Rewriting this still, cool. Champaign was originally a three-chapter "epic" of about 1,000 words each. All three chapters will be joined together and rewritten with the same overall story with a few changes here and there.
I headed towards the back, hurrying past families and solo passengers, finding an empty seat in the very back of the car. I was isolated back here, as I should be, my paws shaking at an unbearable speed, I had constant Tourette's.
Outside, the Tram station was starting to expand, exceeding the maximum capacity plaque, every villager entering with a pitchfork or similar weaponry. It was a medieval mob, a few years too late. I shrank, trying to ensure that I would be hidden from any passerby. Weird looks, mumbling started, nothing worrying yet.
I saw them start talking with Porter. I prayed. I don't believe in god. I prayed.
"Please, please just move, psst." I said under my breath, the lowest volume I could muster. A kid antelope started to look back at me, his beady little eyes stared me down. I was his first experience with headlights. I raised my eyebrows at him, his mother quickly nudging him, quickly placing down the reminder to not engage with strangers. Movement, jolting forward ever so slight. I heard everyone in the station start yelling in protest, yet in the mass, I heard crying. A yellow blob covered from eye to toe in water. She didn't look at me. I'm glad she didn't.
I was home free for the time being, but without a home to speak of. Snuggled up next to my backpack, probably my only true friend for a while now.
Dark room. The lights are suddenly turned on, brightness fills the room, but stays far away from me. An alpaca enters the room, suit and tie, black dress shoes, messy fur. I didn't know Alpacas could have five o'clock shadow. He sits down across from me, empty gaze. I would say he looked deep into my soul, but he had no need to. He already knew every little thing about me. A resting face, not analytical in the slightest as if we had been father and son for a century, and he had already studied every nook and cranny of my face. He coughed, leaning back in his chair.
"I know why you did it. But, but I want to hear why you think you did it," he said, his arms now crossed. He blinked for the first time, still set on me. I twitched.
"I had to." Twitched again.
"You had to?"
"I did," I protested, the pain and regretful manner showing itself, right out in the spotlight. My head felt dizzy, the room shook, but the alpaca stayed in place. An earthquake couldn't move this guy.
"You did? I guess I understand." His secretary walked in, she was gorgeous. She looked like Isabelle. It was Isabelle. She didn't have eyes. Twitch. She couldn't see me. Blind. Darkness. She handed the animal a coffee, steam emerging out from the lid, freshly made. "Thanks." Sip, not removing himself from the situation. I didn't know what to say, no words wished to belt questions out as she left the room, not bumping into everything as if she still had the gift of sight.
"I th-"
"I want you to speak with someone," he said, standing up. "He's someone very close to you and it could possibly shed some more light on this case." His fur started to be bleached with coffee stains, the liquid sloshing down from his lips as he took a huge gulp. He was missing the lower part of his jaw, the majority of the coffee just funneling through the flesh and onto his shirt.
"W-who?" Twitched.
"He'll be in shortly," he said, walking towards the door, his back pocket was inside out. "Have a nice night." The door closed as quickly as it had opened, the two sounds occupying the same moment. Shift. I could walk around or try to escape, but I felt compelled to continue as I was. A knock emerged, but where? Behind? The door? There weren't too many places it could be coming from.
"H-Hello?" managing to speak up a full word for once. The door opened. My jaw felt like the Alpaca's, gone, disbelief filled my head.
A hole was in the middle of his forehead, I could see the eggshell white wallpaper through it. He sat down, sniffing slightly once or twice before remaining completely silent. His head cocked slightly to the left, his eyebrows went higher than I thought was possible, taking a long moment to scratch a zit right next to his hole.
"Y-your, uh, shoe's, uh, untied." Twitch.
"Oh, thanks." Leaning down, I could see his shirt through the gap. Robocop. Peter Weller's character shining. "How are things?"
I was flicked on the nose, scream. Not from the flick, well, not that flick. Moonlight came in from the window. I rubbed my eyes with my paws, getting a glimpse of the conductor, eyeing me down, his breath smelled like cigarettes. Cheap ones.
"Get off you junkie, I'm done with my shift," he said. Only Rover was present, sitting near the front.
"You getting off too?" I asked him, slowly waddling out of the tram, passing by the now empty rows and rows of seats. Miscellaneous trash, fountain drinks and overpriced snacks. He shook his head, not batting an eye at me.
