kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"OneBrightMorning.1"

words

One Bright Morning in the Middle of the Night

I woke up and could not tell what time it was. Was it three? The light was odd. The odd light flickered on two men, probably in their early twenties, lying dead on the floor, somewhat askew of each other. Footsteps drew near.

Heart pounding, I slipped into a convenient crate. The smell of piss and beer was strong as darkness enveloped me. Was it mine? The steps came closer, closer... and stopped a few feet away. I held my breath and stared at nothing, feigning nonexistance.

A shrill whistle startled a barked breath out of me, but I held still. The footsteps did not react to my exhalation. I peered out to see a policeman standing just at the dead men's feet, adjusting his hearing aid. He signed softly to himself: "My god. I heard a shot! I heard!" The cop crossed himself hastily.

Perceiving his entire lack of barometric sensitivity, and hoped that if anything the gunshots that I must have slept through (though perhaps they had been the cause of my waking), had further deafened him. I forewent subtlety and ran while his back was to me.

I had not considered the hightened visual acuity of one so in the other manner disadvantaged. A hand was on my shoulder before my feet were any significant distance from the dead men's, nor more notably the cop's own. I think it may have been my shadow he saw running among the flickering flames of the moonlit room.

"Hot!" he screamed into my left ear, drawing out the 'o' and hinting at the possible suggestion of an 'l'.

I froze there, and pondered: the light inside was silver, cool, and... dim, at best, but for the flickering flame, which could hardly be more than a candle as I couldn't pinpoint it. And outside, the sun shone brightly. Its light did not permeate the room about me. The sun could well have been painted on the wall but for the fact that I could see it so clearly... and the clouds about it seemed to move.

"Oh, you mean 'Halt'," I said, as understanding dawned. But really, what time was it?

He frisked me, pausing not so overly long at any one place. "Wess you gun?"

I turned around slowly, hands raised, and mouthed to him, succinctly for as little confusion as possible, "What?"

His brow furrowed, and he made shooting motions with the hand not holding a pistol, then pointed at me with his gun and shrugged both impatiently and imposingly.

I shrugged as well, helplessly, and he, keeping the real gun trained on me, stepped over to the crate I had so foolishly dashed from. Cautiously, he peered in while keeping me in his sights, kicked the crate, and reached in for something.

Reminding myself that a bullet intruding itself upon any part of my body would likely be less than pleasant, I resisted the urge to run.

He extracted from the crate two swords, blood freshly dripping. I saw none on myself, thankfully.

I could do naught but shrug again. He dropped the swords, wincing not a whit at the clanging sound they made as they hit the litter-strewn concrete, and proceeded to constrain my wrists with handcuffs.

I was transfixed by a motion that the policeman, in his concern with my wrists, must not have noticed: the bodies had risen, silently (though that was hardly necessary under the circumstances), and wandered off. One moment they were partially in the shadows and the next they simply weren't.

I remembered... gin. Or whiskey. A drink, surely. There may have been one in the crate, but if there had been, most of it was likely lost in my hasty entrance and exit. And the copper's kicking.

But, _oh lord_, a drink would be wonderful.

I gestured my shoulder toward where the two men had a moment before lain, and grunted. The policeman looked, shook his head, and wandered away down some stairs. The door clanged shut.

I wondered if he'd had a hard life.

I wondered what time it was.

I wondered how much booze I could get for two bloodied swords and the handcuffs on my wrists. And decided to curl back up into the crate for a nap, hoping the world would sort itself out while I was gone.