Give Me A Reason
I was so tired. 3 o’clock a.m., doing my routine scope of Bishops Drive, listening for whimpers, fighting, gunshots…
The roof of Cooper’s Veterinarian Clinic, for the first twenty minutes, was a great spot to perch myself, considering it was the highest building in the area, but after awhile, noting how uneventful that Wednesday was turning out to be, I was merely rot on the brick ledge. I yawned, flipped one of my side ponytails out of my face, and headed toward the fire escape. I figured from that point on the night could go one of two ways: One, I get ground level and accidentally break up a dubious transaction; all Apocalypse breaks loose. People get killed, not entirely by my hands alone; I receive a few bruises, not because the dumbbells are a challenge; some midniight shift Unified comes in, to arrest me of all late night stalkers; then I escape. Escaping won’t be easy. Our makeshift cops are pretty rough, and I should know, being one of them by day. I gulped at the thought I’d run into the Unified with a machete, Briden I think the name. He looked like a mean S.O.B. But I felt that was the unlikeliest possibility.
I could run into a greater evil: nothing happening that night.
In the event boredom takes hold, I go out and trouble-cause. But in the moment I stood before my exit, I resolved to give myself a break. Maybe I could crawl into bed with the intention of sleep and actually do it. I smiled as I threw my leg over a pole onto the fire escape. When I was but a few feet from the dumpster below, 14th or 15th rung, it creaked. It creaked loud, announcing to everyone in a 5 mile radius that I was failing miserably at being stealthy. I paused. Breathed deeply, my breath warm, wetting the back of my right hand which chocked the bar. I tried not to be angrily strike the metallic noisemaker, which would only further broadcast my position. I listened carefully to the block as I had done 10 minutes ago. Was anyone really coming to investigate the hard shriek? Were there any footsteps treading my way? Did anyone snicker while preparing to fire a weapon? I contemplated the likelihood I would hear someone throw a knife at me and immediately envisioned plummetting to my death, probably snap my neck against the edge of the dumpster. I winced at the image; an awful way to die at the peak of my law enforcement career. My breath, which I forgot to regulate, was making my right palm sweat. Hanging onto the ladder tightly with my other hand, I wiped the nervousness into my short black skirt. At least I hoped to do that, but the realization that I could die so easily swelled into my stomach and made rocks dance down my throat. I couldn’t gulp any more.
“I’m not scared,” I quietly said to myself. I repeated it, my head aching. “What is this, my first day?” I wanted to laugh, but my jaw prevented it, temporarily locking in place, preparing my body for silence. After that, nothing, no one sneaking up on me suspiciously – as if they can do it any other way; no one loading a gun, checking its chamber; no one leading the bad guys to the alley. No longer unnecessarily tactless nor inhumanly cautious, I proceeded down the fire escape with the purpose of patrolling Dupont Avenue as is my usual next step. I finally landed on the dumpster in the alley with a shallow clang, still holding onto the rustic ladder. I guessed the troublemakers weren’t going to attack so I let go and jumped onto the concrete. I heard someone hiss “shush”.
I became a statue. My breath halted again. I would inhale and exhale when the threat was eradicated. Unless someone was merely trying to scare me, or even better, trying to strike report. I remembered that certain “night soldiers” think they have instant mutual understanding with other vigilantes, but they don’t know me, that I hate these civilians taking on responsibilities they aren’t equipped for.
But why was I guessing it was an overeager father with his hockey stick, an effortless win-win situation. My heart felt like it stopped beating to the very idea I could be in actual danger, or perhaps, it was throbbing so fast I couldn’t feel it. This mystery husher could be a hired gun – another hired gun! I thought about the agreement between me and Iggy, how readily he would break it.
“Stop sending people after me. It’s futile,” I had said. Demanding.
“Fine. I’ll stop,” he had said. Sarcastic. We shook hands.
No agreement was really reached. This fact helped me to realize the gravity of my predicament. My mind let my body move, let me protect myself. Thus I was able to press my back against the grimy wall, unsheathing one of my swords from my back slowly, gently, noiselessly. The blade reflected the yellow light shining from a window on the third floor of the apartment building across the street. I heard shoes, sneakers I was sure, crush and sweep gravel as they walked toward me. I hoped that the fool carefully creeping up underestimated the yield I had on my sword. Give me a reason, I thought. He had better be Bruce Lee with a promise to keep. I passionately twisted and gripped with both hands the handle of my Odachi blade, waiting for my assailant to make his move.
SJ Wrytes 