***Here, music, a late ‘60s soul-steeped horn section, to set the mood as smooth***
The car you are driving is black. The road is empty on account of the hour. The windows are rolled down. You signal turns with your left hand not because your lights are out but because you are old school. You punch the engine to make the light. Your every move brings you closer to what it is you are after.
***The music cuts out as the car pulls up in front of a graying tenement building***
The distance between the car door and the front door is twenty paces. The distance is long enough to give time for a few warm-up swings. The crowbar feels good in your hands. You know what you’re doing and the door isn’t much of a test. You take the stairs. You position yourself in front of the door with a good wide stance.
***Here, music, a driving guitar lick, something to set the mood as tough***
The first knock at the door is from your boot. The second knock splinters the doorframe at the deadbolt. The third knock is unnecessary. You leave the lights off and search for sounds that will surely follow. You hone in on a scurrying behind one wall and shift beside the door that leads into it. You find kneecaps with your crowbar and trap a gun in a hand against the floor with your boot.
***Here, the music lets up, so you can hear your own heartbeat***
The door to the bedroom is wedged open by his body. The light is low but you can see her there on the bed trying to cover her body with a sheet. The smell in the room is thick. You kick the gun away from the man’s hand. You drop a knee into the small of his back. You pull his arms behind his back and force him up against a wall, calling out to the child,
“Get your clothes and get outside.”
***Here a diminishing fugue to clear the air***
The world is not as good as it could be. The world is not as safe as is should be. The things a father will do to protect his daughter are limitless.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED