Four distinct noises.

One, gunshot; two, breaking glass; three, screaming; four: siren.

I couldn't tell which was brighter. The red of the streaming river of blood from her head or the red of the flashing ambulance whose truck was parked parallel to the now broken glass doors. There were two bullet wounds. There was a pair of handcuffs. There were two stretchers with two bodies, one draped in a white sheet. I watched. Everything was quiet. I stared at the blood.

I watched the way it slowly dripped down the glass. I watched how it leaked from the rips in skin. I watched as it gradually diluted the white cloth. I pondered at the possibility of being patient. I don't think it is possible.It isn't possible because I always have somewhere to go. The blood has nowhere to go but out. The door frame was kicked out so that falling shards of glass would no longer be a hazard to the detectives, police, and paramedics running in and out.

The story had been told. I wanted to believe she was lying. I wanted to delete all the details and the torment and what happened after Julia and Lana went downstairs. But I couldn't. Because stories written in pen can't be erased. And Lana was using a fucking sharpie to write hers.

I remember once in seventh grade I was the target of a tripping penalty called in a game. The stick that was extended out to trip me led me flying frontwards, knocking a glove off my hand. An opponent tried quickly to stop but physics wasn't on my side. I can't forget the feeling of sharp blades running over my wrist. The doctors all said that they didn't believe what I told them. They said that my hand should've been detached from my arm the way the blade impacted my body. They labeled it a miracle and said that if I lived through the incident, I could live through the pain.

This hurt more.

I couldn't pop a Tylenol to ignore the throb. I couldn't down a Motrin and put my head down to relax.

I watched and waited.

"Sir?" A man in a blue uniform approached me.

I stared aimlessly at his golden six-sided badge. It read, "Chief Executive."

"Yeah? Sorry, just in a bit of shock." I told him, struggling for words.

"I'm too big a Blackhawks' fan to ask this, but it's part of my job: Can I have your name and age?" He chuckled.

Chuckled. Who the fuck finds this even remotely un-terrifying.

I stared at him, unimpressed. "Jonathan Toews, 26."

The police continued, unaffected by my annoyance. "Were you here when the incident took place?"

"Which incident?"

He hesitated. "Which incident?"

I stared again. "The gun incident?"

He analyzed me, waiting for more. "Which other incident?"

"Before the gun-shooting or after?" I replied.

"Were you present for either?"

"Yes." Short and simple, they always told me.

I asked for an opt out, to be questioned later.

"Sir, with all due respect, it's not really a good time for me to play 21 Questions with the Chief Executive Officer of Chicago."

He nodded slowly. His tag read Jacob Kruniski.

I have heard that fucking name somewhere but I'm just too damn confused to remember where.

"Alright, son," said Kruniski.

He put his hand on my head and the other on my back, pushing me into the backseat of the cop car.

Lana stood by a stretcher.

She was weeping, repeating that she remembered.

"Please, I remember," she begged, "Please."

Seabrook came over and ushered her into the back of the ambulance.

The police closed my door and he and another, almost double his size, entered in front. In no more than five minutes, the whole incident, beginning with the gunshot, had unfolded and folded right back up again.

Notes

you guys. talk to me. comments make me write faster and better. keep that in mind. I love you all.