Fight Night

Sometimes, the violence strays out of the pit...

Fridays mean fight night, and I think this is the first Friday that we don’t have a body in the shed yet. I push through the front door, stepping over the extra dog chains, lowering my eyes so I don’t trip over the rattling metal. I shove my bony shoulder against the wooden door, jabbing my elbow into it to add extra force until it finally swings inwards. I blink hard at the smoke that instantly seeps into my eyes, tears rising, then fading as they grow accustomed to the burning.

“I’m home,” I call out, though my quiet voice is hardly audible over the pumping bass of music somewhere deeper in the house.

I round the corner towards the kitchen, hoping there might be a snack in the fridge.

“Hey.”

I do not flinch or startle at the sight or sudden sound of my twin sister, Oria, waiting for me; my father has made sure of that. I turn my head slowly, eyes lingering on the new blood splattered above a cracked family photo on the wall before snapping to the side, catching my sister’s icy stare. Her soulless, disturbingly pale blue eyes watch me with blank observation, then drop back to the counter where her homework is spread out on the wooden countertop.

“Hi,” I reply, voice barely above a whisper, dropping my backpack on the ground and nudging it into some obscure corner.

“Where have you been?!”

I hear my mother before I see her, a calm voice that masks her anger well, punctuated by heels clicking against the hardwood floors.
“Out,” I tell her noncommittally, already tugging open the fridge to see what food we have, if any.

I sigh when the fridge is, as expected, fairly barren.

“Really?” I turn and cock an eyebrow at my mother, gesturing at the empty shelves.

“Do not talk to me like that, Kai. You know tonight is a big night for your father and the business and I just didn’t have time to get to the store,” she snaps, pinning me to the wall with her gray eyes, the same color as mine.

The “business” she was referring to is our dogfighting ring, and every night is some sort of big night. That’s why she never has time to get to the store.

“I’ll go later,” I mutter, letting the fridge door drift shut as I trudge upstairs to my room, stomach grumbling the whole way.

I flop onto my bed dramatically, coughing as the scent of musk rolls in plumes off of the quilt; I suppose my mother hadn’t had time to wash that either. Just as I settle onto the mattress, contemplating taking a quick power nap before I head out again, a huge bang rings out from the backyard. I react with practiced disinterest, hardly even blinking at the noise. Instead, I squirm around for a moment, wriggling to get comfortable before folding my hands over my stomach and allowing my eyes to drift shut.

Or, almost shut, since a sharp rap comes at the door not even a second later. Without asking for permission, Oria enters the room, homework in hand, eyes vacant as usual.

“Who died?” I query, blase in my tone and posture.

“Toro. Dad put him down,” she tells me, shuffling the homework around and placing it on the dresser.

“Why?”

“‘Member when he got his leg torn up in the last fight?”

“Mhm,” I murmur, eyes already closing again.

“It wouldn’t fix. Dad was gonna use him as bait, but the stupid thing was crying and whining all the time, so he just shot him.”

I don’t answer, sleep pulling me down towards soft thoughts and comfortable warmth. I vaguely hear Oria plop down onto her bed, tugging her phone from her pocket. I start to drift, closer… closer…closer… BAM!

My eyes open instantly as someone slams through the bedroom door, sending it flying into the wall, adding to the array of dents that are already there. Oria doesn’t even look up, instead just raising her hand in greeting and offering a distracted “hey dad.”

“Kai, my man!” My dad booms, crossing the small bedroom in two strides.

“Hey, dad,” I echo my sister, looking up to meet his red-rimmed eyes.

Awesome, he’s high and pumped up.

“Who’s ready for fiiiight niiiiight?!!” He exclaims, mimicking a WWE announcer in his tone. “Who’s ready to make millions!?”

I sigh quietly, inaudible enough for him to be able to dismiss it. I have yet to see the millions he talks about every fight night.

“Sure, dad,” Oria mutters, not glancing up from the lights flickering across her phone screen.

