BulletA Story by veck A bloody murder scene of his father scars a boy for life, causing him to venture into the world of vigilantism, as he tries to seek out who really killed his dad. INTRO: murderous mishap Patrick Harrington is how my friends know me, but to those who truly observe me; to those who look beyond what meets the eye; a monster dwells within me that I can no longer control. This is an itch you just can’t scratch; a thirst you simply cannot quench. The feeling of wanting to murder. It all began 7 years ago in the living room of what I used to call home. As I sat in bed quivering underneath the thick blanket that had kept me safe for so many nights, tonight was the last. Rain poured off the roof into a large puddle, making a splash similar to that of a school bus dropping into a swimming pool. I had never really liked the rain, because I could only sleep in complete silence. Every 30 seconds or so, thunder would ring throughout my ears like a gunshot, making me squeal in fear, as any scared youngling would have. If only I had seen my future, I would have preferred a lifetime of thunderstorms instead of what was soon to come. Hell, I would have preferred to die in agony than to watch what was about to occur. In the midst of the crackling storm, I could distantly hear my parents yelling, but I was unsure about what. With a misbehaving mutt in the house, this was a common occurrence. I was too frightened to leave the comfort of my bed, so I vowed to go see what was going on as soon as the storm stopped. Only I would not be granted this courtesy, as I heard an ear-piercing sound from downstairs. The loudest bang I have ever heard in my life. In fact, I was almost certain thunder that loud could deafen someone. Only this time, I’m afraid it was not thunder. I had heard the gunshot of a .357 Magnum. CHAPTER 1: ONE LESS HARRINGTON I jolted out of my bed like a bat out of hell, and sprinted down the stairs with speeds I’m still not sure are humanly possible. Upon leaping off of the staircase, I glanced down to find my father in a pool of his own blood, with a gunshot wound on his lower neck. My mother was nowhere in sight, and I collapsed to my knees. I am still unsure of how I didn’t faint, truthfully. He made an effort to talk to me, but I only heard the gurgling of a man on the verge of death. Thick, blood-filled saliva was filling the back of his throat, as his eyes began to tear up and I knew for a fact that this was the last time I would ever see my dad. I thought I should be crying, I wished that I had said anything to my father. I just stared into his eyes, unsure of what to do. I grabbed his hand and watched him take his final breath. His eyes closed for one final time, and I heard sirens ringing in the distance. As I lay there next to the man who brought me into this world, I knew for sure it all had to be a dream. I closed my eyes and cried “wake up, it’s almost over, just wake up. Please.” It had to be a dream. As police arrived, I was brought into the arms of a detective. My ears rang, and my head throbbed. In muffled chaos, my world moved in slow motion. I watched as squad car after squad car pulled up to my house. Detectives carrying handguns on their waste, CSI carrying evidence bags, and EMTs carrying body bags. I screamed out in panic as the detective struggled to hold the squirming 10 year old child that would never again be “okay.” As thunder rang out one last time, I knew that I was not dreaming; I could only sleep in complete silence. Fast forward 24 hours, I am surrounded by inquiring detectives, baffled SWAT members, unsure sketch artists, and journalists. The full impact of what had happened the night before did not hit me. I felt as though the entire world proceeded as usual, but yet mine had stopped. Same old traffic jams on the way to work during rush hour, same old line at Starbucks, same old daily routine for everyone. Yet, I felt frozen in time. The police did not fully tell me what had happened then, but they couldn’t even begin to comprehend what I was feeling. My mother was being pursued as the prime suspect, and my father sat below the earth, rotting in a hole. No matter what my future held, I was a shattered human being, unable to function normally. The investigation continued, and I was told nothing about the case. As I did not have any immediate family in the country, I was bounced around between different foster programs. Not only did I feel alone and devastated, but it was impossible to make friends. I was soon picked up by a foster family who agreed to adopt me. A middle aged, very wealthy couple took me in as their own, and yet I had never felt more distant from anyone in my life. Jett and Marianna Robinson were their names. They watched over me, and on the day of my adoption, I was supposed to feel better. I was supposed to finally feel like I had a place to be comfortable. Being adopted by the Robinsons was no better than being alone in foster care. I refused to try and bond with them, and so they gave me my space. About a month after living with the Robinsons, Marianna sat down with me and gently put her hand on my shoulder. She spoke softly, but yet with a sense of urgency. “I’m not really supposed to tell you this, but I figured you might want to