A Sad World
Aiedrian took the steps
two at a time, painfully aware of her throbbing right ankle. She paused at the landing and listened. No alarms.
That was good. She took a quick
breath and turned the corner.
Flashes of earlier, a fat sweaty man in bed. She took him after sex and half asleep, but
underestimated his speed, fast for a man his size. When it came down to it he fought like an animal and her ankle
went out when she hit the wall. He was
going for the alarm when she got her shit together. Now he lay in the corner and made wet sounds.
How much blood is on your hands?
The guard was at his post. The guards were always at their posts, and not reading newspapers
either, not anymore. They sat up
straight and roamed their eyes constantly.
Aiedrian walked towards him casually, trying not to limp. His eyes scanned her slowly. Aiedrian gave him a smile and watched him
reach for his gun. She sighed. He was good.
Adrenal reflexes kicked in and the world went slow
motion. She saw in still pictures. Flashes of another life. A little boy in a rain slicker. A spider on a ceiling. A tear dropped heavy from her eye, and
fought it’s way down her face. She shot
the guard three times before his gun cleared the table and left him in a
puddle. Sometimes it seemed like she
left everyone in puddles.
How much blood is on your hands?
It was the story of her life. The story of her dreams.
Faded photographs, ancient really, of a little boy in bright yellow with
a gap toothed grin. After all these
years it still hurt. After all these
years she could still see him playing in the rain. She could still see him laying in the puddle.
Aiedrian was halfway down the next flight of stairs when
the alarm sounded. Don’t react. Keep moving. Three more steps and she could hear them coming up. She dropped four grams of plastique into the
darkness and ran back the way she came.
Flashes of conversation.
Her parents. Her friends. Her employers. How did you get so bitter?
What happened to you? How do you
do it? Do you like it? How much blood is on your hands?
How much blood is on your hands?
They cornered her on the third floor. Large groups with semiautomatic weapons
coming from both sides, and for a moment it looked bad. She could hear the extra whoop in their
voices when they realized they had her.
It was the sound of dogs on the scent.
She took four as an afterthought and dove through a window. A million splinters of glass flying in a
million different directions. Each one
showed the same thing. A boy.
Her ankle disintegrated when she hit the ground. It hurt and she knew it was bad, but she
didn’t allow herself the luxury of worrying about it. That’s what doctors are for.
There was a moment of doubt and then Jones pulled up. Right on time. She climbed into the back seat and they were away, back into the
anonymous night.
Jones inspected her in the rearview mirror. He was Nigerian and the blackest human being
she had ever seen. He frowned.
“You look a little rough. Everything go ok?”
“As scheduled.”
He nodded and went back to the driving. She stared out the window but she didn’t see
the night. She never did.
“What happened to Mr. Robbins?”
She caught Jones’s eye in the mirror and held it for one
beat...two...
“He had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“The permanent kind.”
Jones smiled. He rarely smiled. His teeth shone like stars in the middle of all that blackness.
“That’s a sad story.”
Flashes. A
spider. A baby. A beautiful baby boy.
How much blood is on your hands?
When she spoke her voice cracked.
“Yeah?
Well it’s a sad fucking world.”
Jamison Spencer always wanted to be a writer. Then he hit adolescence and discovered indie rock. He's just now finding his way back from the bars,
clothes still smelling of smoke and ears still ringing. He currently plays keyboards with the band Swoon and makes records under the
name The New Holden Folk Project. And he writes. These days he's writing a lot.
Email: Jamison Spencer
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