5AM Friday Morning
By Scout
Chicago was never quiet. No matter the time, it was impossible to escape the noise completely. Fraser lay on his back in his small unyielding bed and listened to the sounds of far off sirens in the darkness, imagining another time and place blissfully untouched by civilization, undisturbed by the sounds of clacking El trains and drunken voices. Where the night skies were painted with thousands of sparkling stars unmarred by streetlights, or headlights, or apartment lights and the silence was broken only by sweet symphonies of crickets, or by choruses of wolves mournfully calling to each other in the wind.
He took a deep breath in through his nose and held it for a moment before expelling the pungent air through his lips like a deflated balloon. He grimaced slightly at the usual rancid tang coating the back of his throat. The stench of car exhaust, stale fish and overripe garbage, seemed to hang over the city like a permanent toxic cloud, of which the general population seemed blessedly unaware, but that he could never fully escape.
He envied them sometimes, their ignorance of pristine spaces and cold crisp clean air unpolluted by factory smoke and chemical fumes. Unlike them, he remembered a time when the only scents were the sharp flavors of fresh pine and pure white snow. Unlike them, he knew what he was missing, what he'd once had and what he'd been reduced to. God, sometimes he really hated Chicago.
He'd toyed with the idea of just chucking it all of course. Of quitting the RCMP and leaving the city to live in his father's cabin. He'd imagine himself up there sometimes, living the life of a hermit Ray would say, but some days that sounded just fine to him, if it meant being able to escape the pit of constant endless need he so often found himself drowning in.
It would be worth it just to be alone again, to have no one making constant demands on his time, to be responsible for no one save himself. And yet, every time he'd finally make up his mind to go, there seemed to be someone else who needed his help, someone he just couldn't bring himself to turn his back on.
He sighed and glanced at the small clock by his bed. 5AM. No use trying to get back to sleep now. His mind was awake, cluttered with far too many thoughts, making further rest impossible. He'd go for a run, that always cleared his head.
He pulled on the RCMP standard issue sweats quickly, without bothering to turn on the light. His eyes momentarily swept the dim gray room as he laced up his sneakers, noting Dief's absence with a slight frown. He glanced over his shoulder at the open window above the fire escape and shook his head in annoyance. He was sick of giving the same lecture over and over again and what good did it do anyway, the wolf was merely following his instincts. Chicago couldn't tame the wilderness in his blood any more than it could Fraser's.
He left the apartment and stole down the stairs as silent as a cat, emerging onto the rain slicked sidewalk below. An old man slumped snoozing on a grimy park bench beneath a blanket of soggy newspapers. He quickly sat up as Fraser passed, eyeing him suspiciously and clutching the newspapers to him as if afraid the Mountie might steal them. Fraser stretched for a few minutes, one palm propped against the side of the building for support, then took off at an easy lope down the street, ignoring the homeless man's wary gaze boring into the back of his head.
There was no horizon, just a slight paling of the sky beyond the apartment buildings ahead of him giving them the look of symmetrical inkblots drawn across an opaque skein. What stars there were had been rendered all but invisible behind a curtain of city lights.
Few people walked the streets, though Fraser was beginning to hear the telltale sounds of early morning commuters in the distance. A train whistle wailed in the wind, lonely and sorrowful followed a hairs- breadth later by the harsh rhythmic clacking of the tracks. For some reason the sound always depressed Fraser, and he unintentionally quickened his pace in an effort to escape it.
Maybe it was the artificial nature of the train's cry that got to him. After all, he'd spent many a night alone in the wilderness listening to the far off keening of a wolf's cry. The two sounds were not dissimilar, and yet there was an element of foreboding in the train's whistle that was absent in the familial strains of wolf song.
Fraser found himself smiling wistfully as he trotted along. A wolf's howl meant home to him. It meant crisp fresh snow and wide-open spaces. It meant days without end spent in perfect blissful solitude and nights spent beneath a canopy of stars.
A sharp pang of homesickness kicked his heart and Fraser found himself wondering if this could be the day. If this would be the day he finally submitted his resignation to Inspector Thatcher, gathered his few meager possessions and left the city for good. If this would be the day he shrugged off the memory of Chicago like a snake shrugs off an old worn skin.
