Walking on thin ice

CW: gun violence, gore

I was home for the holidays.

I wanted nothing more than to go to her, to see her face and to hear her voice again; I kept making plans in my head that I knew I would never see through. Surprising her with bright yellow sunflowers during her class; running into her casually at her favorite café; picking her up and taking her back to our spot.

Although my love was strong, my ego and pride were stronger; I couldn’t do any of those things knowing what she had done with Mark. As thoughts of Valerie swarmed my mind, I noticed my phone was vibrating; it was her mother.

I wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation. It had been months since I had even spoken to the woman, but there was a sinking feeling in my stomach that told me I should pick up the phone. When I answered, she was in a full panic mode, her voice shaking so badly that I could barely make out the words she was saying, but the ones I could understand were so devastating that I wished I hadn’t heard them at all.

There had been a shooting at the school where Valerie taught. She told me she would call me if they got any more information, but she hadn’t heard from Val yet. My mind immediately started racing.

She could be in danger.

She could be hurt.

She could be-

I panicked. Before I even realized what was happening, I was behind the wheel, desperately dialing Val's phone number like it would be of any use right now. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins, fueling my fearful rage. This was it, her fifth year of teaching, my last year in the service, and we weren’t even speaking. The thought tore through me like shrapnel, tearing me apart without mercy.

It was mere minutes after this pathetic realization that I got another call from her mother. I was already pulling into the school parking lot when I answered. I’m not quite sure why she thought that lying to me would be beneficial, but I suppose she was only trying to help, and if not for the speed at which information is processed in this world it may have.

“Have you seen her come out yet?” she asked in a voice that was full of despair, like she had already lost all hope of ever seeing her daughter again.

“No, but I’ll find her. I’ve got to go now but I’ll keep you posted. I have to go.”

I tried to navigate my way through whispering crowds of evacuated students, teachers, and spectators, making my way to the press vans and reporters who seemed to be dangerously close to the police line, flirting with death for the sake of a story.

Suddenly my phone went crazy; it seemed like everyone I knew was offering their condolences, telling me what a great person she was, as if they already knew. I froze where I stood, and I lost all control of myself. I thought about all those innocent children inside the classrooms and my instincts kicked in.

All of the sudden, I was back in my jeep, grabbing my semi-automatic and protective gear, and then I saw the intruder. He was in all black from head to toe, weapons stored in every available space, a balaclava just a bit too tight. My training kicked in instinctively: I moved to jump from my jeep and as soon as I was halfway out, I shouted for him to stop.

“Don’t move! I’m armed!” I warned him stupidly, as though a man this disturbed would respect any authority or fear death. He started shooting at me, shattering the window behind me, and missing my head by only inches.

Then I heard the sirens and almost felt relief, as though they were there to back me up. He was distracted for a moment and then I had him, my telescopic sight directly between his eyebrows, but before I could even shout a warning, he looked directly into my eyes and pulled the trigger, hitting my right shoulder.

I kept eye contact and he gave me a crooked smile before staring down into the barrel of his own gun and pulling the trigger one last time.

Everything was silent. I saw the thick red liquid flow freely from his body and for some reason, I could only think about the fact that it was as warm as mine. I felt sick, vomiting up bile in that parking lot. Eventually, I grabbed my gun with my good arm and headed back to my jeep and just sat there. It seemed like an eternity passed but I know it was only a minute or two. I completely lost track of my surroundings; I was numb. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be mistaken for the killer, I would not resist the arrest, because I was in a way responsible for all of this. I should have listened to her. I tried to overlook the searing pain in the upper left quadrant of my right shoulder to open the trunk of my matte black jeep, my hands still sticky from the warm blood. I had stopped feeling the internal wounds, which I knew was a bad sign.

The brandy wouldn’t have helped; drowning myself in the amber liquid day after day couldn’t have made this any better. Nevertheless, at that very moment, I was sober as one could be, and how I wished I wasn’t. As I placed my cherry wood rifle in the back, I heard the sirens getting closer. I tossed my cigarette with a flick of my fingers, took a deep breath, and sat back down in my car; it was all that I could do.

Moments later, dark navy-blue uniforms surrounded me, their handguns pointed at me as though the fear of death had any effect on me now. I chuckled a little bit, thinking to myself

If only they knew how many times I’ve danced with the devil.

However, sorrow instantly replaced that ironic thought.

My mother’s angelic face was all I could think about, and how disappointed she would be when she heard the news.

