I slowly button up my uniform top, taking my time, knowing I'll be late to roll call, but
not caring. I pull my belt around my waist, fasten it, and check my gun to make sure the safety's
on. Yank on the cuffs, to get 'em good and stretched. I've always hated how a freshly washed
uniform feels so stiff and tight, always showing the edges of my wrists. Makes me feel...naked.
Whatever that's about.
As I leave the locker room, I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I probably look vain
as I stand there, staring, but no one else is in here, so I'm not gonna worry. It's not like I'm
lookin' at myself that way, either. I'm not tryin' to make sure my hair's in place, or make sure my
uniform's spic n' span. Nah. It's not that.
I just wanna know why they can't see it.
Why they can't see who I am. What I am.
They never know.
I straighten my uniform one more time before heading out.
Roll call's the same as ever. I'm reprimanded for being late, I hear Sully crack a joke to
Davis, and all goes along as usual.
We're given our assignments and we head out to the RMP. For once I don't wanna drive.
Faith should probably see somethin' wrong with that, but she takes no notice and slips behind the
wheel.
I don't even attempt small talk today. Just not in the mood.
Faith does. Wants to know some stuff about what I'm doing for the upcoming holidays,
how Ma's doin', if that chick from last week is still with me.
I wanna tell her to mind her own business, but I can't do that, so I just mumble somethin'
about not being sure, fine, and nah, we broke up cos she only wants to watch sappy chick flicks,
and a guy can't have that.
She laughs, calls me a bastard in a joking tone, and turns back to the road.
We get a call after too much silence, and we head out at top speed, racing to save some
people like us cops do sometimes.
We pull up out front of this apartment complex. The kinda place where rich people live.
Y'know, big fancy lobbies, lavish rooms, the kinda place half the people in New York could
never afford. The stairs are the same, mostly. Dark, dim, and too damn long.
We run 'em as fast as we can, and we stop outside this apartment just in time to hear a
gunshot. I kick down the door and we head in, guns out and ready.
Some asshole's blasted his wife into oblivion, and when we shout at him to put the gun
down, he looks at us with these scared eyes before showing the barrel of the pistol in his mouth
and pulling the trigger.
I hear Faith gasp, and step backwards as we're hit with a spray of blood that manages to
leak onto my tightly closed lips.
I wipe it off angrily and shove my gun in it's holster, feeling the blood still lingering on
my cheek.
"Fuckin' lowlife piece of shit bastard," I growl angrily.
I hear Faith say my name and start to tell her that I can say what I want, when I see what
made her speak.
Behind the expensive leather couch, a wide-eyed little girl with dirty blonde hair and a
dirty flowered dress stared back at me.
These people could afford this place, and apparently the stash of cocaine and heroin lying
on the coffee table, but they can't afford to take care of their fuckin' daughter, I guess.
What a world.
I can tell she's scared, the girl. Probably as much of me as what she saw.
Nevertheless, I call out to her.
Faith, seeing the girl isn't gonna come out, goes to the couch and kneels down,
whispering those soothing things mothers do, coaxing her.
I step towards the couch, see her flinch, and grab the afghan off the back, toss it over the
upper half of the man, take another from the chair and cover the woman.
Kid shouldn't have to see that.
Faith's got the kid by the hand, picks her up, still whispering to her, just holdin' her like
the kid's perfectly alright.
She ain't gonna be alright, Faith.
We take the girl to the house, dispatch the poor bastards who take care of the crime scene,
and wait on this tiny bench until someone from Social Services comes for her.
She tells Faith her name's Angela, she's six.
I think maybe she should shorten her name, cos she's nothing short of an angel. Tell her
this, and she grins a shy, toothy grin up at me, like I'm the nicest man she's ever met. Sad thing
is, I probably am. I can't bear to think what other men she's known, what the bastards have done.
Lookin' at this girl hurts.
Some lady comes after about an hour and takes her away. She waves as she goes, looking
sad and kinda anxious. I wave back and she smiles at me. It kills me.
I tell Faith I gotta hit the can before we leave.
I wait 'till I'm outta her sight before I show just how much of a hurry I'm really in. I head
to the lockers and run inside, shutting myself in the stall, leaning against the side, trying to catch
my breath, but it's not working.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small plastic baggie, and reach inside for the
contents.
This is my drug.
I pull it out and my hands are shaking in my anxiousness, my need.
I am barely thinking as I pull the arm of my shirt up.
I am not thinking as I take the tiny blade of an Xacto knife and dig into my skin hard,
seeing only the look of the angel's face as she hid behind that damn couch in that damn
apartment.
I finish up, making a few more cuts, applying toilet paper to the wounds, holding until
they stop bleeding, wishing I didn't have to face Faith again, that I could just let them bleed and
bleed, rushing red down my arms.
But I can't, so I wait, and I roll down the sleeve, and I put away the blade, and I take a
deep breath to compose myself.
Then I start to think again.
I know it's sick.
I'm sick.
I probably need help before I end up killing myself or some other sick shit like that, but
this is my way to stay alive. No one would get that. Hell, I don't get it.
I shove the baggie in my pocket and walk out of the stall, washing my hands to erase any
blood that gets on them. While I'm there I wash my face, still able to feel the blood from before.
I'm fucked up, but I'm less hazy now.
I remember the smile that the girl gave me, and stare at myself in the mirror.
That will be what gets me through the rest of the day. Maybe even tomorrow.