A young woman stood in front of a wrought iron gate to a basement apartment slightly ahead of him. She looked at him as he jogged past, with haunted gray eyes. Fraser was nearly a block away by the time something suddenly struck him as odd and he turned around and went back.
Upon closer inspection, he realized she was younger than he'd taken her for at first, no more than a girl really. Her long red hair was disheveled and her pallid cheeks were sunken and tear stained. She was compulsively wringing her hands as if trying desperately to rid them of some unseen stain and her shirt was ripped on one side revealing one beige bra strap. She was chanting softly to herself as if unaware of the Mountie's presence.
"5AM Friday morning Thursday night far from sleep" she intoned in a quavering voice. "It was me and a gun and a man on my back and I sang "holy holy" as he buttoned down his pants. Me and a gun and a man on my back but I haven't seen Barbados so I must get out of this."
There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of Fraser's stomach as he listened to the girl's hesitant words.
"Me and a gun and a man on my back" she repeated softly and for a moment he thought about just turning around and forgetting he'd ever seen her.
Instead he took a step toward the iron railing and peered over it to the concrete staircase below. A young man lay in a heap across the steps, a crimson stain spreading like a sticky wet blanket beneath him, his jeans and underwear in a bunch around his ankles. A discarded gun sat perched on the step just above his ruined head.
"I didn't mean to do it" the girl whispered shakily, a single tear marking a trail down one smudged cheek.
The Mountie closed his eyes and sighed. This could still be the day, he told himself. All he had to do was make one quick anonymous phone call, just one phone call between him and freedom.
"What's your name?" He asked softly hearing an imaginary door slamming in his head.
The girl sniffled slightly, wiping tears from her eyes. "Victoria" she said tentatively.
'Of course' the Mountie thought wryly, catching himself just as a bitter laugh threatened to burst from his lips. Somehow he managed a gentle smile instead.
"My name is Ben" he said softly. "Everything's going to be all right. I'm here to help you."
After a moment, Victoria meekly returned the smile. God, he really hated Chicago.
The End
Chicago was never quiet. No matter the time, it was impossible to escape the noise completely. Fraser lay on his back in his small unyielding bed and listened to the sounds of far off sirens in the darkness, imagining another time and place blissfully untouched by civilization, undisturbed by the sounds of clacking El trains and drunken voices. Where the night skies were painted with thousands of sparkling stars unmarred by streetlights, or headlights, or apartment lights and the silence was broken only by sweet symphonies of crickets, or by choruses of wolves mournfully calling to each other in the wind.
He took a deep breath in through his nose and held it for a moment before expelling the pungent air through his lips like a deflated balloon. He grimaced slightly at the usual rancid tang coating the back of his throat. The stench of car exhaust, stale fish and overripe garbage, seemed to hang over the city like a permanent toxic cloud, of which the general population seemed blessedly unaware, but that he could never fully escape.
He envied them sometimes, their ignorance of pristine spaces and cold crisp clean air unpolluted by factory smoke and chemical fumes. Unlike them, he remembered a time when the only scents were the sharp flavors of fresh pine and pure white snow. Unlike them, he knew what he was missing, what he'd once had and what he'd been reduced to. God, sometimes he really hated Chicago.
He'd toyed with the idea of just chucking it all of course. Of quitting the RCMP and leaving the city to live in his father's cabin. He'd imagine himself up there sometimes, living the life of a hermit Ray would say, but some days that sounded just fine to him, if it meant being able to escape the pit of constant endless need he so often found himself drowning in.
It would be worth it just to be alone again, to have no one making constant demands on his time, to be responsible for no one save himself. And yet, every time he'd finally make up his mind to go, there seemed to be someone else who needed his help, someone he just couldn't bring himself to turn his back on.
He sighed and glanced at the small clock by his bed. 5AM. No use trying to get back to sleep now. His mind was awake, cluttered with far too many thoughts, making further rest impossible. He'd go for a run, that always cleared his head.
