Place meant for good men.

Story to make you think. Or cry.

It’s in the gilded mirror at the end of the hallway that I brush my hair every morning, once to the left, twice to the right. I’ve cut myself shaving and I dab it with a small piece of tissue before stuffing it into the back pocket of my grey suit jeans. I spray the aftershave and enter the day.

Taking the stairs to the bottom of the apartment building has become a ritual of mine since my thirty-sixth birthday and I went through the irrepressible shock horror of discovering I was reaching an unsatisfyingly plump middle-age. I always take the lift up, though.

The lady in the tight sports gear seeks me out, I am certain. She proffers me a leaflet and for the 100^th time I awkwardly decline, denying her the satisfaction of eye-contact with a drooped head. One thing you can be honest about, Rich, is your lack of confidence.

Confidence or lack thereof, is the reason I now sit alone, miserable and sweaty on an intercity bus rather than reclined, accompanied and arriving at work, fresh, in a Mercedes convertible. A shame, but I don’t even have the capacity to complain about my own life, as complaining requires taking risks and risks are something I’ve never been particularly comfortable with.

I exit the bus on 4^th street. I never thank the bus driver as I’m not entirely sure what he’s achieved today to deserve thanks. The offices of Warrick and Sons International Brokers is two streets away from the bus stop. That three minute walk is the most agonising part of the day; three hundred meters of reflective black-tinted glass and a whole body full of flaws. There was something so brutally addictive about glancing into that glass, something so unbelievably compelling that on the morning of Tuesday 7^th September I bumped into Miss Clarissa Dawn.

She was someone of such unique beauty I was somewhat taken aback when I looked apologetically up at her face. Perfect blonde ringlets cascaded around her face. Her eyes were of such a surreal blue that for a few fleeting moments I questioned whether she did in fact exist or whether I was finally reaching the limit of my sanity.

Of course she did exist and in retrospect I believe it was rather my surprise at being acknowledged by someone so extraordinary than any increasing degree of insanity. Unfortunately, before I had recovered from my initial shock she had already offered up an apology, which, in my stupor, I had unwillingly neglected, and moved on. I was suddenly full of such remorse that I had not conversed, or even smiled at her, that I ignored Mr Warrick as I entered the office. Alas, it was not the last time I’d encounter Clarissa Dawn.

The day passed with the usual lack of any real purpose in my tasks and an equal amount of pathetic submission on my part in agreeing to work overtime. It was thus how I left the office at 10:30pm with a steady, thick and depressing rainfall that further dampened my mood after discovering the bus home was cancelled.

It was on St. Edwards that I first heard the shouting, it was only around 11, but this part of the city was always empty past rush hour. Shouts, as you might imagine, are not always disconcerting. No, it was the screams that made my skin crawl. Being a man of fanciful paranoia I instantly assumed it was a murder. My spine started to tingle; palms, sweat. Worry is such an appalling emotion and much like the growing shudder across my back, anxiety began to fester in the very bowels of my body.

The screams grew louder. I halted in the rain with my umbrella gripped so tightly that the veins across my right hand resembled mountain ranges and hillocks with snowy crests.

“Help!”

That was all I needed to reach panic level. In moments of fear our senses go into overdrive. I could hear the screams so clearly and so perfectly. It was the alleyway at the end of the street. I looked around; these were not residential buildings; the only lights were the speckled street lights. The world takes on a new level when you wear glasses in the rain. I was the only one who could hear the screams.

I took the first step forwards and then quickened my pace with no real concept of what I wanted to achieve. I was running on adrenaline and my legs seemed to be moving of their own accord. To say I was afraid was an understatement; I was so frightened that my bones rattled.

The alley was dark, but I could hear the piercing screams and the muffled shouts from here. It suddenly dawned on me that if I was going to have to beat down an attacker all I had to hand was my umbrella. Fantastic. I felt sick.

Perhaps what was most unnerving was the utter silence that descended upon me as I entered into the darkness. Dumpsters stacked high with rubbish and boxes upon boxes. The floor was littered with scrap and debris. The fear became a pain and for a few conscious moments I considered turning back, more comfortable with the guilt of abandoning someone than having to risk my own life in favour of someone else.

That is until I realised what a vulgar thought that was. I had to preserve basic human nature; to strive to protect your fellow man. Chivalrous, even, to rescue someone in need. Because if I didn’t, what was the difference between me and the assailant? But you’re not a knight in shining armour, Richard; you are an unfit middle aged insurance broker with nothing but an umbrella. There is a fine line between bravery and idiocy.