You never know.
not caring. I pull my belt around my waist, fasten it, and check my gun to make sure the safety's
on. Yank on the cuffs, to get 'em good and stretched. I've always hated how a freshly washed
uniform feels so stiff and tight, always showing the edges of my wrists. Makes me feel...naked.
Whatever that's about.
As I leave the locker room, I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I probably look vain
as I stand there, staring, but no one else is in here, so I'm not gonna worry. It's not like I'm
lookin' at myself that way, either. I'm not tryin' to make sure my hair's in place, or make sure my
uniform's spic n' span. Nah. It's not that.
I just wanna know why they can't see it.
Why they can't see who I am. What I am.
They never know.
I straighten my uniform one more time before heading out.
Roll call's the same as ever. I'm reprimanded for being late, I hear Sully crack a joke to
Davis, and all goes along as usual.
We're given our assignments and we head out to the RMP. For once I don't wanna drive.
Faith should probably see somethin' wrong with that, but she takes no notice and slips behind the
wheel.
I don't even attempt small talk today. Just not in the mood.
Faith does. Wants to know some stuff about what I'm doing for the upcoming holidays,
how Ma's doin', if that chick from last week is still with me.
I wanna tell her to mind her own business, but I can't do that, so I just mumble somethin'
about not being sure, fine, and nah, we broke up cos she only wants to watch sappy chick flicks,
and a guy can't have that.
She laughs, calls me a bastard in a joking tone, and turns back to the road.
We get a call after too much silence, and we head out at top speed, racing to save some
people like us cops do sometimes.
We pull up out front of this apartment complex. The kinda place where rich people live.
Y'know, big fancy lobbies, lavish rooms, the kinda place half the people in New York could
never afford. The stairs are the same, mostly. Dark, dim, and too damn long.
We run 'em as fast as we can, and we stop outside this apartment just in time to hear a
gunshot. I kick down the door and we head in, guns out and ready.
Some asshole's blasted his wife into oblivion, and when we shout at him to put the gun
down, he looks at us with these scared eyes before showing the barrel of the pistol in his mouth
and pulling the trigger.
I hear Faith gasp, and step backwards as we're hit with a spray of blood that manages to
leak onto my tightly closed lips.
I wipe it off angrily and shove my gun in it's holster, feeling the blood still lingering on
my cheek.
"Fuckin' lowlife piece of shit bastard," I growl angrily.
I hear Faith say my name and start to tell her that I can say what I want, when I see what
made her speak.
Behind the expensive leather couch, a wide-eyed little girl with dirty blonde hair and a
dirty flowered dress stared back at me.
These people could afford this place, and apparently the stash of cocaine and heroin lying
on the coffee table, but they can't afford to take care of their fuckin' daughter, I guess.
What a world.
I can tell she's scared, the girl. Probably as much of me as what she saw.
Nevertheless, I call out to her.
Faith, seeing the girl isn't gonna come out, goes to the couch and kneels down,
whispering those soothing things mothers do, coaxing her.
I step towards the couch, see her flinch, and grab the afghan off the back, toss it over the
upper half of the man, take another from the chair and cover the woman.
Kid shouldn't have to see that.
Faith's got the kid by the hand, picks her up, still whispering to her, just holdin' her like
the kid's perfectly alright.
She ain't gonna be alright, Faith.
We take the girl to the house, dispatch the poor bastards who take care of the crime scene,
and wait on this tiny bench until someone from Social Services comes for her.
She tells Faith her name's Angela, she's six.
I think maybe she should shorten her name, cos she's nothing short of an angel. Tell her
this, and she grins a shy, toothy grin up at me, like I'm the nicest man she's ever met. Sad thing
is, I probably am. I can't bear to think what other men she's known, what the bastards have done.
Lookin' at this girl hurts.
Some lady comes after about an hour and takes her away. She waves as she goes, looking
sad and kinda anxious. I wave back and she smiles at me. It kills me.
I tell Faith I gotta hit the can before we leave.
I wait 'till I'm outta her sight before I show just how much of a hurry I'm really in. I head
to the lockers and run inside, shutting myself in the stall, leaning against the side, trying to catch
my breath, but it's not working.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small plastic baggie, and reach inside for the
contents.
This is my drug.
I pull it out and my hands are shaking in my anxiousness, my need.
I am barely thinking as I pull the arm of my shirt up.
I am not thinking as I take the tiny blade of an Xacto knife and dig into my skin hard,
seeing only the look of the angel's face as she hid behind that damn couch in that damn
apartment.
I finish up, making a few more cuts, applying toilet paper to the wounds, holding until
they stop bleeding, wishing I didn't have to face Faith again, that I could just let them bleed and
bleed, rushing red down my arms.
But I can't, so I wait, and I roll down the sleeve, and I put away the blade, and I take a
deep breath to compose myself.
Then I start to think again.
I know it's sick.
I'm sick.
I probably need help before I end up killing myself or some other sick shit like that, but
this is my way to stay alive. No one would get that. Hell, I don't get it.
I shove the baggie in my pocket and walk out of the stall, washing my hands to erase any
blood that gets on them. While I'm there I wash my face, still able to feel the blood from before.
I'm fucked up, but I'm less hazy now.
I remember the smile that the girl gave me, and stare at myself in the mirror.
That will be what gets me through the rest of the day. Maybe even tomorrow.
You never know.