know. The detectives updated your father’s case a while ago, and I was debating telling you, because this type of stuff can be touchy.” I perked up, seemingly giving her my attention for the first time since living there. “Your father did not die from a gunshot wound. He took a bottle of Oxycodone, and likely stopped breathing within 30-45 seconds.” I shook my head, and spoke almost too fast to be heard. “He died from a gun, I watched it happen!” “I don’t care what any of the detectives say, I saw him die with my own eyes!” Marianna stood up, and spoke gently, once again. “I am not a part of the investigation, I’m just telling you what they told me.” None of the elements of this case added up. Being a 10 year old boy, I couldn’t really pursue it, or look into it at all for that matter. I was in no position to do anything other than wait. So I just kept my distance, and awaited further details on the case. School was going to start in the coming week, and I figured that might take my mind off of it. I was crazy for even thinking that. CHAPTER 2: FALSE ACCUSATION The first day of school came all too soon, and I still felt as though I would never make a friend. I was anti-social enough before my father died in front of me, so I kind of assumed that I had hit rock bottom. I pretty much sat in seclusion for the entirety of the first day. And the second. And the coming weeks after that. When I would get home, Jett and Marianna would ask me typical questions like, “How was school, Patrick?” or “Did you make any friends at school yet?” I would yell back in opposition: “My parents used to ask me these questions, stop trying to replace them!” Only now am I seeing how undesirable of a child I was for the Robinsons. For the next few months, things proceeded as normally as they could have, I guess. I had made a friend towards the middle of the year; his name was Dylan. He never spoke to anybody, unless spoken to first. He, like me, always seemed distant from others. Upon talking to him, I found out that his mother had died in childbirth, and his father was never very close with him. For the first time, I had someone to relate with. It didn’t cleanse the pain of what had happened with my father, but rather just gave me someone else to talk with. I had Dylan, and he had me. We became excellent friends, and would often hang out at my house. Jett would always tell me how happy he was that I finally “Made a friend.” After seeing that I had “come out of my shell” a bit more, Marianna enrolled me in Krav Maga, an Israeli martial art. I received group lessons with about 25 other kids, ranging in age from 10-17. The instructor lead class from the inside of a small dojo. I dreaded going to classes, but the Robinsons insisted that if I got into the routine of doing things with other people, that I would soon feel “normal.” They could not have been farther off. After 4 months, I would refuse to go to class, and the Robinsons would force me to attend, because they liked the fact that I was being social. I asked Dylan if he would join me to make it more bearable, but his father was completely against the idea of such expensive classes. I told Marianna and Jet that the only way I would continue going is if they payed for Dylan to come with me. So, sure enough, I soon went to class with him, which made it much more enjoyable. It didn’t matter what I was doing, but if he was by my side, it usually turned out alright. It got to a point where although I was practicing Krav Maga, I was mostly just getting to hang out with Dylan, so I learned to love going to classes. On the days where we would spar one another, I would usually pick him as my partner. After almost a year of lessons, Dylan and I became the top members of our age group in the dojo. For the next two years, my life continued pretty much as I expected it to. I still felt a gaping hole in my life left by my parent’s case, but I was finally beginning to just live my life the way the Robinsons had wanted me to. I was now a soon to be 13 year old, moving on up to high school in the coming year. I would check the online public case file to see if there was any progression in my parent’s case, but it was always the same result. In bold print, it cut me like a razor blade with its taunting message. It read “Case number 61850, status: Still Under Investigation; No recent updates.” The more time that went on, the more I continued to tell myself that it would never be resolved. Three years had gone by, and still nothing. I began to feel hopeless. CHAPTER 3: INVESTIGATION For a while, I had been trying to disguise my internal struggles as things I would “just have to get over,” but I knew that would never happen. Although the Robinsons were there for me, I really only ever connected with Dylan. The first day of high school had come, and I only had one class with him. I suppose that was the school system’s way of forcing me to be social. Gym was what I shared with Dylan, and it was my last hour of the day. In theory, I would get to end the day with an exciting class, and I would get to spend my time with him. The first day of gym was exciting, but not exactly for the reasons I had anticipated. A group of 3 young men, probably around 16 years old approached Dylan and I. They teased