Today, for the first time in twenty years, I was feeling brave; incredibly brave. It was that pretty face. I envisaged her as the screaming woman and for some ridiculous reason it spurred me on. Had to save her. Had to get to her. I’d brutally beat down the attacker and rescue her. Yes, that’s what will happen.

I thought between my own psychotic bravery and adrenaline I could handle the shock of seeing the black high-heeled shoe discarded in the middle of the alleyway. Truth be told, I almost vomited. It symbolised everything that I was about to try and do. For all I knew, the leg was dismembered and around the next bin there was a mangled corpse; I am glad to say that in reality the scene was quite idyllic compared to my imaginative predictions: she was a young woman, early twenties. In a red dress and gold necklace her head was leant gently on the kerb. She could’ve been sleeping.

It was an anti-climax and I felt the adrenaline fade away. Leaning down, I checked her pulse. It was steady; the umbrella went limp in my fingers. I fell onto my knees and huddled in the darkness I began to silently sob. It was all alright, Rich. You did it, you actually did it. You didn’t beat anyone down but you made the damn effort. You didn’t run away. I wrung my hands and shook my head and my whole body trembled from the effort of coming to terms with the fact I had faced fear and shook it off. Self-esteem burst forth inside of me. I felt invincible.

It took me several seconds to realise there were footsteps coming down the alleyway. My first thoughts were of a saviour, a policeman, or simply another person. Whoever it was had a significant limp and I heard the scrape of their other shoe form a pattern as the figure got closer. She was wearing a white dress that had remained pristine in her trek down the alleyway and she halted when she saw my huddled figure, her hand slowly reaching into the small black purse that hung loosely at her side. Her face was shadowed.

She was missing a black high-heeled shoe.

The woman on the floor stirred next to me, I looked up at the new arrival and began to stutter a sentence. The words wouldn’t form. I was in such a complex state of emotions: I felt such ecstasy and at the same time my eyes were tearing from shock. I dropped my head and laughed hysterically. As Red Dress stirred in her unconsciousness, a pool of blood gathered from a gash in her side I hadn’t noticed before. A whole new wave of relief hit me; it was only a shallow cut.

I didn’t even look up as White Dress continued past me and retrieved her shoe from the floor. I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot. She came and stood beside me, I could feel her presence there, and her shadow fell across the body of Red Dress. There was a silence, but it felt warm. It felt like it was the right kind of silence; like there was a mutual understanding between the three of us. In this moment, we were safe.

When I stood up and hugged White Dress, I wasn’t sure; I just know that it happened. My system was running on empty and I collapsed onto her. She stood rigid, strong and solid. Blonde ringlets tickled my face.

The knife slid gently into my lower gut. She twisted it.

It didn’t even hurt.

I took two or three steps back and stared blankly down at my stomach. Only the handle of the knife was visible and the red spread quickly on my white shirt. I stumbled forwards and I fell onto her again, she cradled me in her arms and I looked up into those blue eyes. She had the face of an angel and her lips were pursed into a small, tight smile.

“I’m sorry, Miss…?” I gurgled, bubbles of blood gathering at the corners of my mouth.

“Clarissa Dawn’

“I’m sorry, Miss Dawn…I appear to have stained your dress”

With that I fell limp in her arms and hit the floor in a crumpled heap, my hands clutched at my stomach. You’d done it, Rich. You will die a happy man. With feeble arms I reach into the back pocket of my suit jeans and find the small piece of tissue I used to clean my face this morning after shaving. I gently dab the hole in my stomach. You meant to save her, you and the umbrella that now lies by your side. You were going to rescue her. You were strong.

I could feel the warm embrace of the puddles on the floor; the water crept over my body, through my skin and into my heart. I felt alive. I lay still as hands felt for the wallet in my pocket. I lay still as the footsteps faded away into the darkness.

I lay still as I breathed my last breath with thoughts of a place meant for good men.

Reviews

[Marie]

Just electrifying. Exciting and strangely sweet. Rich turned out to be a hero, though he couldn't save himself. He wasn't a coward after all.

[KAOlmsted]

I did think; not much of a crier, though. And, truth be told, I had a little giggle at the end when Richard was more concerned with Miss Dawn's dress becoming stained than his life ending. But it was a kind giggle, because it spoke volumes about your character, and I feel any writer who can show me a character, rather than tell me about one, is more than pretty damn good. Well done.

-kimmer

[Harry Alston]

Thank you so much, haha. I appreciate comments like that and I'm glad you liked Richard ;)

[Zeph]

O, nice. Keep up the good work

[Harry Alston]

Thank you very much :)