"I live here," he said, the snap of a claw flying off echoing through the chamber. Twitch.
"Alright. Goodnight." How are things?
I hopped off.
I looked in the tram station, it was empty except for the low vending machine hum and the presence of a homeless man passed out in the corner. He had a bottle of booze in his hand which would be perfect right about now, but I had already done enough at this point. My footsteps echoed through the small building, each having more weight than the last, sandbags falling in perfect sync. Another town, about the same size as mine... er, my old one. I looked in my backpack, pawing around. My grandfather's old pocket watch, I always made an effort of keeping it in good shape and working. It was all I got out of his will, and nothing could make me happier when my name was called and it was plopped into my lap. He used to dangle it in front of me, the golden blob... that memory had a secondary meaning now.
2:43 AM.
I held it tight, my backpack wrapped around my shoulders, holding me tight. The sandbags continued. There's no way a warrant for my arrest was already, well, everywhere, right? I didn't care, I wanted to take in at least some of the scenery for the time being, something I wouldn't be able to live out again when I was stuck in a dark room. That room. No reason to be cautious now. Town hall laid pretty on the grass, the only building in the entire town that was lit up. I flocked to it like a moth, bzzing while skipping, pressing my ear against the front door to hear what was going on, catching the conversation that leaked outside.
"... even though it happened hundred of miles away, we need you to be protected in case he comes here." You're here.
"I'm not going to spend the animal's tax money on making sure I stay safe. We're already building a public park, and I'm not going to scare the townsfolk with a slight chance of some maniac coming to our town, okay? Besides, I'm just a small time mayor, there is no need for there to be any security here, if anywhere!"
"But M-"
"No buts, I'm done with your worrying. In fact, this has happened too often. You might be trying to help, but for the past year, you've brought up the idea that we need to buff up security. The only crime we've had was on Halloween when Jack came and Simon stole someone's candy. If you don't have any other advice to bring to the table, you're done."
"Bu-"
"Dan!"
Crickets.
"I understand ma'am."
"Good, now get out of my sight."
Steps stepped towards the door, my steps ran to the side of the building, I caught up to them. Had to try and stay out of sight, probably being seen by the guy who considers me a threat isn't a great idea. The door opened, the person that came out was about 5 and a half feet tall. Small guy. Coat, pants, brown hair, dress shoes. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Who didn't smoke?
"Damn it Carol," he muttered, beginning to walk home. I sighed in relief, feeling almost at ease. A quick 360 maneuver, my breath skidded across the air. Neat. I followed it, stumbling upon the local cemetery. Very few graves, all of people who lived long lives, all populated with as many flowers as a small garden. A sign stood in front of it. I read it under my breath, it always helped my bra-
I didn't know until that moment that one's thoughts could be cut off, like a rude classmate correcting your answer to the teacher.
"Wyatt Richmond," I said aloud, a little louder than I would've liked. "The funeral of Wyatt Richmond." Welcome.
I was in Champaign. I was in Wyatt's hometown.
You know, it's always advised that when you murder someone, you don't go to their hometown.
"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, kicking a rock. "I'm dead. They're going to find me. I don't think I can do this. How can I hide it? Someone is going to come up and say, 'Hey, were you a friend of Wyatt's?', in which I'll respond with, 'Nah, I just killed him because I was in love with his fiancé.' Shit, shit, shit." How the hell could I do this? How the hell could I? I was on the verge of tears. What was I doing with my life? I'm just denying the inevitable. I'll be found out. It doesn't matter when, it'll happen when I least expect it. I'll be sitting in an ice cream shop, wandering around a town plaza, anywhere. Everywhere was a death trap. I started to pace back and forth, I needed some sort of plan, I felt hopeless, but I could think of something right?
The rock was the only thing I had focus on while my mind was in scrambles, playing soccer with the only person who would ever want to play any game with me again. The rock collided into something other than nothingness.
"You lost?" I jumped up, seeing the man from earlier in front of me. I just stared at him, my eyes darting from every aspect of his character, trying to rip him apart in my head, limb from limb. The jaw. Would I have to kill him too? "Can you talk?"
"No, I mean, no to me being lost, not to the fact that I can't ta-talk," I said, chuckling at the end, trying to play off my murderous vibes. I now had murderous vibes. "In fact, I was actually w-"
"I know who you are," he said, interrupting me. "You're that cat, the main suspect in the killing of Wyatt," he motioned to the sign. An image of Wyatt as a child, black and white as if it was from a time long ago. "Child prodigy. Like you. Where was he mayor of again?"