us with meaningless insults, like “Why do you guys only talk to each other? Are y’all a buncha f**s or what?” One of the other boys replied with something along the lines of “Yeah, I bet these f****n homos were hitting on us before we walked over here!” Dylan grabbed my arm and muttered “Just let it go, dude,” as we tried to walk away. One of the larger boys shoved me against the gym wall, and put his hand on my throat. The other two boys pinned Dylan to the wall in the same fashion, as the largest one yelled in an overly-confident voice: “I think that if we beat the piss outta y’all one time, maybe you’ll respect us a little bit more from now on.” I glanced in Dylan’s direction, and he asked if they would please let us go, and then nobody would have any problems. As the boy holding my throat chuckled, he raised his tightened fist in the air. “Yea, well, maybe beatin’ you into this wall will make you forget how stupid your friend sounded just now,” As he swung his fist towards my face, almost without thinking, my muscle memory from Krav Maga surfaced. I blocked the blow with my forearm, and smashed my elbow down onto his hand that was around my neck. I think I broke his wrist, but I wasn’t really sure to be honest. All I know is that within a matter of moments, he fell onto the ground weeping in pain, and grabbing the base of his hand. I nodded to Dylan, as he slammed his knee into one of the boy’s chests, making him wince in pain, and gasp for air. Together, we stood staring at the third boy. He slowly backed up and uttered, “You guys are f****n crazy!” As he ran away, that was the happiest I had felt in quite some time. In the coming weeks, those boys were always on the complete opposite side of the gym from us, one of them wearing an ice pack over his wrist. My usual routine continued, like any other on a regular September morning. I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and checked my parent’s case file for any updates. To my surprise, the bold print read:Case number 61850, status: Still Under Investigation; One New Update. I almost couldn’t believe what I was reading. With excitement I read the fine print under the case details. “Anonymous tip leads police to believe that Caityln Harrington is hiding out in San Diego…” I was rushed with so many emotions at once, I wasn’t even sure how I should feel. Perhaps I was going to speak with my mother again. Could they find out what really happened with my father? Could my mom tell the police who really did this? Why has she been hiding? I had so many questions, but no answers. Over one month went by without any further word, and I shared the details of my family’s case with Dylan. He personally believed that my father tried to commit suicide, but something still didn’t add up. If my father really did try to commit suicide by overdosing, why did he have a gunshot wound in his neck? He already would have died from the overdose. And on top of it, why is my mother hiding? I know she couldn’t have murdered my father. She is afraid to step on a spider in the house, let alone murder her husband. I would have given anything to know what really happened that night, but I’m afraid I was just a sitting duck until the police found my mother. That is, assuming she was still alive. CHAPTER 4: THE LOSS OF 17 I stumbled into the hallway of what was now my home, preparing to leave for school. With Marianna and Jett asleep, I felt an overly practical sense of loneliness. As much as I have claimed to never really cared for the Robinsons, they always gave me a sense of comfort. I walked out of our San Jose house, and took in the world around me. In the midst of a chaotic street, teeming with angry civilians and even angrier street-side merchants, there was me. Patrick Harrington, a brown-eyed, average height, blonde hair, simple young man. I approached Dylan’s house, and we began our treacherous hike to school. Dylan’s father always preferred that he walk to school with me; I think it gave him a sense of security, honestly. During that day at school, I moved through the hallways, as people mazed by me like frenzied fish in a small tank. So much to take in, but nothing worth looking at. I usually minded my own business at school, and I have always been that way, even before my father’s passing. But everyone else always seemed comfortable in their own little world. Other kids at my school laughed, and smiled, and seemed confident with themselves. Yet, I still felt like my life had started playing in slow motion many years ago. I felt trapped by caving walls around me, and I would often not feel in the mood to talk to anyone; not even Dylan. On days like these, I would sometimes dream and reminisce about how my father used to lift me up over his shoulders to let me see parades. Or how my mother would read me stories as I lay in her lap just before bed. I really missed my parents, and knowing that I would likely never see either of them again was hard to swallow. I could visit my father whenever I liked, but unfortunately, gravestones don’t talk back. I gently slid open the front door to my house, and entered after a long day of school. Noticing Marianna and Jett were not home, I turned on the television as I would after every day of school. My eyes widened