This
wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
That
wasn’t the only thought going through the man’s mind. In fact, his brain was
racing; bursting with frantic thoughts about what the hell was going on in his
current situation. He glanced around quickly, trying to take in his
surroundings to the best of his ability, catching flashes of scared people
huddling in groups, a mother holding her baby tight to the floor, the cashier
frozen behind the register, his hands in the air. They all had nothing in
common, as far as the man could see, except for the expressions of pure terror
that all of their faces seemed to mirror.
This
wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
So
many different types of people that had no names, all in this dingy, brightly
lit no name dollar store on the corner of some no name street in some no name
town. That was why he had chosen it. This wasn’t supposed to be some sort of
big heist or anything. He didn’t want to make the news, didn’t want to make
some big statement or leave his mark on the world. He just wanted—no, he
needed—enough money to buy one thing, and then that was it, he swore. He would
never take anything from anyone again.
This
wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“DROP
YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” The voice on the megaphone was earsplitting,
but to the man, it was like a nail being driven into his already pounding
brain. “I SAID DROP IT AND STEP OUTSIDE THE STORE!” The man glanced at the
window hesitantly, looking through the smudged glass at the assortment of law
enforcement this small town had been able to rustle up to respond to the
situation. There were four or five of them, with more on the way, from what
megaphone had said. He couldn’t tell if it was a bluff or not. It was too much
to think about. He could make out a sheriff and a police officer, but he
couldn’t tell what the rest of them were from. They weren’t wearing any
uniforms, and they didn’t look like off duty cops. One was wearing glasses and
a crudely put together outfit that had “NIEGHBORHOOD WATCH” scrawled across it
with an eye and a flashlight. Another just looked like a redneck with a shotgun
who was just itching for an excuse to blow someone away. A loud crack rang out,
seemingly splitting the air in two. The man jumped behind the counter, waiting
for the bullet that never came. Peeking over the side, he saw the neighborhood
watch guy look at his gun in surprise, apparently wondering why the man’s
brains weren’t splattered all over the floor in a pulpy mess as much as he was.
The redneck shook his head in disgust and snatched the gun from glasses man.
The man couldn’t resist a small chuckle, ducking his head so the people in the
store couldn’t see the grin that flashed across his face. Glasses had forgotten
to chamber a bullet before he fired.
That
wasn’t how he thought that was going to go.
There
were random bills scattered across the counter. A couple of twenties. A ten.
Two singles. He told the cashier to count it. The cashier hesitated and the man
put the gun to his head. He started to count and he gave the man a number. The
man told him to keep going. The cashier stuttered, then turned back to the
register and kept pulling out some more bills. He turned back and gave the man
a number. The man nodded and handed the cashier a small, brown, paper bag. “In
there.” He said. The cashier hesitated again. The man cocked the gun. “Now.”
This
wasn’t how he wanted it to go.
A
shot whistled through the window, shattering the pane of glass into a million
shards that rained down upon the man and people in the store alike. The man ducked
behind the counter, pulling the frightened cashier close to him. The cashier
lashed out frantically, trying to break the man’s grip. He managed to catch the
man with an elbow to the gut as more shots came through the windows, each one
more deafening than the next. The man cracked the cashier over the head with
the butt of his gun, over and over until he went slack in the man’s arms. As
the man dragged the cashier through the aisle to cover, the shots began to
hesitate, and then stop altogether. He could hear a voice with a decidedly
authoritarian undertone scolding the officers who had fired into the store for
their stupidity. Something about hostage safety. What hostages? He had no
hostages. He peeked over the top of the shelf and saw the officers outside
retreating to the safety of their cars, their guns lowered. Safe for the moment, the man set the cashier
down gently next to a pack of sour gummy worms that had been torn open by a
stray bullet, spilling the sugary treat all over the floor. The man looked over
to the corner and saw the mother in the corner, her baby crawling amongst the
glass. He walked over and scooped the baby up, cradling it in one arm and his
pistol in the other. He handed the baby over to the mother, who snatched it
from him the way a starving man snatches at food, glaring at their savior with
a savage disgust. The man turned around and crouched behind the frozen goods
shelf. There were no hostages here. Only people.
That
wasn’t how this was going to go.
He
could see the people huddled close together, whispering, scared. One of the
groups stood out more than the others. This group was different. They were
younger, definitely not middle school but not quite on the older side of high
school. One of the boys seemed to be at the center of the group, the rest of
them clustered around him ready to follow his every order, like fruit flies
sticking to the moist sides of a rotten apple. And he was rotten. Everything
about the boy made the man angry. The way that he dressed, the cocky attitude,
the way that every pore and orifice on his body just oozed rich; it made him
sick. One of the girls was behind the boy, nudging him forward, whispering in
his ear. The boy turned toward her, then glanced towards the man and caught his
gaze. In that instance the mans hate for the boy turned to despair.
"No," he thought as the boy started inching towards him. "Don't
try it..."