"When Wyatt became mayor, the townsfolk agreed to-to change it to Richmond." I replied. "Can't recall what it was called beforehand." They named a damn town after him, ignoring any previous achievement made there. Maybe he really was a prodigy. He offered me a cigarette, my head shook, albeit may have appeared to be a twitch.
"I'm not going to turn you in," he said, taking one last puff from the cigarette, throwing it on the ground and stomping it under his foot, each individual ash smushed. "Carol thinks we don't need security so I'm going to see how everyone reacts to a dangerous criminal stalking everyone's houses at night." He chuckled once more. He stuck his hand out. "I'm Dan." I shook his hand. It was cold, perhaps the coldest handshake I had ever went through with. I didn't like it. Would mine be the same before long?
"K-Kid Cat," I responded. I didn't get a good feeling from this at all, were these the kind of people I had aligned myself with? Cold, dead people who don't have any idea of how to react to the real world, a world full of emotions and moments of pure bliss. A world I had left, ignorant of what I was leaving behind.
"Listen. I know you're probably going to just ditch town in the morning, but I'd like it if you stayed around for a bit. Stalk around during the day, break into houses, make Carol worried. When night falls, meet me behind the Town Hall, and I'll give you my final assignment." Assignment? And could I really commit another crime right after another? He wanted me to terrorize innocents... Like me.
"Because I have what you want," he said, pulling out a sack of bells.
10,000 Bells. For mayors, that might be pocket change, but for a villager... that amount of money was no joking matter. Some animal's savings would consist of 2,000 bells. I stared at it for a while, almost drooling. I needed some kind of funds. I had thrown my last bells at Porter before leaving, totally forgetting about my secret stash. I couldn't survive long without some source of income.
"Deal?" He stuck out his hand. It remained in the cold landscape for a while, momentarily moving once in a while thanks to natural jitters. "There's more where that came from, pal." I thought about it, at least I would've thought about it longer given the time. But desperation is a powerful beast and a better deal would most likely not present itself ever in the foreseeable future. I had to take it.
"Deal." I didn't shake his hand though, I didn't want to do that again.
"Good," he said, rubbing his hand on his pantleg, an awkward way of trying to play off the fact that I wouldn't touch him. "I'll be in touch." As will I.
Jittering to my senses, I awoke. Leather interior, scattered snack bags below me, a grease stain on the top. A car. The little glass window in front of me was slammed upon by the driver. My torso was sporting a torn, beaten windbreaker. The man was blurry. My visor had snapped in two, a bullet hole on one end.
"You're alive?" I took the visor off. It's hard to accomplish simple tasks with handcuffs on. Copper. "You're lucky to still be standing after what Booker did to you." He pointed at the visor.
"W-what's happening?" White, as far as the eye could see, not a room... snow. Fog. Nothing but snow and Booker, his back facing me.
"We found you, the gig is up, you're done for," he declared, sipping coffee down his throat. Nothing dripped out this time. "We've been searching for days, er, weeks. Feels like you were too easy to catch!" He laughed, it came from the gut. "Felt like it was shorter, apologies, I'll give you credit, we would never think of searching here." He coughed.
"Where is here?" A winter wonderland? I would've remembered. He turned around again, this time his face looked older, more worn, more at war with itself. Aging.
"Okay kid, stop playing dumb, I'm aware you've been starving for a few days, but c'mon, you would forget your old stomping grounds?" Oh, right. Home. Not Richmond, but home. My actual home. The field next to my father's house, the fog always made it impossible to see anything other than... anything else. Haven't seen it be this bad before. Just snow... wait, where did Booker go? "It was something we never considered." His voice had changed. Raspy. Repeating himself, reiterating. "Find it odd how you decided to go somewhere we could find, not somewhere foreign, perhaps a place you had never been to, ever consider that!?" Another laugh. Every syllable encountered a bump, a hiccup. It wasn't the same as before.
I didn't respond.
"What, cat got your tongue!" He turned, in a manner that suggested a quick movement, but one that was sluggishly slow, laughing. His eyes were pushed in deeper, wrinkles on the forehead and cheeks, chapped lips, a smile with a missing tooth. I jumped back, looking outside, a pile of ash, blending in with the snow, a police cap resting on top of the mound. The door wouldn't budge.
