime shows. It lacked the usual siren the size of a beehive, replaced with a rectangular buzzer with an attitude problem. Instead of a shiny paint job, I found myself facing a vehicle with a scraped bumper. Its seats must've come from a clearance isle. Rather than the cop with a donut in his hand, I faced a male with watermelons for shoulders.

When watermelon man told me to put my hands behind my head and all that amendment stuff, oxygen ran cold to my brain. My eyes rolled backward. The sidewalk throbbed against my head. Everything went dark.

They did say I had the right to remain silent. If only I'd remembered that I have the right to remain conscious.

I should explain this. Let's just call it another one of my "conditions." I have a lame tendency to pass out when under stress. It comes and goes, and it triggers at the worst-possible moments.

No one knows why it happens. Doctors developed theories, each one less likely than the next. Oh, it must have something to do with the autism. Or the ADHD. Or something like that. That never really added up. 

My conclusion? I'm a wimp. Everyone else agreed.

No wonder my parents never focused on growing my physical education. I mean, Kyle tried to get me to go out for the basketball team, and since I'm tall the coach perked up at the suggestion. They planned dinner and they talked and debated and I didn't do anything but Kyle was excited and...

Anyway, I've explained it.

Time is interesting when you're seeing nothing but black dots. I could've sworn I was sleepwalking or something. Then, there were dreams, a replay of the day with clowns instead of humans, jumping between frames like a bad cameraman was filming in my head. Tiny Person must've hired him.

I wonder how many people dream in shaky cam. They seem to love it in movies.

Blinking past the black lines of my eyelashes, I found myself plopped on a chair inside what I assumed to be the police station. I expected to be in a jail cell. Instead, a handcuff chained my wrist to a pole supporting the roof. My body had a course of fire running through it. A crook in my neck grabbed my spine as I adjusted the chair.

Realization hit me.

Crap! On what planet...the water bottle...come on...a justification. Just one tiny little justification. I sighed. Nothing I could do or say made any sense to me now, with the fresh dose of consequence now at my feet. Or on my wrist, at least.

Nursery rhymes...deep breaths...mirror-watching... Tick. Tock. The wall clock. I hugged my knees to my chest. I was dead. So, so, so, so dead. 

"Glad you're finally awake. We were starting to get worried."

My head whipped around to find a cop. Oh no, no, no, no, no. He had an average stature, watermelon shoulders hunched. But his lips were pursed. I recognized sympathy. No. Not sympathy! And from a cop? I planned my funeral. Black roses would surround my casket. Maybe I could have it here, right in the police station.