to the size of a walnut. The news subtitle read, “Helicopter Security Footage of San Diego Bombing [Warning Graphic.]” The reporter was speaking words I was hearing, but somehow I only recall a ringing in my ears, and a stomach full of nerves. He spoke with a stern voice, and one that echoes throughout my mind to this day. “Nearly 5 years ago the mysterious murder of Charles Harrington left San Jose PD baffled, and looking for a suspect. Earlier, police received an anonymous tip that Caitlyn Harrington, the supposed murderer, was hiding out in a motel in San Diego.”I fell backwards onto the couch, in complete astonishment. Fighting to hear the report over the ringing in my head, and the sound of my distinguished, rapid heartbeat in my ear was not easy. The reporter continued, “Police sent a squad of 8 police officers, 4 FBI agents, 4 SWAT agents, and one police trained German Shepard into the motel plaza. All of the law enforcement team had rifles drawn, and they proceeded to breach the building. Now, in the video, the muffled bark of the police dog can be heard. Just as the officers realize there is a problem, a homemade cluster of dangerous explosives goes off inside the motel, igniting it in a bright explosion, and vaporizing everything in nearly a half block radius. After assessing the situation, SJPD reports that there were no survivors. It appears a trap was set in order to ward police off of the case.” I dropped the TV remote to the floor, as the reporter continued speaking. This time, even though I tried to listen, I could only hear the ringing in my ears. 16 members of law enforcement and one dog were now dead, all because of my father’s case. It was my fault those officers had to die, and knowing there was nothing I could have done to prevent the tragedy sparked me with rage. I rushed up off the couch, shoulder first into the sliding glass door in our living room, shattering the panel completely. I screamed, but it wasn’t in pain, or regret. It was in sheer anger for the one who did this. I felt as though I could tank the hit of a train at that very moment. I was filled by rage, and remember running upstairs into the silence of my bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to make one of the bolts fall to the ground. I dropped to the floor as I saw shatters of glass in my shoulder, and I tried to just close my eyes and forget about any of this. At first, all I could see was the death of my father replaying over and over, as the terrifying vision of his eyes rolling into the back of his head haunted me. But soon, all I could see was the barking dog. It stuck in my mind unlike anything since my parents incident. The dog perched up, and tried to warn the officers that there was a problem; only it was too late. As the building illuminated in a gasoline fueled fireball, I kept seeing the pieces of shrapnel fly off in every direction, setting off car alarms and making the news reporter cringe in horror. The world has a cleverly terrible way of making me unable to sleep. Now, because of what had happened many years ago on the worst night of my life, 16 officers and one k-9 lay dead in the street. For the next 24 hours, all major newspaper headlines read, “Trap set for police results...in the loss of 17 lives.” CHAPTER 5: BULLET As one might imagine, the Robinsons were not thrilled that out of rage, I shattered their sliding glass door. However, granted the circumstances of why I was so angry, they didn’t seem to mind it, really. I suppose I had grown fond of the Robinsons. They finally understood how I felt, and did everything in their power to ensure I was alright. The next day, I told Dylan that the bombing on TV was in relation to my father’s case while we walked from my place to his, and I distinctly remember him tilting his head towards the ground and just saying… “Sorry, man. I...I just...I” Quickly, I stopped him. “It’s alright Dylan. I’m just glad you’re here to talk with me, you don’t have to say anything,” I remarked. Dylan was not only acting strange because of the bombing, though. It seemed he was hiding something, and I really wasn’t quite sure what. Then, quickly, he spoke. Hesitantly, but directly, he said, “Patrick...I know you want to find the guy who did this all...but what if it was your mother? I mean, all the details add up. If your mother shot your father and was on the run, that would explain why she’s hiding. It would also explain why she tricked the police with that whole bombing incident…” My body tensed up, and I could feel a pulsing in my head. “Look, dude...I’m just sayin’...” he continued. This was the first time I had ever been truly furious with Dylan. Almost without thinking, I tackled him to the ground, and wrestled him into a headlock. “MY MOTHER HAD NO PART IN THE MURDER OF MY FATHER, AND UNTIL WE KNOW ALL THE DETAILS, THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE TO ASSUME! SHE IS BEING FRAMED!” I shouted forcefully. Dylan tried to escape the headlock by elbowing me in the stomach, but I just turned him over and choked him harder. Once his face went blue, I released my grip rapidly, and realized what a monster I had become. “Dylan, I didn’t mean to-” “Shut it, Patrick. That wasn’t justified. You need to calm down…” he remarked, as he