"What?" It took a while for those words to leave Copper's lips, every single letter holding their own breath with it. Twitching again, fear reared it's awful head and that fear was an aging police officer right in front of my eyes, a husk of a dog going inside out, revealing every underneath. He turned around again, facing the outdoors, letting out a long, lifeless sigh. The car died with it.
His hand fell to the ground. An arm. What I assumed was a leg. Nose. Eye. Ear. Strands of hair flickered. Fingers. Another eye.
"We've gathered here today-"
My head bolted up, slamming against the branches and thorns of the bush. My visor absorbed most of the blow, but a cut on my bottom lip materialized. I had slept in a bush, having no other place to go, not wanting to risk anything. Anything?
"-to honor a great man. A man we all knew, and if we didn't happen to know him personally, we strove to be him. Folks-"
I looked behind me, I had used my backpack as a pillow and, remarkably, old war medals and legos didn't make for the greatest support, canvas casing or not. I grabbed it, opening it up just to make sure everything was there. 10,000 bells, all wrapped up in a nice, tight pouch. It was hard to fathom, my mouth practically started watering right then and there.
"-around here either grew up with him, or grew up with the spirit of him. They listened to all the great tales surrounding Wyatt Richmond II, all of his accomplishments and obstacles, and how he turned those obstacles into successes. Yes, Wyatt-"
I noticed some berries along the branches, raspberries? I plopped one into my mouth. Yep, raspberries.
"-was a great man, an ambitious man who died too young. We can only imagine the further goals he would set and crush, the projects he would finish till completion, the friendships he would create and cherish like no other. He was special. One in a million."
I burped loudly, consuming no more than maybe thirty raspberries. I didn't know you could burp from raspberries. I finally paid attention to the eulogy that was happening nearby, it was thunderous throughout the entire town, amplifiers and speakers and all. It hurt to hear, but, as the killer, my burden was to hear the praise of who I took. Not for long. I peeped my head out to see where it was, brick (and lot's of it), but by flipping 180 degrees, the ocean. I stood up and stretched, all of my joints popping out at once, sleeping in such conditions couldn't persist.
I stepped down, weird for a bush to be elevated and this near a house, a large sign was next to it. I felt... odd today. The depressed, scared, fearful cat was not in today, but a more arrogant, proud one. Despite the dreams, the deed, and this... weird voice in the back of my head, I felt alive. As my trek began, I noticed a sign next to the bush I raided.
"Keep out!" I read aloud, yawning in between the two syllables. I took more, I was supposed to be a bad guy, I was just an actor filling out a role for money.
I stopped dead in my tracks. How could I have forgotten? One raspberry bush slumber and suddenly I act like Ted Bundy, out in public like no one's business. My thoughts were normal as if I wasn't murderer. I ducked down by the house, and looked around, seeing that the cemetery was maybe twenty feet away. Someone could've heard me reading the sign. God I hope they didn't. A brave killer still needed to have brains.
The rest of the town was abandoned. I had to sneak around, moving towards the town hall in such a manner that not only the crowd, but the speaker wouldn't give me a second of attention. Creeping with ease, I navigated between homes, trees, garbage cans, everything. I saw the back of heads and the fronts of others as I made my journey. Some animals that were foreign to me and some animals from my old town, Alfonso included. That last peach we had together... and to talk over an open flame again like we did when he came to the campsite. I was actually the reason he moved there in the first place.
I missed him.
Long nights of playing games together, playing hide and seek with the other villagers. He was the only one that instantly became my friend, bringing out the more relaxed side of me, the more laid-back version of Kid Cat, the one presently at the helm. I missed him.
On the stage, there was an old turtle giving a speech, the eulogy I had been hearing before. It had already devolved into a cliché, nothing of importance other than to bring memories and tears. Carol, the town's mayor, was next to him, sunglasses on, but I could see that she was crying due to her somewhat smeared makeup, soggy mascara rearing its head. Dan was next to her, emotionless. And... and...
...
Isabelle.
Just standing there, off to the edge of the stage, looking at the grave. I couldn't see her face at all, but I could describe it perfectly to anyone on the fly. The exact expression she was making, the way her nose would be consistently moving up and down, how she would cry for a while only to breathe in for a second and resume crying. I knew it all. I didn't need to see it. I knew it already.
