How did I end up here?
Who’s house was this?
Why were there bullet holes everywhere?
Who are the dead people laid in front of me?
Did I kill them?
What’s that noise?
These were the questions that rambled on through my head as I sat there, trying to put together the events of the past few months. I was holding a gun that much I knew. I also knew I was so drunk on whiskey so bad I wouldn’t remember where I was tomorrow if I lived to see it. Hell I couldn’t remember where I was now. How did I end up here? That’s easy, I drove here, to this shitty apartment building filled with coke. I could see my car in the parking lot from the window. Who’s house was this? It was hopefully somebody I wouldn’t want to mess with. Why were there bullet holes everywhere? That’s a question that doesn’t need an explanation. I was holding a gun, the guys on the ground were lying next to guns. So obviously it had been one big turkey shoot. Who are the dead people laid in front of me? Probably the guys who were ripping me off. Maybe I had been so drunk and so angry I just ran into the place and started shooting. No, there are drugs everywhere, this was the competition. Did I kill them? Well, yeah. What’s that noise? It was an empty whiskey bottle that fell over and smashed on the ground. I was so startled I turned around and shot four rounds into the ground. I could hear sirens, no doubt my good friends the cops had decided to show up now. The place smelled like cocaine, piss, and it looked even worse. Blood was splattered all over the floor, and as I slipped on it to walk over to the window I thought of all of the things that had led here. Where was I two hours ago? In a bar, that’s it. I could hear the police coming up the stairs. If I didn’t move soon, I might as well just shoot myself. With the stairs out and the elevator just as bad an option, I decided to take the scenic route. I ran for the open window, hoping that I was sober enough not to fall out and splatter myself all over the ground. I climbed out and walked out for the fire escape. But with the cops rolling in, I didn’t have much time for an escape. So I went for the next best thing. I started down the work of iron and steel stairs and quickly stopped when the SWAT van pulled up in the back parking lot. I could hear the man on the speaker yell something about freezing. I ignored him, and continued to climb. Finally the group of law enforcement got board of looking at me. Hails of bullets whizzed past my head as I climbed the ladder to the roof. One impacted right near my face and sent pieces of brick into my cheek. I fell backwards onto the fire escape, knocking some of the bolts loose. I could hear the creaking and rocking of the steel death trap. Was I going to fall off of this and give those cops a messy start to their day? No hopefully not. I got back on the ladder and got to the roof before the ladder’s bolts snapped off. I saw one of the police cars being crushed by half the fire escape as I looked down. I heard more men behind the door. They were coming up the stairs!
I ran for the door and could hear the pounding of more boots. I knew there was no indefinite way to stop them. I tried to jam the door with an iron bar. I slid it inside the handle and prayed that it would hold long enough for me to decide whether to jump off the building or put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger. I could always surrender, but I would rather be dead than be tortured by the prospect of prison food and no freedom. The luck of the Irish was defiantly not on my side today, as it had been for so many other gunfights. I looked down and saw more police arriving on the scene. A spotlight had been brought in, and the light was shining brightly in the darkness of the early morning. As I admired the sunrise I thought about jumping. Maybe it was the whiskey, but I was getting ready to jump when I decided I wasn’t going out like that. I should have jumped. I scrambled around for a way out. I looked for another fire escape. I looked for the window washing platform that I saw before. I looked at the iron bar in the door that was slowly being bent apart. When I finally heard it, I nearly shat myself. A large helicopter in blue and white popped out of nowhere. I pointed the pistol I held at it, as if I could destroy it with a .45, I aimed for the pilot, hoping that I could pull this off. Just when I had become confident, I realized that even if I got the chopper to back off, I would still be stuck with a SWAT team on a roof with no way out.
Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?
Flash back about two weeks, you may be wondering what I was doing in that crappy apartment in the most ghetto area of New York. I arrived there in my two thousand dollar suit, driving my two hundred thousand dollar car. You may be asking yourself what this up in the world, millionaire Irishman was doing in there. I couldn’t tell you myself. The last few months of my life had been so blurry I could barely remember my own name. Come to think of it, what is my name? I had it written down somewhere in case of a situation like this. Jackie Blake, that’s it. You may be asking who I am, and I may not want to tell you, but seeing as I’m about to be shot or arrested soon, I should confess my sins. For all that’s going to do me. I had seen more people die in the last six months than most people think of in their entire lifetimes. I hadn’t wanted to end up here, but I guess destiny has a way of catching up to you sometimes.
This is the price I have paid for the life I have lived.
© Copyright 2016 John Patrick Carragher . All rights reserved.
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