I had dishonored my father and our uniform.

It made sense that they suspected me: I was a trained Navy Seal Lt., I had spent two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and in two weeks I would go on another tour that would likely be my last.

I knew it was a one-way ticket; I was the one who volunteered.

I glanced down and saw my emerald, green t-shirt soaked in blood. His aim was so close.

I had ammunition in the trunk of Luna, my old jeep. I knew they would find my rifle back there too, but I was off duty. Not to mention that my wife, or my fiancée I suppose, was at the crime scene and we were not on the best of terms. How could I explain this?

“HANDS UP WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” I heard a deep and sharp voice shout in the distance.

“I SAID PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND SLOWLY STEP OUT THE CAR!” the officer shouted with more ferocity.

Three more police cars pulled up to the scene, I could almost smell the burning rubber of their tires skidding to an abrupt halt. When I was finally able to process what was happening, their dark uniforms and flashing sirens surrounded my jeep, and the barrels of their guns stared me down.

A thin pale officer cautiously approached me. I could tell he was in charge; the air of leadership and the thick copper-blond mustache showed his authority. I felt responsible for what had happened, and I knew these men felt the same way.

I could not get myself to step out of the car, but I knew that I needed to if I wanted to get out of here alive. Had I lost my mind?

Absolutely.

Guilt was eating me alive, knowing that we had no time to clean up the mess we made of ourselves.

“We’ll count to ten. If you don’t exit the vehicle we will have to shoot,” a different voice shouted, this one in a thick New York accent; the familiarity was almost comforting.

I carefully raised my hands and placed them behind my neck.

“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle,” the first voice ordered as he scanned the back seat. He retreated a few steps and signaled at his men to take their rehearsed positions; the most insignificant move on my part could be deadly for all of us.

The officer’s sapphire eyes widened with adrenaline, motivated by fear, grasping his handgun ever so slightly tighter. I wanted to tell myself everything would work out in the end, but I knew that in this life, you’re either the hunter or the prey.

The SWAT team had moved in, and I could hear helicopters in the distance, signaling the arrival of the media. The blond officer began to reach for the handle of the car door, and I knew that whatever was going to happen would happen now. In a split second my eyes were locked on the concrete floor, faster than I thought possible.

Back in med school, I had always been around blood, but I never got used to seeing my own. I became aware of a well-polished pair of black boots kicking me in the ribs over and over, and as a couple of his men came closer, cracking a few of my bones, I knew I should have felt fear, but I could only feel grief.

The second officer slowly opened the trunk and found the toolbox where I kept all my toys. He glanced inside, meeting eyes with Lola, my Remington M91A2. After a brief pause, his shocked and angry eyes moved to the black Glock 19 that laid next to my rifle.

“Take him!” the second officer – Mr. Accent - shouted.

It had snowed the night before and the day was encased in a frozen stillness, colder than what was usual, and just like my world, cloudy and upside down. Flakes of white snow covered the pine trees on the mountains; any other day, the landscape would have been a beautiful sight, but on this day, it was only an air of melancholy and clouds screaming for a storm. Through the blaring noise of the helicopters, desperate cries of a mother asking for mercy, and this was happening at home.

Fear could be seen everywhere. People were running and crying, the devil was playing with us, and I was slowly dying.

“Move! Move!” echoed military voices. “Come on! Let’s go! Move, move!” I heard a marine shout in the distance. Thrown into the back seat with a cracked skull and bruises as souvenirs, I scanned the perimeter the best I could.

I could see my military brothers and the firefighters outside the window, fighting the invisible flames that burned down this town. No jungle or desert could compare to this. When evil visits, it leaves behind chaos and destruction. Everything else in the world seemed small compared to this.

“Officer Smith, we need you in the parking lot immediately,” a shrill female voice announced through a walkie-talkie strapped over his shoulder.

“Roger that,” the pale officer replied.

Smith: that was his name.

Before slamming the door on me the first officer now identified as “Smith” said to me,

“I will make sure you rot in hell you piece of shit.”

But little did he know my heart was already rotten and I was already there.

As the squad car I was in started to move, I observed the Commanding Officer: tall and blond with a lofty air to him, and his men following him without question. I immediately recognized the trust in his men, the goodwill and teamwork constantly rehearsed - cover my back and I will cover yours - it was our code of honor.

I couldn’t help but think of him at that moment: my brother in arms and in life since childhood: MARK.

That fucking traitor.