She had stubbed her toe once when she was in my living room, excited that I finally gave in to learning Chess. She talked about how much she loved playing, but that Digby was tired of losing all the time, an endless wave of calculated moves annoying her brother to no end. She refused to jump onto the couch from the back of it like I did and insisted she went around it, "I'm carrying the drinks after all!" Stubbed, water everywhere, tears. I helped her up and she sat next to me. Nose in motion, trying to stop herself from letting it all out, only to let out more in the next second.
I tried to take her off my mind, town hall was in the front of my mind now, I had a job to do. Funds would be a necessity if I was going to continue living this way. I didn't want to go to jail. It would be even worse there, and nothing I could do would make her think differently of me now. At least you're aware.
I couldn't blame her. I took her life away and she repaid me by taking mine a long, long time ago. I can't blame her for that either, I'm the dumbass who fell head over heels. She would always have it, me, but maybe my body could just keep going on for a while. A lifeless cat, one paw at a time.
I tried opening the door, but the handle wouldn't twist. Locked. I looked around, there had to be a rock I could use or something... or that. Something shiny was glowing from a tree hole. I cautiously approached the glow, having a thing for shiny objects as a kid, I had learned to be skeptical about them. Tetanus sucks. I looked at my paw, perhaps the last time I would ever see it, and dipped it down into the abyss. It grabbed the first thing other than bark, and a key appeared, tightly wrapped around my pads. It had a note on it from Dan, it simply asked me to thank him.
I crumpled the note and threw it on the ground. Sure, I was doing a job for him, but I didn't have to like the guy, he sucked. My 'chaos' would have purpose, he was only a shell of a man.
Ironic coming from me.
I put the key into the door, unlocking it swiftly and re-locking the door before even seeing if anyone was present. Abandoned, thank god. I only spent a few seconds inspecting the room before realizing it was practically the same as Richmond's. The interior decorator must've made a fortune. The desk beckoned my name. A picture of Dan and the mayor, gazing at me from its trash abyss, she wasn't kidding. Next to the trash was a large lump of something, I reached down for it.
Heavy. Way too heavy to be trash.
With all of my might, the bag was now on the table, a little note wrapped around the top of it. 100,000 bells. Five zeros. More money than I had seen in his life, I mean my life, my thoughts were sunny side up, scrambled, out of here, this.
100,000 bells. I emptied my backpack out completely, happy and smiling from ear to ear, only holding onto my grandfather's medals, the pocket watch, and a pair of binoculars I had as a kid. Legos and everything else I had were laid out upon the ground, like I refused to clean up before dinner, maybe minus the flintlock. I dumped the bag like a sack of potatoes into my backpack, just in pure shock and... happiness? Happiness. But, wait... there was something on the other side of little paper.
Wyatt Statue Funds. For me?
My anger came back in full force, the arrogance that turned to desperation and loneliness was now unfiltered rage. He simply existed, doing little quirky things here and there and somehow became an idol for everyone, for every idiot, an idiot told by idiots that that idiot was the smartest, bravest, kindest, bestest idiot in the history of idiots.
I grabbed a pen and wrote in scrawled handwriting, the most ravenous way I could, the pen puncturing the paper with each letter's start, the ink blotting.
"Wyatt was just the beginning."
About to leave, I recalled my mission, causing panic. I looked through the drawers of Carol's desk, simply ripping out each drawer, moving down the rows. Their contents started to fly across the room, the wooden canisters smashing against the ground. After causing mayhem in one corner of the building, I moved to the next, destroying Dan's desk too, I assumed he would've cleared it out, but it was full of juvenile things such as whoopie cushions, fireworks, and... a lighter. I stopped.
I picked up the little thing, it was a metal one, you simply flicked it and it opened, a flame being born in front of me. I was a mother. I felt entranced by it, fascinated like a caveman. Everything I ever wanted was in that tiny flicker, slowly being burned away, a fire within a fire, a disaster within a paradise. Her.
Water droplets started to form at their origin point like they were waiting forever to fall, but finally found their moment to strike, a guerilla attack on my cheeks, down to my mouth and the final strike upon my chest. We got 'em boys, great success. I cried. Sitting down, I wrapped my arms around my legs in a fetal position, squeezing tightly at the other person. Just legs. But, they were, warm. Undeniably warm, incredibly warm, hot even, burning, maybe?