left me standing in the street, holding only feelings of regret and sorrow. For the first time since meeting Dylan, I once again felt alone. He walked a block until he was out of my field of view, never once turning around. At this moment, I realized what an impact my father’s case was having on my life, and I realized that I had two options. Abandon these feelings of violence and rage in order to feel more “normal,” or embrace the darkness that dwelled within me, and let those feelings guide my decision making. I had a choice to make; and let me tell you, it was not an easy one. After 2 days without speaking to Dylan, I drooped my ashamed self over to his house, and knocked on his crooked, splintering wooden door. He answered with a shy-like tone, and remarked, “Hey, Pat. Feeling better?” I nodded, and began. “Dylan, I really just want to apologize for the other day. I don’t know where that came from, and that’s not who I am. Could you find it in yourself to forgive me?” Dylan smirked, lightly punched my shoulder and delightfully said, “Course I can, you big jerk. But listen…” He seemed to be speaking more seriously now. “If you ever choke me again, I’m kicking you in the nuts, you hear me?” We both laughed, and began walking to Krav Maga class. I remember thinking to myself: In the midst of my crisis, at least I have a friend like Dylan to help me through it all. After class, we walked back to his house, where he began walking up the porch steps leading to his door. He turned around and motioned the door with his head. I shrugged, and walked inside. “My dad’s out for the night, he’ll be back later,” Dylan remarked. Being in his house always made me remember how wealthy Marianna and Jett were. Seeing the mold in the bathrooms and the cracked tiles on the floor made me feel bad for Dylan, although he never really seemed to mind. We entered Dylan’s room, which was the plainest thing I had ever laid my eyes on. Gray paint on the walls. No posters, no decorations, not even a dirty shirt laying on the floor. Just his bed, a small dresser, and one perfectly spotless brown carpet. Dylan sat at my side on his bed, and looked at me with a look of unmistakable seriousness. “I know you told me that the darkness that came out in you wasn’t who you were the other day. But I think it is who you are. I think you’d find yourself a lot more comfortable if you embraced that side of yourself.” I was rather confused, so I asked, “What do you want me to do, just go around putting everyone I see in a headlock for a mental release? I don’t think you get how this works, Dylan.” He leaned forward and said, “ I think that you and I should help out around our community. We could help stop crime in our city, and stop bullying in our school. Think about it, you could feel more comfortable mentally, and we’d be, like, heroes!” Initially I thought the idea of being a “vigilante” who stopped low level street crime was absurd. Yet, the more Dylan went on, the more it made sense. “Think about it, man...we have the training to handle anything we run into, and I think it would be really good not only for the community, but for your mental state, too. And, I’m sure with some financial help from your not-so-poor parents, you could get us the tools we needed, like police radios, GPS trackers, and you know...that kind of thing.” Dylan pulled out two metal pins, each about the size of a quarter. Shiny as I’d ever seen, the two pieces of zinc had a fine imprint on the top. “To help combat evil.” On the center of the pin, an image of a bullet was shown. The bullet flashed images of my father’s death before my eyes, and I began to sweat nervously. “They were my grandfather’s during the war.” Dylan made eye contact, locking my face with his. “So, you in?” he anxiously asked. I needed time to consider it, and I hesitantly grabbed the “bullet pin” from him, slipping it into my pocket. “I...I don’t know...I’ll think about it…” I uttered cautiously. As I stood up and headed towards the door of his house, I turned around ever so slightly. “I don’t know if would be in my best interest, Dylan. It’s dangerous, and I really just need some time to consider it.” I saw his face sink, as he let out a sigh. I left his house without saying another word. I think he was mad at me, but he never said so. Either way, I began another thought-filled walk home. Peering my head into an alleyway along the path to my house, I could see the shadows of two people, one man and one woman. I heard the man yelling furiously at the woman, calling her “skank,” and “useless w***e.” I really tried to keep walking, but I could no longer ignore the pleas of the woman. I heard her beg in disparity, “Please, don’t hit me anymore...I said I was sorry!” I began slowly walking down the alley, and as I inched closer to the screeching sound of their voices, I saw a scene I will never forget. The woman, wearing only a bra and underwear, was backed into a corner with the man choking and kneeing her against a dumpster. With utmost confidence, the man turned to face me. “The f**k are you lookin at, dude? Just go mind your own damn business, BACK OVER THERE!” He pointed firmly to the street, as he exhaled heavily and stared at me. The woman still had her hands up in defense, and there was