Cityscape [Once Upon a Bullet]

Late night city streets were the best backdrop for crime without justice – and that was just what we were up to.1

The filthy snow crunched beneath the soles of my boots, the fire of autumn dead with the daylight. As I snuck through the night with the careful grace of a feline, dancing with the darkness, I could feel the almost imperceptible weight of my locked and loaded .35mm pistol tucked into my belt, hidden underneath the hem of my knit sweater. It pulled me down with the heaviness of guilt, until I wrenched it from its studded-leather prison and told it to shut up. My old friend knew better than to test what little was left of my conscience.2

The wet chill of snow soaked into my socks, sending a bolt of icy electricity down my spine and making me shudder, and as the headlights of an approaching vehicle cast a glare off of the bleached-white snow glazing the sidewalks, I shielded my eyes, refusing to allow my nerves to panic. To my immense relief, though, it was my familiar little red Camaro; my buddies whistled at me from the rolled-down windows.3

I dodged into an alley. I had one last stop.4

My fingers had gone numb with the cold, and they curled mechanically around the frosted edge of a platform, the memory of countless nights etched as calluses into my palm. With little effort, I pulled myself onto the fire-escape stairs. I carefully placed my grip as I lifted the windowpane that had always triggered the very concept of safety and salvation in the back of my mind.5

Locked.6

My heart sank; if Logan had locked the window on a night light this, something was horribly wrong. I broke the lock with the butt of my handgun and let myself in. The apartment was warm, and I began to pull my scarf crafted of coarse material that always scratched against my skin away from my throat. I listened to the soft hum of the heater beside the door, colliding with the faint echo of my footsteps against the kitchen tile in the otherwise silent atmosphere. 7

Suddenly, adrenaline flooded my veins as I was alarmed at the sharp click of a pistol being cocked, piercing the comfort of the hush. I fumbled for my weapon, only to feel the cold mouth of his gun press against my temple, and I couldn’t tell what alerted me first – the metal against my flesh, or the scent of his aftershave. My .35 dropped onto the marble floor with a clatter, and quickly I raised my hands in surrender to avoid having my brains blown out by my boyfriend.8

“Oh,” Logan said quietly, withdrawing. “Sorry Mia, I didn’t realize it was you.”9

My lips twitched up into a smirk. “Expecting someone else?”
In the darkness, I could see Logan’s silhouette thrown up from the streetlight outside sneaking through the blinds. He shrugged. “No.” he answered, with such finality the subject came to an immediate close before it was even given the chance to take a breath. I resigned without resistance.10

“Don’t tell me you forgot what tonight is.” I said, and grimaced at his lack of a response. “C’mon Logan, not you.”11

Again, he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. I frowned. He wasn’t himself, and though I was nearly blind in the almost-darkness of the small apartment, it was almost as if the excitement in his eyes, the animation of his tone, and the evident eager appetite for adventure of his stance had all fled and faced me with a stranger. My moist lips parted as I began to voice my curiosity, but my better reason won out and I quickly decided against it.12

“We’re making our round of the block and stopping at Gilligan’s.” I informed. It was routine to lap the block once (in spite of the pride our young age harbored, we did check to confirm that we weren’t being watched, because we couldn’t be too careful with the holes we’d already dug ourselves into.) Gilligan’s was a small convenience store, similar to a gas station or a 7/11, owned by the one and only Arthur “Art” Gilligan for the past twenty-seven years. 13

I reached to take Logan’s hand in mine, but second-guessed that it probably wasn’t the most fantastic idea at the moment. I withdrew the way I came, feeling him follow close behind. He paused on the fire-escape to glance back, as if to ensure the safety of his apartment, as I inhaled the cold winter air, raking my gaze over the bleak cityscape lacking in so many colors. I fastened my scarf around my neck again. “Forget something?”14

“Nah.” Logan replied, shaking his head. He frowned as he pulled the window down, before whirling suddenly on me. “You busted the lock!” he accused in a harsh whisper. “What the hell were you thinking?!” He raised a hand to strike me, and I flinched away, shutting my eyes as I prepared myself for the impact. He turned away from me, however, and swung from the fire-escape, his boots landing hard against the concrete, and I watched as my knight in shining armor stalked toward my Camaro like the terribly mature twenty-one-year old he was. Men. I sighed, watching my hot breath visible in the air like the exhaust sputtered from automobiles, and followed.15

