Roscoe Street
I can still remember that night. Twenty years ago, today. The memories are coming back to me, blurring and flitting on the edge of my mind, too numerous to categorize. I can still remember the gunshot, the cry, the blood. These thoughts are now rushing towards me like an express train, the memories so clear now they are blinding me, glowing like a magnesium flare.
I was sitting in my apartment. It was reaching 1 a.m. The television was on. A fuzzy screen making the room flash black and white like thunder, giving off the dull mumbling sound of someone talking. I wasn't really listening. I just sat there swigging on a beer and thinking about my life. It seemed hours I sat there before it started.
Suddenly, a loud shot, piercing through the tenement blocks, making me jump up. Another one came, followed by one more. When I knew the final shots had been fired I scrabbled quickly in my drawer and pulled out an attractive but grubby with dirt and fingerprints, matt grey gun. It was big and chunky, maybe too bulky to be kept at home, but I liked the feel of it. I went to pick up the thick leather jacket that had been slumped carelessly onto a chair looking like a jet black shadow, unable to make out the folds in the material, sitting upon a cushion dimly lit by the television. I through on my coat and began descending the icy metal fire escape running down the side of the building, white with snow.
As I reached the final landing I jumped the last few feet, rather than taking the time to drop the ladder. The cold streets glistening with a thin layer of shimmering silver. The ice gave a slight crunch as it came to take my weight. I began running. Running to where it happened. While going along this empty road, barely lit by the flickering street lamps, devoid of life and sound except from the crunching and creaking of my foot steps and the crackling of a fire lit by a group of drunken bums, I began to think why. Why was I running to this noise? My curiosity needed to be satisfied.
I reached the alleyway where I reckoned the gunshots had come from and was blinded temporarily by the sun, half risen above the brickwork. I must have fallen asleep while at my place. Was it sunrise already? These questions immediately stopped bothering me when the green and grey blur on the floor focussed and I could see what it was. He lay there, bullet holes in his chest seeping a slow, steady stream of crimson. I crouched over the body, feeling helpless. There was no point in checking his pulse, I knew he was dead. I could tell by the cold accusing stare of his eyes. The culprit had made a clean getaway and I was left alone. Just me, the rats, the body and a sinister scarlet patch splattered against the wall. Death had visited Roscoe Street.
I could hear sirens in the distance. I foolishly stayed and listened while they got closer and closer until cars came skidding up the icy streets. The alley lit up like a Christmas tree. The cops saw my gun and the body. Accusations were not hard to make. "Freeze!" Was he making a joke? Of course I was freezing. "Drop your weapon." I angrily cast my cold gun to the side. They had the wrong man. It was a relief though, to drop the gun which was slowly spreading cold, numbing my hand. Police immediately cuffed me and violently forced me into the back of a filthy police car. Sirens blazing the cops drove me to jail.
I was arrested for something I didn't do. Twenty years ago today was the worst day of my life.
I can still remember that night. Twenty years ago, today. The memories are coming back to me, blurring and flitting on the edge of my mind, too numerous to categorize. I can still remember the gunshot, the cry, the blood. These thoughts are now rushing towards me like an express train, the memories so clear now they are blinding me, glowing like a magnesium flare.
I was sitting in my apartment. It was reaching 1 a.m. The television was on. A fuzzy screen making the room flash black and white like thunder, giving off the dull mumbling sound of someone talking. I wasn't really listening. I just sat there swigging on a beer and thinking about my life. It seemed hours I sat there before it started.
Suddenly, a loud shot, piercing through the tenement blocks, making me jump up. Another one came, followed by one more. When I knew the final shots had been fired I scrabbled quickly in my drawer and pulled out an attractive but grubby with dirt and fingerprints, matt grey gun. It was big and chunky, maybe too bulky to be kept at home, but I liked the feel of it. I went to pick up the thick leather jacket that had been slumped carelessly onto a chair looking like a jet black shadow, unable to make out the folds in the material, sitting upon a cushion dimly lit by the television. I through on my coat and began descending the icy metal fire escape running down the side of the building, white with snow.
As I reached the final landing I jumped the last few feet, rather than taking the time to drop the ladder. The cold streets glistening with a thin layer of shimmering silver. The ice gave a slight crunch as it came to take my weight. I began running. Running to where it happened. While going along this empty road, barely lit by the flickering street lamps, devoid of life and sound except from the crunching and creaking of my foot steps and the crackling of a fire lit by a group of drunken bums, I began to think why. Why was I running to this noise? My curiosity needed to be satisfied.
I reached the alleyway where I reckoned the gunshots had come from and was blinded temporarily by the sun, half risen above the brickwork. I must have fallen asleep while at my place. Was it sunrise already? These questions immediately stopped bothering me when the green and grey blur on the floor focussed and I could see what it was. He lay there, bullet holes in his chest seeping a slow, steady stream of crimson. I crouched over the body, feeling helpless. There was no point in checking his pulse, I knew he was dead. I could tell by the cold accusing stare of his eyes. The culprit had made a clean getaway and I was left alone. Just me, the rats, the body and a sinister scarlet patch splattered against the wall. Death had visited Roscoe Street.
I could hear sirens in the distance. I foolishly stayed and listened while they got closer and closer until cars came skidding up the icy streets. The alley lit up like a Christmas tree. The cops saw my gun and the body. Accusations were not hard to make. "Freeze!" Was he making a joke? Of course I was freezing. "Drop your weapon." I angrily cast my cold gun to the side. They had the wrong man. It was a relief though, to drop the gun which was slowly spreading cold, numbing my hand. Police immediately cuffed me and violently forced me into the back of a filthy police car. Sirens blazing the cops drove me to jail.
I was arrested for something I didn't do. Twenty years ago today was the worst day of my life.