My dad stomps a step over towards her bed, grabs the phone out of her hand and tosses it across the room. Gently, by his determination, but hard enough that we can all hear the crack when it hits the wall, then the ground, in succession. Oria stares at her shattered phone on the ground for a moment, then glances at the barely visible lump in her pillow case. I watch the calculations flash in her eyes, honey blonde bob shifting as she slowly turns her head back to our father, who has begun to rant about the bar not being stocked. She locks her gaze on the gun sticking out of his waistband, looking longingly once more at her pillowcase before sighing and laying down flat on the bed. I zone back in as my dad claps a hand on my shoulder, effectively pulling me up off the bed and sending me, with a “playful” shove, stumbling towards the bathroom. “Go change into something more manly,” he chuckles. “You look like a priss.”

I huff, tugging off the pale blue hoodie I had on and pulling a black t-shirt over my head. I leave the jorts on, clipping a heavy silver chain around my neck and securing my studs in each ear. I kick off my beat up Forces and swap into a pair of slightly too big Jordans, spinning in a slow circle for my father’s approval. He nods roughly, jutting his chin at the cologne perched on the dresser, sitting mostly unused. I hold my breath as I spritz it, trying not to cough at the harsh smell. My father claps a proud hand on my shoulder, then turns his stare to Oria.

“You…” he mutters, waving a hand at her vaguely.

She pushes herself off the bed and stands there numbly, waiting for his decision.

“You need to be wearing less,” he says decisively, nodding at her closet. “Wear red, you’ll match with your mother.”

She nods sharply, swinging open the closet and pulling out a small red top and black mini skirt. Oria waves both of us out the door, lining up makeup products and plugging in her curling iron, ready to look her best for the creeps that tip heavily on fight night.

“Let’s head down,” my father orders, rather than suggest, nudging me down the stairs and huffing out a chuckle when I nearly stumble down the steps.

I jog down the stairs and through the kitchen, blowing past my mother, who is busy slicking on a glossy coat of bright red lipstick in the shattered mirror, one black heel on, the other laying discarded in the hallway. I tip toe around the products and discarded outfits that are strewn about the downstairs area, sliding out the front door and heading around to the side of the house and heaving open the cellar doors.

I plod down the stairs and flick on the lights, illuminating the fifteen by fifteen foot pit. Dirt is packed tight to form the floor of the pit, a slight sprinkling of sand for dramatic spraying effect coating the top, claw marks and drops of blood still left over from last Friday. I grab the rake off of the far wall, hopping the two foot wall surrounding the pit and beginning to rake the dirt to smooth it over, a brief moment of perfection before it will be ruined by the chaos of the fights lined up for tonight. My father still has not made his way down into the cellar, so I continue to mill about, setting things up the way he likes them. I tune the speakers, testing the announcement mic and leaving it resting on the throne-like chair my father likes to occupy throughout the night. I glance behind the makeshift bar, sighing when I remember it’s not stocked yet and start back up the cellar stairs to ask my father where the crates of alcohol are. He switches up the hiding spot all the time - Oria has a bad habit of getting into bottles of tequila. Not that he cares if we drink; in fact, he prefers it, especially on fight night. After all, it’s good for sales if the hosts themselves appear to be enjoying the product. Nevertheless, my mother prefers when her daughter is not drunk, and if my mother prefers something to be one way, inevitably it will be that way.

“Dad!” I shout as I near the top of the stairs, poking my head out.

“What could you possibly need? How incompetent do you have to be?” I hear him snap from closer than I expected.

“I just need the alcohol crates,” I tell him, careful to keep my tone blank and careless, trying not to make him angrier.

“Don’t you know where they are!? How the hell am I supposed to believe you can do anything if you can’t even find a couple of crates?”

My father’s fist comes before the end of his sentence, slamming without mercy into my chin, snapping my head backwards. I am instantly sent reeling, sliding down the stairs as I fall backwards, slamming my back into the ground. I gasp for air for a moment, struggling as my lungs forget how to accept oxygen into them, coughing once air finally surges back into my system.

“Pick yourself up off the floor and find the crates,” my father spits, looking down at me with unveiled hatred.

I do exactly that, peeling myself off of the ground, clutching at my ribs and back for a moment, then hardening my stare and wiping my posture of the aches that have already settled in. I head back up the stairs and into the house, brushing past my mother, who is still in the process of dolling herself to hang off of my father’s arm all night.