"Oh god, psst!" Realizing I forgot to close the lighter, the left half of my body was aflame, the right half of my body terrified. I fell over and started rolling on the ground like a gerbil in a hamster wheel but with some sort of purpose. While I was being saved, the room I was in was being cursed, the plague creeping up the curtains and wooden interior, engulfing everything. I grabbed my backpack and ran to the front door, but heard yells and screams from outside, I couldn't just run right out into the arms of those I hurt, I... I couldn't speak to her again. I spun, now sprinting to the back of the room, my footsteps slamming against the wood over and ov-, wood? That didn't feel or sound like wood.
I ripped up the carpet and found a large metal hatch right underneath Carol's chair, like a bomb shelter or something. My paws opened the sucker flawlessly, throwing the bag down. I hopped onto the ladder, closing the metal top above me, the fire still raging. Clunk. I descended.
"There has to be some way out of here," I mumbled to myself, each rung clung letting out more and more of an echo, a dash of unregulated Morse code for the demons dwelling in the dark. I fell off the last rung and looked around.
It was pitch black down here.
Pleasant, almost.
Haunting, more so.
I took the lighter out of my pocket, having subconsciously closed it and put it away while burning to death, an instinctual response I suppose. I flicked it. A giant crate laid before me, the kind you would find on the back of a freighter. Backpack back over my shoulder, I undid the latches at the bottom of the beast, the creaking of the doors sounding like a response to my earlier message. My light led me inside the crate, full of small wooden boxes, all nailed shut. I slammed one against the ground, eager and stupid to find what the contents were, a child on Christmas, my foot destroying the poor thing.
A revolver, metal, like the one Dirty Harry used. Unlike the one you used. It was fully loaded, multiple cases of ammo and a holster underneath, felt like the one once held by Eastwood, his weapon of choice. Without a second thought, I equipped it, some bullets in my pocket, the rest in my backpack, and a magnum on my side. I felt like Officer Murphy in Robocop, the now machine, once man who still had elements of his former self, but lost everything that made him... him.
"You're not you anymore
I panicked at the sound of the voice, but only half of it was spoken, the rest was... internal. I knew it, it wasn't foreign, I had been hearing it all day and I had heard it before then. It wasn't the usual omnipotent jargon I usually heard. I moved the lighter farther away from my face, the shadows were speaking to me.
"Who's there?" I cooed, hesitantly, backing further into the crate, my breath following after me, my paw reaching for the firearm, the other shaking the lighter rapidly, the flame dancing in the dark.
"It's me Kid Cat The gun felt heavier as if the bullets doubled in size, it took all my strength to lift the damn thing. You wouldn't do it again, would you?" I twitched. Just like the dream.
"B-back up man." I was talking to nobody, I was just losing it, that was all. Just losing it.
Or what?! You don't even know where I am! I'm not even there! The killer is in the crate!" A quick, full turn to a shadowy figure in the darkest part of the crate. I screeched, my paw on the trigger, the barrel shivering up and down, left and right, like something a child would do in a color-in-the-lines activity. I wanted to shoot, but I didn't. I wanted to, but couldn't. I should've, but couldn't've. "Kid Cat, c'mon, it's me!"
"Wyatt?"
Pitch white.
An infinite plane. Claustrophobic. Incredibly claustrophobic.
Floating.
What would I do if I had an infinite amount of time, but nothing to occupy it with? One can only sleep so much, count so many sheep, think so many thoughts. The first thought I thought was the thought of her, how it started. Seemed right to start there.
Basketball, middle school. We were friends before that, we were in the same class multiple times and occasionally played together. She had this incredibly shiny blue firetruck, I made fun of it for being the color of a cop car. She hated that. But it was perfect, the streaks of the ocean itself made it stand out against Ms. Johnson's red carpet, any other firetruck would be submerged by it's power, but it scoffed at the puny obstacle, something so small conquering something so large. She never let anyone play with it, her father's father had given it to her as a present before he passed. I didn't understand why she brought something so important to school everyday. I thought about that blue firetruck all the time, even as an adult I asked her about it time and time again.
She was standing in the corner of the gymnasium, a blue hairpin in her hair. That firetruck. Just the curiosity moved my legs toward her, we talked for the next hour about it and preschool, algebra class, and everything in between. It was simple, but ever since I looked forward to asking her new questions, playing out conversations in my head but her always surprising me... a fixation? A childhood obsession, nothing more, but something I always hoped just might be more.