no way I was leaving. Despite only being 5’6 at the time, I never really felt small. When faced in front of this man, it was hard not to feel that way. He had to be 6’3, 300 pounds, wearing a dirty white tank top and worn out, old cargo shorts. The picture definition of a “street thug.” I swallowed hard, and spoke. “Just leave her alone man, she-” He cut me off without any care. “She is a cheating, lying, w***e, and you better f****n’ walk away right now, before both a’ y’all are crying out for help.” The man lifted the faded white tank top to reveal a gun on his waist band. Everything in my head was telling me to just walk away, and yet, I couldn’t. I charged towards him in an effort to knock him to the ground. He stopped me in my tracks seemingly without effort. Holding on to my entire forearm with his meaty, sweaty hand, he began to reach for his gun. I remember throwing all of my body weight backwards, in an effort to drag us both to the floor. As I began to fall to the merciless cement, I threw my leg up over the arm that he was gripping me with. A snapping sound could very clearly be heard coming from his arm as I fell, followed by some obscenities that I don’t particularly care to quote. The man then fell down just beside me, crying out in agony. I didn’t have to look at his arm to know it was shaped like an S now. As he cried out in pain from fetal position and gripping his arm, the woman stood up, unable to speak. “You… I ...It wasn’t even ... We could have-” I signaled her to stop. “It’s alright. Call an ambulance, and then get out of here,” I told her. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she yelled as I began to walk away. “You just did,” I remarked happily. As I turned back one more time, I noticed that the bullet pin had fallen from my pocket during the scuffle. I picked it up, looking at the imprint for a moment. “To help combat evil.” I quickly called Dylan’s phone, all while still staring at the pin. I uttered the words he’d wanted to hear most. “When do we start?” CHAPTER 6: TRAINING The following weeks included many hours of treacherous dedication to our new “project.” The first thing Dylan and I had to do was establish a basis for how, exactly, we would help out in our community. There was never a lack of crime in a busy place like San Jose, but due to the wealthiness of the Robinsons, I was always kind of shielded from it. Living in a wealthy neighborhood within a crime-filled city was like being shot at while inside a tank. Dylan and I began training outside of Krav Maga, and it became routine. We would go to class on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and practice at my house all the other days. I spoke with Dylan about what had happened just a few nights before, with the whole “street thug” incident. I had been hoping for a serious response. Instead, all I got was, “Dude, you broke his arm? That’s BADASS!” Regardless, this was not a game. This was danger that peaked far beyond anything I’d ever done in my life. I could have been killed that night. As Dylan seemed to treat our little project as something that was just “a help in the community,” I saw it was much more. I saw the real danger, and I feared that he did not. Rather seriously, I spoke. “Dylan, this stuff is dangerous. I’m not talking about getting a bloody nose, or a cut on your leg. If you mess up, you will die. Someone will put the barrel of a gun to your chest, and pull the trigger.” Dylan nodded it off, although I don’t think he understood the full impact of what I had said. Now was preparation time. I had cut up some old PVC pipe that Dylan had found, and we constructed two, rather lightweight, batons. I wrapped them in electrical tape, and reinforced them with a rubber gripping. Secondly, I purchased two stun guns, each packing 85 million volts. In addition, I bought kevlar vests and sleeves online for both Dylan and I, along with a heat resistant kevlar mask, that covered our whole face from our noses down. Next, I ordered a real time, properly tuned, local police radio. Anything “big” about to go down, Dylan and I would know about. Finally, we needed something to bring it all together.. I knew that being a “vigilante” would not likely have the San Jose PD’s approval, and so Dylan and I agreed upon something. The wardrobe that we had constructed was plain, yet concealed our identity. We each wore black, long-sleeve, skin tight shirts. Over that were the Kevlar vests, along with jet black, flexible Krav Maga pants, the kevlar mask, ankle socks, and heavy-duty combat boots. I stood staring at Dylan in full uniform, smirking at how accomplished I felt. Batons strapped to our backs, stun guns at our hips, and many years of Krav Maga training embedded into our brains. Dylan then pulled out his bullet pin, and threaded it onto my vest. Taking the other one from my pocket, I attached it to the very same spot on his. I looked to him, and spoke with a smirk. “To help combat evil.” Soon, Marianna and Jet became suspicious of my “crusade.” I would often just tell them that I needed alone time, but a part of me knew that they never believed it. I would take a duffle bag containing my outfit, stun gun, baton, and the radio. When I would mention that I was going to Dylan’s house, they would