It
wont work the way you think it will, that’s not how it will go…
He
hadn’t thought, just acted. When the boy had tried to rush him from the front,
wrestling for the gun, he didn’t think. He just pointed the gun and fired twice
into his chest. After all, that was what they had taught him to do while he was
in the army. Don’t think, that’s not what you’re here for. Don’t panic, that’s
when they’ll get you. Just point and shoot, that’s what we pay you for. He
glanced back at the boy, who couldn’t be much older than fifteen, whose blood
gurgling in his throat as his friends tried hopelessly to apply pressure to the
wound, and caught his gaze. The boys eyes were starting to glaze over, but they
were still able to convey a sort of unspoken message to the man. Make it stop.
They seemed to say. It hurts so much. Just make it stop. Just make it stop make
it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop…
This
wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
The
anguished gurgling sound that was the boy trying to breathe slowly began to
fade into an agonizing silence. It had taken him three or four minutes to
finally die, but it seemed like an hour. The man turned towards the wall,
staring at his hand and the gun. It was still hot. He had pointed the gun at
the boy to finish it but he couldn’t. He had thought about it. He had panicked.
He couldn’t point and shoot. He threw up a little in his mouth. He swallowed
it. He had to hold it in, he thought. He couldn’t show that he was weak.
“Tommy?” he heard the panicked voice of a girl. It was one of the kids in the
boys group. “TOMMY!”
No,
no, no, no, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This isn’t how it’s
supposed to go.
The
girl sobbed. The man walked over to the wall and vomited. He had panicked. He
was weak. He walked back over and waved with the gun, told her to get back to
her group. She didn’t move. He didn’t care. He was weak.
He
was supposed to be strong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
The
man looked around the room and felt everyone’s different gazes fall upon him.
His heart pounded, feeling the hate, despair, and agony of everyone in the
room. He kept his facial expression calm but on the inside he was terrified,
screaming in terror as he sunk into an ocean of despair. “This wasn’t him!” He
wanted to shout. “I’m so sorry, please, just let me go!” But they couldn’t.
They weren’t holding him hostage, it was the other way around. They couldn’t
let him go. That’s not how hostages worked. He glanced around, frantically
grasping for some shred of sympathy from any of the people there. But there was
none. The only face that wasn’t judging him was the face of the cashier, whose
face was cast in plaster with an expressionless moan while a slight bump on his
head. The man winced, remembering that he had hit him earlier. He was sorry,
but they would never know. They never could. Then they would know that he was
weak. He was the bad guy here, not the other way around. He felt a tug on his
shoulder and he turned around. It was the woman with the baby, who he had saved
earlier. “Please,” she said, her voice taught with desperation. “Please just
let us go.” She was terrified, but more than that, tired. The man thought about
it. He was scared. So was she. So was everyone. Why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t
he just let them all go? But then he remembered, spinning her around and
grabbing her around the neck, her baby held tight in-between them as he pulled
her close, stepping out into the shattered glass with his newfound human shield
standing between him and the guns of the officers outside. He grinned. It was a
strange kind of smile, one that did not accurately portray the deepening,
sickening sadness that lay inside the pit of despair that was growing inside
his heart. He dragged her, kicking and screaming, towards the brown paper bag
that still lay on the tattered countertop, filled halfway with the money that
all of this was about. The woman struggled, begged him, pleaded for him to let
him go. His grip only tightened as his smile grew wider.
So
this was how it was going to go.
Suddenly
a blast ripped through the air and the man was left holding nothing but the
bloody pulp of the tangled mass of what used to be the woman’s upper torso, her
legs convulsing on the ground for a bit before finally coming to rest. The man
screamed and dropped what was left of her in the glass, watching as the baby
played in the river of blood, playing, laughing, drawing pictures in the blood
soaked cavity of what used to be his mothers chest. The man whirled around, his
gaze frantic, maddened. Like a bull, his vision blurred red, obscured by the
hazy blood mist that surrounded him. He saw the redneck from before empty his shells
onto the ground out of the shotgun, trying to reload but fumbling with the gun,
all too aware of what he had just done. The man raced towards him in a blind
rage as the babies laughs turned to crying, a piercing wail that only amplified
the noise pounding in his ears as the man was ripped apart in a hail of
bullets, blood and tears. As the man lay dying on the ground, his vision going
black, there was only one thought on his mind.
This
wasn’t how it was supposed to end.
The
officer reached down, cleaning off his glasses before he patted down the mans
body, searching him for anything useful. In his pocket was a wallet. Inside of
the wallet there wasn’t much, just a couple of maxed out credit cards, no money
and two photos; one of a sea foam green dress with the word “PROM?” scribbled
across it in a black sharpie that what running out of ink; the other, a photo
of a smiling young girl, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. The
second photo had words written on it too, but these ones were much smaller and
neater, and written in blue ballpoint pen. The officer brushed it off and
squinted at them, holding the photo closer to his eyes.
“I
love you daddy. And I always will”
The
officer shook his head and placed the wallet back on what remained of the man’s
bloody chest, torn apart by bullets and grief. It was a pity. This wasn’t how
this man’s life was supposed to turn out.
That’s
not how life is supposed to go.