"Kid Cat, catch!"
The ball ruptured my skull. It bounced away along with my molars. A cough of blood landed on the ground, my jaw loose, neck stiff and loose at the same time. I tried to stand up.
My eyes snapped open. He shrieked at me, his ghostly nose touching my real nose. My shriek was less intimidating than his, I sounded more like a dog than a cat with my yelp, jumping backwards and putting the revolver down to my side. It, I mean, he looked like I had left him, but his head was fully intact. The transparent, dull colored individual, like he was drawn in, slightly floating, legs bent back ever so slightly. He held the appearance of flesh, yet, he was everything but.
"That's my name, don't wear it out!" he exclaimed with a chuckle, "unlike how you wore out my head!" His finger applied pressure to the middle of his head, a hole appearing, stuffing both his hands into the hole, and ripping the top of his head off, a smile on his face the entire time. My act wasn't as impressive, my jaw couldn't fall out of my mouth like a cartoon character or ol' Copper, but it sure did try. He appeared as joyful as ever, almost like how he did in the Roost. He slapped his top back on and swooshed down next to me. Cold.
"W-Wyatt," I managed to toss out, shivering, my body falling to the floor.
"I know." He did the same.
"Okay."
...
"Wait, what?" I sat up and looked down, the ghastly apparition shrugging at me.
"You really think that the guy who was madly in love with Isabelle wouldn't understand how someone else would feel about the situation?"
"Oh." And that's all I could say, oh. A simple, bare-bones response, sometimes even mistaken for just a release of air. Over the years, it was probably pretty obvious to everyone. I felt like a spy with my feelings. Cat, Kid Cat, 007, licensed to yearn. I might as well have been displaying it on a billboard outside my house, flashing lights and a speaker box. I scooted over to the wall and rose up against it, my hard back on the soft concrete. He appeared right next to me, a cigarette in hand.
"Didn't ever try them in real life, love them now," he blew in the air, an inhumane amount splashing into the room. "It does look cool, maybe it'll make purgatory worth it a little eh?" I chuckled slightly, him examining the tube in his hands, trying to go over every single detail with his thumbprint. A perfect image of the man I hated, but I couldn't help the shame from seeping in, every pore, nothing could breathe.
I took the lighter out again, motioning it above my head. I noticed a light switch, lightly shoving it with my middle pad. Just giant crates, giant hanging lights, but not super large scale... perhaps ten crates, at least from the vantage point I was at.
"Have you looked in any of these other ones?"
"I'm just with you kid," he took another puff. "I know what you know." Risen, I patrolled, revealing the contents the same way I did before. C4, ARs, machetes, various other explosives, other firearms, other weapons... closing your eyes and randomly picking a word out of the dictionary would warrant something that was in one of these crates with 50/50 precision. Was Dan planning on killing the entire town? "I recall Carol calling me one day and discussing the possibility of illegal activity happening in her town," he followed my shadow. "She was always talking about how Dan wanted to raise security, she started to grow suspicious considering all of the public crimes resulted in a simple slap on the wrist."
"I could destroy this warehouse."
"You could, it wouldn't be in line with your character though."
"Is it too late for my redemption arc?"
"A conflicted arc might work, gripping onto and realizing the consequence of your actions, trying to right the wrongs and become a better person. Everything you can do can't be met with immediate success, you need to be able to face the life you've given yourself and not stick your nose up when it greets you. Only by embracing it can you truly become better."
"You watch too many movies."
"Yeah."
I had done everything I could. Chipped and smashed wood, dents in metal, demolish crowbars, smashed plastic, dynamite fuses with no dynamite, rusty knives, spare triggers, and a pile of various bullets all clumped together in a corner. In my backpack sat Harry's signature piece and some bullets, all I saved from the destruction... well, other than this toy looking button. It was yellow-red with a blue clip on it. That cliché, bloody red button staring right at me. It was mesmerizing, really, that flat, elevated circle just swimming in a pool of mustard. I felt inclined to not touch it as if it had some purpose, why else would a children's toy be in the middle of a death warehouse?
I clipped it on my sweats.
"Wyatt?" He had mindlessly watched me wreak havoc upon the concrete land, only chuckling once when my boot wouldn't release itself from a box. Simply floating now, his head motioned towards mine. "Are you like... a full ghost? Able to move through walls, possess things, the whole shebang? Could you, uh, look up and check to see if the coast is clear?"
