They don’t care

Trigger warning: This story contains themes of violence, death and police brutality. It is not a light read, it’s meant to be at least a little upsetting.

I hope you appreciate it. :)

~~~

I remember a time when the blaring of neon sirens wouldn’t toss me into a downward spiral of panic. A time when I didn’t flinch every time a door slammed or a water bottle fell at the office. A time when I was content to believe that I was safe.

Now, as I sit in my car - panting from sprinting across the shady parking lot - I know I will never have that luxury again. I clench my shopping bags in tremoring hands, pressing may face against the steering wheel. I have nothing to be afraid of. I have nothing to be afraid of. I have nothing. I swallow and pinch myself with my freshly done nails, they are black. I like them when they are long and shiny, so I can tap them on hard surfaces and hear the tippity sound. It hurts, but that’s the point. With the groceries and my anxieties safely stowed in the passenger seat, I begin the treacherous journey home.

Mopeds rip through the night air beside me, but my mind outraces them, breaking the mental speed limit I so seldom enforce properly. In reality, I wouldn’t be caught dead speeding. Not when that could mean getting pulled over. I can’t imagine something worse. Being trapped on the shoulder of the road, interrogated. No, I would never risk it. God, I’m so stupid.

~~~

My therapist tells me not to think things like that. It’s self deprecating. He’s stupid too, though. I can’t control it, or anything else. I hate being in his stupid beige room on the stupid beige couch surrounded by fake plants and fake people. “Tell me about last Tuesday, Natasha,” He says. I fight the urge to remind him that my name is Natalie, and then I say, “I didn’t go to work.”

“And why was that?” He taps his shoe. I hate it.

“Because, there was an ambulance on my street, so I locked myself in.”

“And that triggered your past traumas, right?”

“I guess so.” I shift in the chair, trying to wriggle out of his steely gaze that he tries to negate with an uncanny smile. His breath always smells like coffee. I usually like that smell, but not when it clings to him. He makes me think about things that belong far away. Does he know the raw pain I feel every time he rips something fresh to the surface? Has he felt the ache in my heart and the tightening in my chest? Can he tell? Does he care?

“What can you remember about the incident? Which part was it that stays with you the most?” He asks, leaning forwards in his chair. He can see the emotion surfacing in my face, he is intrusively intrigued.

~~~

I laughed, shoving him in mock offence as he mimicked my fawning over my drink. True, I had been practically worshipping my frappé, but how could I not when the foam looked like hello kitty? As we walked, he shoved one hand into his hoodie pocket, and the other hand into my hoodie pocket.

A squeaking sound on the mall marble floors got closer until a dark-skinned man in scuffed, white, Nike Airforces shot past us, shouldering my boyfriend in the process. I made a sound of disgust as he sprinted off. Prick. And that was it, an annoying encounter with a stranger. Until it wasn’t. Two red-faced men with their blue vests and walkie talkies brandished rounded the corner. They must have been after the running man, and he and my boyfriend must have looked alike because they shot on sight. Then again, they didn’t look alike. They had the same joggers, and the same skin, but it was enough to warrant instant death.

They didn’t shoot at me. Why should they? I’m like them.

My boyfriend collapsed onto the ground, slumping down on a shop door. The light left his eyes, the blood stained the floor. He died innocent, and they didn’t care. Even as the sirens came, and the officers tried to clean up their mess, to comfort me, they could not care. He died on an assumption, a split-second assumption. If he were white, if the running man were white, would he be alive right now?

~~~

But they weren’t. And he isn’t. And now, I’m in my car and the lights are racing towards me again. Fear grips the steering wheel. Those raging blue lights and those raging red screeches, they’re here behind my car as it skids off the highway and into the night. They’re here in my head as the ground rushes towards me. The glass windshield, split by a rock, shatters in the chaos, into those tiny glass cubes. It happens so fast, I had no time to react. Now I’m no more than a victim to add to the death count. A faceless body. And. They. Don’t. Care.

(That was the end of the story, and I don’t want to water it down by adding unnecessary words, but apparently these stores have to be 1,000 words? So I’ll just fill that in down here, I don’t know if that’s allowed or not. I hope you enjoyed this story, I certainly enjoyed writing it. I started this as a warm up to working on my novel, but the words just started to come and so I stuck with it. It’s the best feeling when a story writes itself, isn’t it? Especially when you have a fluffy blanket around you and it’s a dark, crispy winter night. Really takes my mind of the studying I should be doing! Anyway, I reckon this is a thousand words. Give me a follow if you enjoyed this? I can’t promise every future story will be as deep or meaningful but, we try our best.)