six

The agent was nowhere to be found. He could hear him moving through the apartment, rustling noises coming from his bedroom, but he wasn’t in his line of sight. His hands reached up and pulled the ring from his head and he gently placed it on the floor.

Kyle shifted his head to the right and to the left, somehow enjoying the trails running off the bright edges of his furniture and adornments, taking in the destruction surrounding him. The blaring TV was cracked, the bookshelves pulled over, disemboweled couch, and posters pictures and drawing ripped off the walls. His sanctuary was in tatters, his mind was drugged, and the agent was going to town in his room.

He tried to get to his feet, but his legs didn’t want to cooperate. They went limp as he tried to right himself causing him to hit the carpet with a heavy thump. He couldn’t even manage to get his hands in front of him as he fell; there was just a mannequin esque swing from the chair to the floor.

“I’m sure the neighbor loves me right now.” Kyle muttered to himself from the cheap brown shag, drooling at the same time.

After a monumental amount of effort he got his right hand beneath him, then the left, and attempted to pry himself from gravities grip.

“Steady,” He mumbled as his fingers wrapped around the back of his chair, a cold solid stable source. He needed a crutch right now.

It was like being drunk. Very drunk, swerving, though there was little to no motion getting to the upright position, he could feel a cold sweat break out on his brow icicle droplets just along his hairline, stinging his cheeks.

Spots spring to his eyes dancing in and out of his vision as a chuckle slithers from the bedroom, uncaring sarcastic, paired with the sound of crumpling paper.

“Deep breaths,” Kyle said to himself trying to bring calm to his slurred thoughts.

Finally his vision cleared and he took an unsteady step towards the tattered remains of the hall, and the bathroom door on the left hand side of the hall. There were shredded pictured all over the floor. Psychedelic postcards, local band promos, CD leaflets, all once decoration now simply trash. The agent had been busy and Kyle was too unstable to process everything.

Numb fingers wrapped around the bathroom doorframe as he stepped over a broken bookshelf and cushion stuffing. His head slowly looks into the bathroom and there hangs his cat, crucified, still bleeding down the yellow shooting range sign with ‘danger’ written in big bold letters across the top. Suddenly adrenaline kicks in.

He pulls himself upright, proper posture is always key, and walked into the bedroom. There’s a pile of crumpled paper on his bed and the agent had a thick black sharpie held in his hand, clutching it like a newborn holds a crayon, as he marked Kyle’s writing.

The man didn’t even bother to look up as he said, “I don’t know if you internally edit your work, or if you just write entirely uncensored but this, all of this, was in need of revising.”

He then rips another sheet from the three ring binder he has pressed against the wall with his left elbow, clenches the sharpie between his teeth, wads the paper, and tosses that over his shoulder. The indelible marker is plucked from his teeth and he starts erasing the words from the next piece.

“It makes me sick Kyle. I could almost force feed you each piece and it still wouldn’t correct these. I don’t even know what to call them.”

 

He got the cop tucked into the trunk of the cruiser. It was hard work but he managed to get his keys, pistol, and two spare clips off his belt before he even tried to pick the officer up. No cars rolled by on the highway while he did this either. It was the sort of luck he couldn’t have even prayed for.

The lid of the trunk slammed closed, and he slid behind the wheel, slapping the lid of the laptop closed as soon as the door shut for fear of some camera mounted on top of the screen. A shaky hand flipped switches on the dashboard until the red and blue flashing stopped, and shoved the keys into the ignition. The engine sprang to life, reliable cop engine, sounding like an angry animal and he tore off the side of the road in a spray of gravel.

In this car he could make it to his old town in a matter of minutes, and if his luck held out he could make it to the whitewashed cinderblock house hidden at the end of a nondescript alley. If his luck held out Shaun would have some way to help him. Maybe he could fence the guns, the pistol and the shotgun set between the seats. He was still going to have to ditch the car, but maybe not. Shaun had contacts that Kyle never understood. They took risks that most people wouldn’t touch and never seemed to have to worry about any of it. He had friends in high places. Or low places depending on your perspective.

Finally the lights of the small town crested on the horizon as he pushed ninety on the speedometer. The car didn’t even seem to mind.

Reviews

[Mockingbird]

very noirish...now he's really gotten himself in trouble. also, very kafka-esque in that he's apparently committed a crime, but they don't say for what, and they go on treating him like a criminal.

[.]

Gosh! My head is buzzing after reading all this action! The part about Kyle's writing came as a complete surprise and is brilliantly narrated. The indelible marker ruining everything is a horrific image.

And, Shaun's characterization is amazing too. The part about contacts being from high places or low places depending upon one's perspective is profound.

I can't wait to read what happens next. You are an exceptional writer, my friend. Truly exceptional. This is cutting edge work--it's compelling, riveting and thought-provoking.