look at one another, shrug doubtfully, and murmur, “O..Ok I guess. Don’t be back too late.” Although loving, I think they were too afraid to ask what exactly I did on these late night adventures. Jett later admitted to me he thought I had a drug problem. I reassured him that he was wrong, though. It was something far worse. Dylan’s house was cold and empty, like most times. His father was never really home, and for a 14 year old boy to have the house to himself all the time just didn’t seem normal. I always felt like Dylan hid something from me, although I never really asked. We would put on our full suits, and sit eagerly by the side of the police radio. Most nights, nothing would happen. Occasional warnings of someone with expired tags, or a busted brake light would be most of the conversation on the radio, and I began to think that we were going to have to find a new way. Just as I was ready to give up, the muffled static of an officer in distress made me perk up like a dog in front of a bone. A very, large bone. He spoke with a sense of urgency. “The Walgreens on Blossom Hill was just robbed, there have been shots fired! Requesting immediate assistance, if there are any officers in the area, send backup now! I am pursuing the suspect on foot... heading east on Blossom Hill!” The officer spoke with a lack of breath, and it seemed clear he was running. Dylan and I could distantly hear the police sirens, and we took off sprinting from his doorstep, towards the sounds of danger. Only, we would not find what we were looking for. As we ran through the often quiet “back streets” of San Jose, we were stopped dead in our tracks. There were 2 men, each wearing navy blue jeans, a worn out, faded belt, and ripped up T-Shirts. Dylan and I locked faces with these men, as they stared back, seemingly angry at our presence. We weren’t sure if we had found the men being pursued by police, or if we had just stumbled upon two low-level street crooks. Either way, this was the first time Dylan and I had encountered real danger, and I could tell from his heavy breathing, he was worried. The men began walking towards us, perplexed at our out-of-the-ordinary outfits. “Look at these damn kids, dude.” The other man then chuckled, with a toxic laugh that echoed throughout the empty street. The first man pulled a stack of 20 dollar bills from his pocket, along with a cell phone, and a large bag of pills. Handing it to the second man, he remarked, “Hold this, I’m boutta’ show these kids why they should stay outta this part a’ town late at night.” Dylan put his hands up in defense, and the man stopped seemingly without hesitation. “Bahahahaha! Look, the karate kid dressed up as a bank robber with his ski mask, and his police batons! Bahahahahaha!” Dylan then spoke back, perhaps a bit too confidently. “You shouldn’t be selling drugs, dude. I don’t thin-” The man was now obviously enraged, and I began to worry for Dylan. “Listen here, you stupid f**k...I own this part of town, and I do whatever I feel like. What are you gonna do about it, hit me with that stick on your back?” Dylan, pulling a baton from its holster remarked, “Yea, that sounds like a plan.” He swung at the man’s leg, as I ran into him with all of my force, knocking him off balance. Obviously injured from the baton crushing into his shin, he pushed us both back, and wiped the sweat from his oily face, struggling to stay standing. The second crook dropped everything he was holding, and glared into my eyes. To this day, I can still see those dark pupils looking into my soul. As the second crook pulled a gun from his hip, I heard Dylan gasp in shock. The cold barrel of the firearm stared at him. Although in a complete state of panic, he remained motionless. I was too far away to take the gun away from the crook, and for the first time, I thought I might lose my best friend. Everyone froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Sweat dripped from my forehead, as gravity dauntingly pulled each drop harder and harder to the cement floor. Dylan raised his baton high in the air as he charged towards the man. “DYLAN, STO-,” I was cut off by the firing of the gun. The sound was deafening, and I was disoriented. Dylan fell to the ground, as both men took off sprinting in the opposite direction. As Dylan’s body collided with the Earth, I could hear his skull smash against the cement. I had only one thought. “Not this again, please. Anything but this.”
CHAPTER 7 : GRAVESTONE ONE MONTH LATER Most days, sitting inside was of no appeal, and I would take lengthy walks in order to clear my head. After everything that had been happening in my life, a clear head seemed more like a wish than a reality. On occasion, I would sit down with Marianna and Jett and talk with them about how much I missed my parents. Marianna would just pull me into her arms softly, kiss my forehead, and gently rub my back. “We’re here for you now, sweetie.” Marianna was a large part of why I often felt so confident with myself. Even when I felt the world was dragging me down to its core, she would reassure me that I could do anything. On one of my walks, I headed to a place where I could finally talk to my father again. As I walked through a mass of gravestones, I approached the only one that