Another Monday Morning
You hear the thundering music that shows this as being the back of a nightclub or bar. The door is old and metal, painted shut, though the edges are showing wear and it obviously doesn't have a lock. You have to kick some debris out of your way, though, before you can even try to force the door. And the man's steady footsteps are growing closer every second.
Your hands on the handle are sweating. You can feel the resistance of years of being closed, of the muggy heat expanding the metal, of the sheer guiltiness and vileness of the act you have just committed slamming down on you like some sort of terrible godly wrath, because the door won't OPEN, no matter how hard you push the door won't OPEN. You're shouldering it now, quiet as you can, but you know it's only a matter of time before that guy finds what you did, and you should have just walked away because the door wont' OPEN it's STUCK and now...
"OH MY GOD!"
And now you're found.
You hope you move quickly and quietly. That's what you try to do. You duck low and dart behind milk crates and trash and carboard boxes, behind old merchandise and discarded chairs and dumpsters, trying every door you can find, either giving it a push or a shove, and each failure is another CRY you have to suppress because you hear her dry sobbing and footsteps and a low hum like a walkie-talkie like a...
... police radio.
Christ. You have to get out of here.
The fourth door you try gives. A little. It's open, and unstuck, but crowded with boxes on the other side. The dusty smell of unsold merchandise meets your nostrils, and now you're slamming yourself against the door, opening that two-inch-wide crack as much as you can, fitting your hand, your arm, your shoulder throuhg, trying to squeeze, slip through, trying to get away, hide in the dark and locked-up store, hide and get away...
Then something cracks you on the skull, hard and sharp. Your reality pulls and distorts like warm taffy for a second. It threatens to coalesce again, but another hard hit brings darkness warm and deep.
You find out later that you were struck by the butt of a gun. But by then it's too late.
As you're seeing the courtoom from a different angle, this time, and the verdict is life.
Your hands on the handle are sweating. You can feel the resistance of years of being closed, of the muggy heat expanding the metal, of the sheer guiltiness and vileness of the act you have just committed slamming down on you like some sort of terrible godly wrath, because the door won't OPEN, no matter how hard you push the door won't OPEN. You're shouldering it now, quiet as you can, but you know it's only a matter of time before that guy finds what you did, and you should have just walked away because the door wont' OPEN it's STUCK and now...
"OH MY GOD!"
And now you're found.
You hope you move quickly and quietly. That's what you try to do. You duck low and dart behind milk crates and trash and carboard boxes, behind old merchandise and discarded chairs and dumpsters, trying every door you can find, either giving it a push or a shove, and each failure is another CRY you have to suppress because you hear her dry sobbing and footsteps and a low hum like a walkie-talkie like a...
... police radio.
Christ. You have to get out of here.
The fourth door you try gives. A little. It's open, and unstuck, but crowded with boxes on the other side. The dusty smell of unsold merchandise meets your nostrils, and now you're slamming yourself against the door, opening that two-inch-wide crack as much as you can, fitting your hand, your arm, your shoulder throuhg, trying to squeeze, slip through, trying to get away, hide in the dark and locked-up store, hide and get away...
Then something cracks you on the skull, hard and sharp. Your reality pulls and distorts like warm taffy for a second. It threatens to coalesce again, but another hard hit brings darkness warm and deep.
You find out later that you were struck by the butt of a gun. But by then it's too late.
As you're seeing the courtoom from a different angle, this time, and the verdict is life.
