You Might Like It (294 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Domochevsky (View user info) at 2004-11-07 23:50:58 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
The snow fell softly on the wet pavement as he trudged down the street, disappearing immediately into the darkness of the road. There were a few small spots where it was beginning to stick; the white reflected the streetlights in the dark of a winter night. Brandon knew by morning there would be inches of it for him to walk through. The wind blew harshly, his frayed attaché rustling in the draft. The drugstore thermometer flashed twenty-nine degrees. Brandon tucked his head deeper into his tattered coat, cursing the dark and cold. He hated this weather, he hated that his car had been repossessed, that his boss wanted to have a "talk" with him on Monday. He was being fired. Brandon knew his life was going nowhere, but it wasn't even getting there fast. He had dreams of leaving, leaving this city, this state, even the country. Some mornings he wanted to just throw some clothes in a duffel bag and catch the next train to nowhere, or somewhere. He was never too sure of these feelings, but with little in the city to hold him there, it seemed almost too simple to leave. He never did anything about it, anyways. Brandon was too weak of composition to ever set his mind to it.
He came to the crossway of an alley, the same gaping black maw that invited him inside every night on his way home. Some days he would stare into the murky darkness, contemplating whether or not to walk inside. Most days, however, Brandon would plod past, not giving it too much thought.
Tonight, he peered into the alleyway, taking a tentative step into the shadows. A gust of wind swirled the small flakes of snow around him, the cold cutting through his coat once more. Brandon stepped back from the alley, tightened his collar as was about to continue on, when he heard a scuffle from the darkness. The sound was brief, neither loud nor particularly distinguishable; had a car passed him at that moment Brandon wouldn't have heard it at all. Nonetheless, he had heard it, and while not intensely interested in finding out what had made the sound, he felt compelled to give it a look.
He steeled himself as he crossed the threshold into the gloom. He waited near the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the pitch black of the alley. As his pupils dilated, taking in what was left of the dim glow from the streetlights. He looked around tentatively, straining to see. Brandon couldn't make more than the dumpster in the corner and bits of trash scattered about. There was a chain link fence in the rear with mounds of decrepit cardboard boxes piled against it.
Silence.
The wind blew again through the passage, throwing about the scattered trash. A soda can clinked in the darkness. He turned to leave. Just as Brandon was about to step back onto the street, he heard a heavier, more metallic clank. He looked back, seeing the tin can resting against something else on the ground. Had that been there before? He couldn't recall. Quickly walking to it, he kicked the can away. It was a gun, a small pistol. He knelt down, picking it up. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. It was slick, from the pavement, he figured. Looking once again to make sure no one else was there; he tucked the pistol into his coat pocket, and turned back to the street.
"What am I doing?" he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of the weapon in his pocket.
As the dim yellow light of the street bathed his body, he noticed the red fluid covering his hand. He stared at it, realizing it was blood.
"Shit." He muttered to himself, thrusting his tainted hand into his pocket. He trudged on through the last few blocks to his apartment complex.
Brandon fought with the rusty lock on his apartment door; the old bolt creaked as the pins inside the lock scratched its surface. The door creaked open, revealing the interior of Brandon's meager living quarters. The studio apartment was small, but it served Brandon's needs well enough. The old armchair cast a long shadow from the light shining in through the one small window. Brandon slumped down into the chair, letting his case fall to the floor, scattering its contents. He reached forward to turn on the TV. The volume was just high enough for him to hear the white noise from the static. There was never very good reception in his apartment. Brandon fell asleep shortly after. It was Friday night.
-----
He was awakened by his alarm at 6:59. Brandon didn't want to be up that early, but he found it difficult to get back to sleep after being jarred awake by the hideous cacophony of that same fucking screech of the alarm. Some morning he swore it would buzz louder than normal just to spite him. He sat up in the lounge chair groggily, the sleep not yet out of his eyes. He stood, feeling grimy having slept in his dirty clothes from the day before. He lazily stripped on his way to the shower, the rusty pipes creaking as they carried slightly less than warm water to the showerhead.
He emerged from his bathroom feeling much more refreshed than when he entered, toweling off he wandered to his dresser to find something to wear. He threw on some sweat pants and a bland-colored tee shirt. Back in the living room he turned the TV off. Brandon sat back into his chair, collapsing into the pile of clothes he threw there when he got up.
"Ouch, what the hell..." He reached at the small of his back where something hard and sharp seemed to be poking into him. He felt the silhouette of the gun.
"Oh yeah..." He reached into the pocket and withdrew the pistol. In the light he could clearly see where the blood had dried on its surface. He cleaned it up, and inspected it more closely. He had never held a gun before last night, and really only knew that the one end fired and the other end did... something.
"IMI... Jericho 941. 9x19..." He read from the slide, no knowing what it meant. He fiddled with the clip release, and accidentally let the magazine drop onto his naked foot. He winced in pain, picking the clip, staring at the small 9mm rounds inside. He pushed one out with his thumb, inspecting it. Sliding the magazine back in, he contemplated what to do with it. He couldn't turn it in; he'd be held accountable for whatever crime had been committed with it. He didn't want to worry about it right now; right now he was planning on getting wasted at whatever party he could find tonight, and if not he would get wasted by himself. He'd always had simple weekend goals.
