FRAG 2

F II

ONE

I read a self-help book once when I was 15, bored out of my skull at my adoptive parent’s home. What was her name, again? I should act like I miss her, remember her fondly, but we never spoke or got along.

I feel as though her fostering of me served her a secret purpose that only she knew and reaped the rewards of. I was never abused or mistreated. I would however do whatever I could to not be around her, and that’s how I found one of her self-help books.

“Are you okay? You never check on yourself.” Only recently did I remember that passage, laid back, cooped up in a corner of our living room. I thought it was stupid, shut the book dismissively and shoved it back into the bookshelf. That’s what you did when you felt irreversibly empty, filling up your time trying to find something new when you already know you won’t like it.

Now, alone, I tended to ask myself that. How long’s it been without Raph? Six months? A year? I didn’t even think I could ever make it alone, but I did. I crawled out of that grime and gore, unable to speak, made it out a back door. There was no time to cry, relive what happened, or study the body next to me. The quiet stealthy footfalls of ghostly figures made sure of that, flashlights mounted atop rifles as they filed in to clear the mess, disguised in uniforms that weren’t their own.

A cover up for the cover up.

I sat securely on the brown leather couch facing the floor to ceiling windows, probably the only thing that kept me from calling this apartment crappy, and the couch having already been there the only thing keeping me from calling it mine. Remembering where I ended up made me grateful for the sun searing my skin and blinding my eyes. It kept me from the brisk flashes of that cold floor and the smell of my own blood clumping up in my hair.

They were closing in. Second floor.

I pulled the magazine out a second time as if I didn’t trust myself the first and shoved it back in. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, tenting over my floor, making a human shaped shadow with long flowing hair. Am I okay?

The Colt 1911 made my wrist hang as if I’d broken it. Weighty thing. Silver, newly cleaned. I forgot where I bought it. Or stole it. Doesn’t matter. I acquired it and protect myself with it. That’s a great job, pat on the back, pat on the head and a shake of a hand to me.

Third floor. Five? Six people? I could feel them sneak up every step.

I tried humming, making up a tune of my own. I’d get out of this, I always do. I realized I hated the tune I was humming and stopped completely. Was a stupid attempt to make myself feel better anyway.

Am I okay?

Ever since I’d been without the serum, I could feel things I shouldn’t. It’s helped me, saved me at times, but my head would always be on a swivel. I was exhausted. But then I remember that it was better to be exhausted than dead. Oh, that’s right, I can’t die. I would just wake back up back where I was, or where I’m brought. I shouldn’t have to fear being exhausted. I should be used to it by now.

Fourth floor. I almost expected them to knock. That would be hugely disappointing.

They must be heavily armed. There’s no way they wouldn’t be. I’ve evaded them for this long. Kind of an unfair advantage for them as I sat there with my back to the door, dressed in a white tank top and boy shorts, made me feel as though I were Ellen Ripley in Aliens. “How did I end up here?” Was another thing the book said to ask myself. I had gone from disgruntled to well-off to dead and surviving.

There were sounds of footfalls shuffling behind my door. I pictured them flanking the doorway, making room for the others.

Perhaps I should’ve locked my door, but I wanted it over with, whatever the turn out. I’d woken up feeling off, the apartment building that usually contained shouting, quiet coughing, clandestine conspiratorial rendezvouses, and unpleasant verbiage that carried across floors was now vacuum-seal quiet, as if the building had been thrown into space, unbeknownst to me.

Am I okay? I hear the door knob gradually twist, but nothing followed, until a metallic noise came hopping across my carpet. I hear and feel it colliding against the back of the couch and stop. Am I okay with being hurt, hunted down and killed? I had a split second to decide as I sat there unmoving.

I ducked down onto the floor, covered by the couch cushions as a bright white light burst and engulfed the room, partnered with a dull explosion, a flat “punt”. I covered my eyes with an arm. A flashbang. They probably hadn’t looked in yet and decided to throw it in thinking I was unaware. I’d known they’d be here at some point; it was all just a matter of waiting.

One had come in through the door, violently so that the door swung, and its knob collided against the wall to its right. I pushed into the couch with my side, willing all the strength I had in my calves, the wood of the sofa digging into the bone in my hip. I knew I’d be bruised later.

He’d begun firing, but he’d aimed initially overhead, the rounds gradually flying lower as he tried acclimating to my quick thinking, the couch knocking him out and back into the stairwell. I popped up to my feet only swiftly, targeting his helmet and shot him through the eyes twice accurately with a one-two pop.

In a split second, the other troops swiveled on their hips, the ones guarding the door. I ducked as bullets rained from their black assault rifles, but I’d already gone down on the floor and hid behind the door in the crook of the wall. Someone’s foot climbed onto the couch’s cushions, launching fluff and filler into the air under their weight. I hear them whispering. One was commanded to go left, in case I ran into the blind spots of the bedroom area, the one that commanded was to go see what was to the right.

Black boots came into view and the uniformed soldier crept into my sight, finding me holed up in a corner. I stamped a foot on his left, he let out a muffled grunt. I fire into his stomach and aim upward, blasting a hole through the forehead of his all-concealing black head gear. The force of the bullet sending the goggles flying up and over, revealing his eyes through the holes of his balaclava. He lands flat on his back. The blood he bled trapped in his uniform, but the red from his head flowed dark and thickly into the carpet.

I duck down just in time as wood and splinters began to chip from the door, pockmarked with holes. I keep my head down as I feel the dullness of the splinters land on my hair and my back. I crouch on my elbows and sighted him creeping from the bedroom, making his way to me.

I fire three into his face, the third one for good luck, the first one I missed. I got up to my feet, crouched, blinking away the dust and particles from my eyes, doing so made it sting so much more.

I leave the Colt at my feet and steal the fallen soldier’s weapon. A black M16. I stand, peek into the doorway, my body lodged against the door’s lock mechanism, strafing as I went. I aimed left into the corridor, nothing but the neighbouring apartment’s door and a dead potted plant. To the right with the stairwell, I hear the clamouring of feet quickly diminish as the remaining had filed out.

Why had they gone? It had to be at least six or five against one. Did they get orders to flee? Will I be ambushed as soon as I attempted to leave? I let the rifle’s buttstock fall from my shoulder, slung against my arm, the strap touching my decrepit carpet. I almost wanted to scream, wanting them to come back to try and finish the job, let me at least know I finished off every one of them.

I was tired, months and months of this game, stop and go, safe then trepidated. I wanted out and I wanted it soon.

I gathered the bodies and shoved them into the corridor just outside my door. I’m assuming no one would mind. This place was decrepit already. I pushed the couch away just enough for me to close the door and slid it right back against it, blocking it. I saved the firearms, took out the left-over rounds and transferred them into the second one that had more and placed it under my bed.

I’d spent the rest of the afternoon idling, sitting on my bed to think, going into the kitchen to drink water and think, sitting on the living room floor to think. They didn’t want me dead, or at least temporarily. I stood up off my carpet and approached my massive window, stepping up onto the five-inch white perch, I raise a hand, anchoring myself on the slanted incline in the ceiling, resting my head against the crook of my arm, letting the heat wash over me.

I stayed there a good amount of time. Waiting, breathing. In that moment I knew they wanted me alive. There were several buildings, complexes right in front of mine. The lots surrounding, perfect for a sniping perch. My window was the size of one portion of the room. I waited for the shattering of glass that never came.

They didn’t want me. At least not in that way.