He shot up. Actually, shot probably isn't the right word, he inclined by an inch per second, rivaling even the bravest of astronauts, dodging left and right, meteors crashing down upon him, Captain, do you really think we'll be able to survive this ascent? We've never experienced anything of this caliber! His head moved 90 degrees, My boy, from where I come from, this is just another Sunday haha! Don't you fret yourself, I was born to engage situations like this, steamroll through, protect the innocent. I'm the wrecking ball they send in to stop the runaway nuke! Don't you recall, 2271, the Battle of Zeidsa, 500 intergalactic cruisers versus just a few merchant carriers equipped with the most primitive equipment to man, might as well have been squirt guns haha! A bloodbath, but for who? Not those humble salesman, for they had Captain James Wellar Ponghi, the bravest widow to ever enter the space realm! Margaret, it's been 7 years but not a day goes by where I don't forget the sound of your v-
"There's no one there," someone said, at the lowest frequency possible. Shaking my head, I looked up, Wyatt blinking sporadically, falling down. Tears? Unsure. One rung at a time, still thrice as fast as Wyatt, but only a one-hundredth as fast as Ponghi. Arriving with a new world record, the hatch seemed like the natural step.
"W-Who's there?!"
...
Have I ever described my most perfect room? The one place on this floating rock in space that just brightens my face? There's a barely functioning sewing machine in one corner, the brand engraving barely legible. Mountains of tangled yarn stacked behind the desk it rests upon. Violet, teal, black-gold, throw any color combination or uncommon variant at the wall and it's there, a fine mess is what she called it. A closet you can't even open, both sides of the door being in constant warfare with the pressure from need-to-be-delivered thrift-store donations and a creaky bedframe. A bleached carpet, one that smells constantly from having a part-time job as a pet's bathroom, dark spots almost overbearing the whitest white. A lamp with a burnt out bulb, "we'll fix it next time, dear," plugged into the only socket in the room, lamp and sewing machine sharing a home. Each wall a different color, each wall peeling the exact same amount, and a ceiling that's elevated like a steeple. Oh yeah, that bedframe. It's got a mattress in it, a twin size, constantly replaced with the newest model, the one new item for 10 yards. You think it would be the highlight of such a decadent room, something that saw better days but with one little shining light. But my mother laid on that bed.
Isabelle in this textbook, barely standing mayor's office outshone it all. No details worth mentioning other than the beam of light in the middle of the room, just a Shih Tzu, hanging out amongst a weak interior. Staring at her lover's murderer. Her lover, blank faced, floating beside her, trying to grab her paw. NBD is what the kids would describe it as, if I'm holding the right words in my paw. Surprised the fire brigade was able to down such a storm so quickly.
She hollered, it wasn't fear at all, it was joy if anything. Finding the person who rid the world of her lover, could be a good story, justice coming down upon the evildoer. I'm on the wrong side here. But I couldn't lose, not yet, even to her.
Instinctively, I ripped my magnum out of my backpack right up to her nose.
"I'm sorry."
No one-liner, no Eastwood approved zinger, sending chills down the recipient's spine and roots and howls from the audience. Two words, equal in weight, meant with every ounce of effort it took to say. I zinged out of there, Wyatt tied around my ankle, his motion ridden entity tumbling through the ground after me. Sirens rang out, people screamed from their homes, Isabelle watching me make a getaway, Dan standing in the middle of my exit. Dan standing in the middle of my exit?
"You!" he grabbed me and put my gun to his head. Wait, did I describe that right? "Hey pal, you did great! I'm impressed! Thought it wasn't in you, but holy shit, did you give Carol a scare and a run for her seat! I've had half the town come up to me, 'Dan, I'm sorry I doubted you, we really need some new law enforcement over here!' Ha! Can ya believe it?! All thanks to you friend! Here..." he snuck a bag of clunking and clanking into my front pocket. "A pleasure, really, all mine!" He kicked me back, towards the tram, my left kneecap burning like hell. "Help! It's h-"
He stopped. Pointed. Looked down.
"That button. Give it."
"No."
I ran into the station, my lucky streak continuing with a tram just about to leave. I tossed Dan's clunky and clanky bag into Porter and hopped aboard.
Thanks for checking out this story for the first time or giving it another go during this rewrite. Any support is welcome and appreciated greatly. You're all the best.
