Press Play to Shoot

TW: murder

"My father is a policeman!" I yelled as I held up my phone to record an argument I was having with an old woman. It had always been my go-to excuse to everything, from bullying to being rude with strangers on the streets. I basically used it to get what I want. It had always been effective, anyway. My high-pitched, 13-year-old voice paired with my public tantrums had always been the perfect duo for my budding attitude.

My father was indeed a policeman, I mighty one, you might say. I describe him as brave and strong, with his puffed chest and stern look and all. I know of his job, and I realized at an early age how dangerous it is to be in the field. My father was a hard worker. He had been promoted a few times because of his achievements in patrols and police operations. He had always kept his gun in a bag with all his other belongings. We were never allowed to touch that bag, "It's dangerous," was what he would say.

"My father is a policeman!" I yelled as the old woman hugged her son from behind, holding him back from attempting to hit me. She was right, and he was dumb. But because she's his mother, she was dumb, too. I've said the magic words, and I've got video evidence to back myself up. I could feel the power and authority rushing through my veins. My father never taught me this, but I knew so early that I could get away with anything because of it. Policemen are just that respectable in here. I believed that respect is earned, and I've earned mine by being born into a police officer's family, unlike other people who were born poor and powerless. They probably don't have guns kept in a bag.

My dilemma with this old woman started from petty noise-making. It was almost the New Year's and the local governments prohibited buying and selling of fireworks. Because of this, people, including my dumb neighbor, got creative and made use of improvised noise-makers to celebrate. It was a local tradition and nobody's ever gone to prison for it because it's essentially harmless. But hey, other people have lives, and noise-making during the day didn't really sit well with the rest of the town. Locals came up to my dumb neighbor and asked him to stop, but he seemed to be drunk and declined every formal request. When the locals got tired of dealing with him, they came up to our doorstep and summoned my father. I decided to go along.

Father tried to arrest the drunk guy, but he was persistent and wouldn't budge. Worse, his gossipy mother rushed into the scene and begged authorities not to arrest him. What a nutjob. It annoyed me so much that I decided to start taking a video of their stubbornness. I took out my phone and pointed it to their snot-crying faces, still begging not to be taken away. I found it funny, but I also felt righteous about what I was doing. I wanted to show the people on the internet how stubborn people have become in this country, having the guts to decline an arrest from a respected police officer. It just goes to show how dumb they are, that they thought crying and begging would work—well joke's on them, 'cause not anymore, not in this country, and most importantly, not on my watch.

Is it really that hard to stay quiet during daytime? Celebrating for the New Year's so early, no one's gonna leave you behind, dummy. I get it if he's uneducated, that explains why he had so much free time in his hands, but other people do have an education, and do have jobs and lives to live, so better shut up and be poor or go make noise somewhere else, someplace where the other uneducated people usually hang out. It's in the dumpster, I believe.

A few more minutes went by and still no sign of these dumb mother-and-son tandem actually surrendering to the authorities. It was getting more annoying every second, and I didn't find it funny anymore. The video I was taking was dragging for too long now and people might feel bored while watching it. They kept screaming back and forth, one side calls for reason, while the other is pure nonsensical blabbering. I've lost count of how much I rolled my eyes during this encounter. I kept filming, still feeling the entitlement and power that emits from my father's presence. I caught sight of the grip of a gun from behind him. Why wasn't it in his bag?

Policeman or not, I'm proud of my father. We may not be the richest family in the country, but we are, at least, in this neighborhood. We are educated and respected, people hold us to high regard. Most importantly, my father taught me to respect authorities such as himself. He told me not to believe in anyone else aside from him and the president. He said the president knows everything, and that we should trust him and his decisions. He rules the country, after all. My father also told me about the importance of criticism, how it wasn't important at all if it's a criticism to the leader. The president knows what he's doing, he said. And I believed him, because he's an authority. And these dumb people should respect and believe him, too. Don't they know they're offending my father's title as a police officer by being stubborn? They're almost disrespecting the president himself with what they're doing!

"My father is a policeman!" I yelled as I held up my phone to record the argument I've been having with this old woman. She mocked me and spat a stern "I don't care" from her dried lips. Not only had my father been offended, but I had been, as well. I couldn't believe the guts to this woman. And that's when it seemed to snap.

One gunshot.

Two gunshots.

I was holding my phone up when my father took his gun and fired two shots, each aiming for the mother and her son's head. I was shook almost senseless by the scene. This had never happened before. There's blood splattered and continuously dripping everywhere. The phone camera had been rendered useless from what I've witnessed with my own two eyes. I froze, staring at the bodies, trying to make sense of my father's demeanor. He didn't seem bothered, as if he'd done this a lot of times in the past, just cold-blooded shooting straight through the head of gun-less people. His eyes stayed stern and his jaw slightly clenching. He quickly hid the gun away and pulled me back home, never to let me out again for the following weeks.

More cops came to our door, silver bands wrapped around my father's wrists, and then, they took him away. I never understood what had happened, and I think I never did understand anything. I believed in a lot of things before, but now, I seem to be unsure of the same stuff I have known for so long. All I'm sure of is that my father was right, it is dangerous. I'm just not sure if it pertains to a weapon or a person, though.