mattered to me. In a fine italic print, it read: Charles Harrington; Loving Father and Husband. I sat down next to my father’s final resting place, and began to speak. “Hey dad...I wanted to let you know that...everything is alright. The family that adopted me is really great, and I just wanted to let you know that I’m starting to cope with things.” I sometimes questioned why I was talking to a stone, but I finally determined that it simply gave me a sense of happiness. Talking at the cemetery often made me remember precious moments that I spent with my parents as a young child, which never failed to clear my head of all the “bad thoughts,” at least temporarily. As I continued rambling on to my father’s gravestone, I took a look around. Not a person in sight. The atmosphere was quiet, yet the flowers laid in front of many of the stones lightened the mood a bit, I suppose. “I know there’s nothing I can do to get you back, but I just really want to know what happened that night. Why is mom hiding? Who really did this? WHEN AM I FINALLY GOING TO GET SOME ANSWERS?” I realized now, that I was shouting at an inanimate object. I exhaled, and stared at the words directly in front of me. “Loving Father…” I spoke, for one last time. “Dad...I did something bad. Something really bad. I think I’m going insane now, I just...I can’t cope with it. Yesterday evening"I murdered someone.” Standing up, I began the hike back to my house. As I took in all of my surroundings, my head still throbbed at the thought of what I had become; I was a monster. I debated whether I was simply insane or not. I approached the large mansion that was my home, and turned the handle slowly as the door creaked open. As I headed upstairs to my room, Jett pointed to the dirt on my pants, which had been imprinted there from my visit at the cemetery. “Is everything alright, Pat?” He asked. Swallowing hard, I answered. “I’m good.” I was now not only a murderer, but a liar. I buried my head into a pillow on my bed and began to reflect on what I had become. Before the incident with my parents, I was a simple young boy, destined for a regular life. I was going to make plenty of friends at school, go to college, meet someone, maybe even have kids of my own one day. In my current condition, none of that seemed possible for my future. I was locked in a room with the devil, and the only way out was to kill him. As Jett knocked on my door, the banging interrupted my deep thought. I jolted forward as though I was struck by lightning. “Hey, buddy. Come have dinner with Marianna and I.” Reluctantly, I moseyed on over to our kitchen table. Sitting down, I was still engulfed in a ball of my own mental panic. Marianna turned on the news, as she would with most of our meals, and we ate in relative silence. As I yelled at the voices in my head, all I could hear was the faint breathing of Jett, and the news reporter speaking. The sounds around me were being drained into the back of my brain, and I found it hard to focus on anything at that moment. Suddenly, the news reporter’s voice became clearer to me; although I really wish it hadn’t. “A graphic video of a man being killed near a convenience store on 85th avenue has surfaced, and police are searching for details regarding the case.” The Robinsons both turned their attention to the TV, as I struggled to watch. “A local man, later identified as drug dealer and wanted felon Damien Tate, can be seen standing outside of a 7-11 store. Suddenly, a smaller man, wearing all black clothing, and what looks to be a ski mask can be seen approaching Tate. The man also appears to be wielding a baton. As he begins to attack Tate, the fight is taken to the ground. A local store owner calls 9-11, but unfortunately, is too late. Tate is wrestled to the floor, and the attacker then begins to choke him with his batons. As he begins to lose consciousness, the assailant continues, which ultimately kills Tate, due to lack of oxygen to the brain. The man escapes into the darkness, leaving behind only one piece of evidence; a small coin-like pin. The pin reads, “To help combat evil,” and shows an image of a bullet. If you know anything regarding the case, please call the local authorities.” Marianna looked to Jett, and remarked: “That worries me. People dressing up in all black and committing murder right in the street. That wasn’t even 2 blocks from here!” My head was drowning in a pool of thoughts. I murdered a man, and now had to re-watch it with the only 2 people who even cared about me in this damned world. As the news reporter continued speaking about the incident, I remember thinking one thing. The man who had shot a bullet into Dylan’s chest was no longer alive, and all because of me. He’s lucky that Dylan survived, thanks to his kevlar vest; or I would not have granted him such a quick death. Marianna spoke once more. “Pat, we don’t want you going on those walks late at night anymore. It’s not safe in those areas of San Jose; and Jett...we should really see about getting an alarm system for the house, to keep psychopaths like that out!” I glanced up maniacally at Marianna, and thought to myself: “Oh, but you already let one in...a long time ago.” © 2016 veckAuthor's Note
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