He pulled on the RCMP standard issue sweats quickly, without bothering to turn on the light. His eyes momentarily swept the dim gray room as he laced up his sneakers, noting Dief's absence with a slight frown. He glanced over his shoulder at the open window above the fire escape and shook his head in annoyance. He was sick of giving the same lecture over and over again and what good did it do anyway, the wolf was merely following his instincts. Chicago couldn't tame the wilderness in his blood any more than it could Fraser's.
He left the apartment and stole down the stairs as silent as a cat, emerging onto the rain slicked sidewalk below. An old man slumped snoozing on a grimy park bench beneath a blanket of soggy newspapers. He quickly sat up as Fraser passed, eyeing him suspiciously and clutching the newspapers to him as if afraid the Mountie might steal them. Fraser stretched for a few minutes, one palm propped against the side of the building for support, then took off at an easy lope down the street, ignoring the homeless man's wary gaze boring into the back of his head.
There was no horizon, just a slight paling of the sky beyond the apartment buildings ahead of him giving them the look of symmetrical inkblots drawn across an opaque skein. What stars there were had been rendered all but invisible behind a curtain of city lights.
Few people walked the streets, though Fraser was beginning to hear the telltale sounds of early morning commuters in the distance. A train whistle wailed in the wind, lonely and sorrowful followed a hairs- breadth later by the harsh rhythmic clacking of the tracks. For some reason the sound always depressed Fraser, and he unintentionally quickened his pace in an effort to escape it.
Maybe it was the artificial nature of the train's cry that got to him. After all, he'd spent many a night alone in the wilderness listening to the far off keening of a wolf's cry. The two sounds were not dissimilar, and yet there was an element of foreboding in the train's whistle that was absent in the familial strains of wolf song.
Fraser found himself smiling wistfully as he trotted along. A wolf's howl meant home to him. It meant crisp fresh snow and wide-open spaces. It meant days without end spent in perfect blissful solitude and nights spent beneath a canopy of stars.
A sharp pang of homesickness kicked his heart and Fraser found himself wondering if this could be the day. If this would be the day he finally submitted his resignation to Inspector Thatcher, gathered his few meager possessions and left the city for good. If this would be the day he shrugged off the memory of Chicago like a snake shrugs off an old worn skin.
A young woman stood in front of a wrought iron gate to a basement apartment slightly ahead of him. She looked at him as he jogged past, with haunted gray eyes. Fraser was nearly a block away by the time something suddenly struck him as odd and he turned around and went back.
Upon closer inspection, he realized she was younger than he'd taken her for at first, no more than a girl really. Her long red hair was disheveled and her pallid cheeks were sunken and tear stained. She was compulsively wringing her hands as if trying desperately to rid them of some unseen stain and her shirt was ripped on one side revealing one beige bra strap. She was chanting softly to herself as if unaware of the Mountie's presence.
"5AM Friday morning Thursday night far from sleep" she intoned in a quavering voice. "It was me and a gun and a man on my back and I sang "holy holy" as he buttoned down his pants. Me and a gun and a man on my back but I haven't seen Barbados so I must get out of this."
There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of Fraser's stomach as he listened to the girl's hesitant words.
"Me and a gun and a man on my back" she repeated softly and for a moment he thought about just turning around and forgetting he'd ever seen her.
Instead he took a step toward the iron railing and peered over it to the concrete staircase below. A young man lay in a heap across the steps, a crimson stain spreading like a sticky wet blanket beneath him, his jeans and underwear in a bunch around his ankles. A discarded gun sat perched on the step just above his ruined head.
"I didn't mean to do it" the girl whispered shakily, a single tear marking a trail down one smudged cheek.
The Mountie closed his eyes and sighed. This could still be the day, he told himself. All he had to do was make one quick anonymous phone call, just one phone call between him and freedom.
"What's your name?" He asked softly hearing an imaginary door slamming in his head.
The girl sniffled slightly, wiping tears from her eyes. "Victoria" she said tentatively.
'Of course' the Mountie thought wryly, catching himself just as a bitter laugh threatened to burst from his lips. Somehow he managed a gentle smile instead.
"My name is Ben" he said softly. "Everything's going to be all right. I'm here to help you."
After a moment, Victoria meekly returned the smile. God, he really hated Chicago.
The End