He called Sam, one of his regular drinking buddies.
"Hey man, what's going on? Sam asked.
"Not much, what are you up to?"
"'Bout the same. You up for hitting some clubs tonight?"
"Probably. I'm still feeling bad from last week, though." Brandon said, half-jokingly.
"You'll never guess what happened on my way home from the office last night." He added.
"Shoot." Sam replied.
"Funny you should say that... I was passing that alleyway on 5th and Conestoga when I heard some noise in it. I went down to see what was going on, but couldn't find anything or anyone. I was about to leave when I noticed this, this gun lying on the pavement. I picked it up, and it was covered in blood. I put it in my pocket and still have it."
"What!? You just FOUND a gum lying around in a back-alley and you kept it!? Have you tried it out yet?"
"Huh? No way, man. I don't even know how."
"Just point it and pull the trigger."
"Ok, I know THAT much, but I mean, I don't know how to maintain it, or safety or anything. I guess I should throw it away..."
"Go to a deserted building or somewhere and try it out. You might like it, man. There's a place on 31st and Stark. I'll go with you if you want."
"No, that's fine. I'll go later today and let you know how it goes."
"Talk to you later than. We're still hitting the clubs, right?"
"Let's wait and see."
-Click-
-----
He walked twelve blocks to a part of town that was as desolate as the inside of his apartment. A few homeless people here and there, but no real police presence. Just a lot of old, abandoned buildings and stale air.
He had no idea why he felt compelled to do this, to take a most-likely illegal firearm to a deserted building and take pot shots at the rafters. Maybe he was just bored with his normal weekend plans. Whatever it was, he kept a steady pace as the snow crunched under his feet.
Brandon snuck into a small ex-café off the main stretch. He inspected the place carefully, not wanting to accidentally shoot a bum or other transient who happened to have crashed there.
Upon finding that he had the whole place to himself, he pulled the gun from his pocket, still not sure exactly what he was going to do. He took careful aim at the brick wall facing away from the street.
-Click-
The double-action trigger cocked the hammer, which struck the firing pin on the empty chamber. He flinched instinctively, having learned to do so from so many bad action flicks on late-night TV when he could get reception (by moving the television as close to the window as possible). He realized nothing happened, steadied himself, and tried again.
-Click-
Again nothing. Brandon was about to give up, and head back to drink himself stupid every Saturday, when he remembered something else he saw in those action movies.
He pulled the slide back as far as it would go, seeing the shine of the shell casing as it moved upward from the clip. The hard clink of the round being chambered reassured Brandon that this was probably the right thing to have done.
One last time he aimed at the wall, digging his heals into the grungy carpet incase the recoil was more than he expected. He pulled the trigger.
-Bang-
He jumped at the sound and feel of it as the gun bucked in his hand. He didn't even check to see where he had hit.
He fired the rest of the clip into the wall, each shot begging him to fire another. The slide locked back, signaling the last of the bullets were spent. He accidentally dropped the clip out again before finding the slide release. The slide clanked back into place, and he returned it to his pocket.
-----
"Hey man, how'd it go?" Sam asked.
"Fine." Brandon replied back into the handset.
"We still going out tonight?"
"I don't think so. I have some business to take care of. Do you remember where I keep my spare key?" He asked him, taking the two boxes of 9mm ammunition out of the brown bag on his counter. He crumpled the receipt, tossing it into the trash.
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm going to be out of town for a while after tonight. If you'd like anything of mine go ahead and take it."
"Huh? Why? Where are you going?"
Brandon looked over at the train ticket.
"Salem, Oregon." He said.
"What for?"
"No reason really, I just need a change."
"You're crazy, man, but alright. You keep in touch, ok?"
"I will, Sam, I will."
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
-Click-
Brandon hung up the receiver, pocketing a scrap of paper with his boss' address on it.
"It's about time I got out of here." He said to himself, throwing his well-worn coat on. He slung a small messenger bag over his shoulder as well. As he closed the door behind him, feeling the mass of the gun in his right pocket, the crispness of a freshly printed train pass in the other, he couldn't help smiling.
Not bothering to lock it, he pressed on. The walk to the exit seemed shorter than normal for some reason, the bland, stained walls hurried his departure. He bid a solemn goodbye to the building, as he tacked a note to his landlady's door.
The wind blew strong from the outside as he opened the exit, the snow beginning to fall again. Brandon felt surprisingly warm despite the weather. It was almost nightfall.
On his way, he ran across the alley once again. He gave one last look into the darkness before moving on. He swore it was staring back at him.
Brandon squeezed the address in his pocket; he had a one last thing to do before he finally left this place. The snow became heavier still, crunching beneath his boots as he strolled through the dimly-lit street.
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Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 11:34:03 EST (#)
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