The persistence of worry pushed at the edges of my mind like an annoying bug flitting and fluttering hopelessly toward some buzzing light bulb. This pest was soon vanquished, and I sat back, relaxing into the seat. My friends – or rather, my family, who had taken me in when my father had been imprisoned and my mother had abandoned me for cocaine – were strangely quiet, unnerving me. Perhaps it was only strange because on ordinary circumstance we were under the influence of some cheap alcohol or another, tripping on drugs, or just high on the thrill of violence and the liberty we possessed.16

This evening, however, excitement had escaped and dread replaced it, though I was sure no one knew exactly what were dreading (or what exactly we had to dread on Christmas Eve.) Logan’s earlier behavior startled me, though, and continued to haunt me like the questions it triggered. Why was his window locked? Who else could he have been expecting?17

The Camaro’s rubber tires squealed as we jerked to a sudden stop, and I was thrown forward, but caught myself quickly and braced my forearm against the dashboard to keep my face from being smashed in by a forgotten seatbelt. I sat up, pushing platinum bangs from my eyes, and for a moment, a figure passed before my vision like some shadow or phantom taking refuge in the dark alleyway we’d stopped before. I scrambled for the door’s handle, the enclosed space of the vehicle suddenly choking the breath from my lungs, suffocating me, depriving me of precious oxygen. I dashed into the alley, after my retreating Logan, and hastily twisted my fingers with his, pulling him to a stop.18

“Logan!” I cried in an almost strangled breath. “Where are you going?”19

He jerked his hand from my grip. “Enough, Mia!” he shouted, and shoved me away. “I’m done. I’m done with this, and I’m done with you.”20

I struggled for a response, my mind suddenly arrested in its thoughts. “… What?” I asked.21

“We’re done. Jake was right– you’re just an insecure little girl. You’re a pretty girl, Mia, but I can’t do anything for your Cinderella Syndrome. Maybe you really are too young for me.”22

I could have taken a bullet to the chest and it would have been easier for me to breathe. “What?” I asked again, softly, in fear that if I spoke any louder it would cause my fragile, breaking heart to quiver and shatter into a thousand bits and pieces. It was true that I was young at sixteen years old, but what did that have to do with anything? Where was this coming from? Could this be the same man I knew? The man, who’d held me so tenderly, kissed me with infinite affection and wiped away my tears? “Logan… what’s wrong? I can have the lock replaced…”23

“No, no,” replied Logan quietly, shaking his head. “It’s not about the lock, Mia, it’s just— I just— I…”24

I caught his stammering as he faltered. “Logan.”25

“I cannot have you hurt again, Mia.” He said, taking my face in his hands. I frowned, before a memory stirred like ancient dust in the back of my mind, and suddenly I realized what was bothering him. It was Christmas Eve – two years earlier we had lost a close friend in a gun fight; I’d been dragged into it as a sort of retribution for our crimes, and though I wasn’t shot, they left me wounded before Logan had stepped in. We’d hardly known each other (God knows it felt so long ago) and he stayed with me as I recovered. His eyes had been bloodshot and his face had paled due to his fatigue from watching over me as I’d slept.26

“And I will not let you be hurt by me.” he continued. “Mia, listen, if I go to jail – look… Look, there are people coming for me. That’s why I had my window locked. I owe them money, and they were coming for it – I thought you were…”27

I shook my head slowly. “No, no, Logan. I lov—”28

Suddenly, gunshots rang out, so loud in my ears that as I dropped to the ground I wondered if it was I who had been shot. To my horror, though, as I opened my eyes, I saw who’d really been the victim. The trace of a boy, younger than I but taller, shown in the brief flicker of a streetlight, before he fled down the alleyway, his sneakers like the hooves of Death’s horse against the asphalt.29

I screamed.30

Logan fell to his knees, his eyes wide and glazed over, and he collapsed. Two shots to the back of the head; point-blank. I choked on my tears as my Superman fell to a kryptonite so powerful it shook my entire world. My friends had darted from the car, and pulled me to my feet as I fell into a bundle of smothered sobs and cries. I shouted obscenities, though my speech was too slaughtered for any of them to pass as words in my anguish, and I cursed every god that I could think of, took their names in vain, and blasphemed their very existence or nonexistence. I bawled, swearing to defy the stars as Romeo had after Juliet’s death.31

I hadn’t even the chance to tell him I loved him. And now, he’d never know.