“Oria!” I call up the stairs.

“Don’t you dare yell in my house, Kai,” my mother calls, voice hardly raised in alliance with her own rules.

I mutter a curse, wincing slightly as I head up the stairs to the bedroom. I knock once on the door before opening it, walking in on a heavily made-up Oria.

“Where’s the crates?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow as I eye her get up for the night.

The top is far too tight for her body, though it presses everything in and up in a way I know my father and the many attendees will enjoy. She tugs uselessly at the bottom of the skirt, trying to lengthen fabric that hardly covers anything as it is, using her other hand to twirl a strand of blonde hair around her finger. The lipstick coating her small mouth matches my mother’s, as do the long eyelashes I know she will bat endlessly tonight to bring in extra tips.

“No clue,” she shrugs, leaning in close to the mirror to adjust her eyeliner.

“Oria.” My flat tone does not leave space in the room for another lie.

“Shed, behind the hay bales in the back left corner, where the… other stuff usually is,” she sighs.

I exit the room without another word, hustling out into the backyard, glancing at the barely ticking clock on my way out – T-minus thirty minutes. The sun begins to set as dusk descends, settling over the activity on our property like a shield. I jog towards the shed, easing the door open and grabbing the crates, cringing as the bottles clink together. I stack them up, scooping them into my arms and trudging back towards the cellar as the crunching of gravel alerts me that someone has pulled into the driveway. I do not react visibly, but I shift my vision over ever so slightly, catching a glimpse of the car that has pulled in.

I make the conscious decision to not pick up my pace, even though most of the nerve endings in my body are passionately encouraging me to not only speed up, but run. The tricked-out, customized Range Rover rolls all the way up to the fence, screeching to a stop and flashing the high beams aggressively. My father strides out of the house, moving with purpose towards the car, raising a palm in an uncharacteristically polite greeting. A man slides out of the driver’s seat, casually business focused in his attire. The sharp grin on his face doesn’t quite match the gun sitting on his hip, jacket intentionally swooped back to expose the holster. The man approaches the gate, leaving his trophy noticeably behind as she scurries out of the car to scuttle along in his shadow. I must have stopped walking at some point to observe the scene before me, though I am quickly snapped out of my daze by my father’s impatient hand swatting at the back of my head.
“Move, boy!” He snaps, hardly moving his mouth so as not to tip off the man in the driveway about his unpleasant mood.

I do as he says, continuing my venture towards the cellar and readjusting the crates in my arms as they begin to tilt to one side. As I turn my back and round the corner to approach the side of the house, I hear a joyous “Crossie! My man!” A sharp clapping sound comes afterwards, an aggressive battle of masculinity demonstrated as a one armed hug. I glance backwards, watching with measured interest as I gather my father’s reaction; he smiles broadly and tucks the man under his arm, laughing as he ushers him onto our property, but not before respectfully nodding to and kissing the hand of his wife. From the glint in his eye, I can tell my father has no idea who this man is, nor how he has come to arrive at fight night, but I can also see the dollar signs appearing in his head as he calculates the value of the watches and jewelry that decorate the man and his woman. I scoff as my mother emerges from the house, meeting them in the yard and whispering quickly in my father’s ear as she takes his arm, undoubtedly filling him in on who these people are and how best to exploit them. I walk down the cellar stairs, thunking the crates down behind the bar, lining up the bottles on the shelves in the order Oria likes them - the least I can do is make her job easier since she’ll have to be flirting with men three times her age all night. As I shift bottles and do a final glance around, I hear more car doors slamming, then the boisterous shouting of men who are eager for blood.

“Kai!”

My father’s booming call slams into me like a truck, effectively steam rolling any hope I had of hiding out for any longer. I sigh, settling my shoulders into the unbothered posture I’d learned to mimic and tilting my chin up in a way that made me look disgustingly cocky, but righteous enough to blend in with the other men there. I trudge up the steps, making my way into the front yard where there is already a concerning amount of large men and scantily clad women milling about. I jut out my chin in greeting as my dad raises his arms and exclaims in a way that makes me almost think he cares to see me; then I see the biting warning in his stare, the one that tells me I had better play my role perfectly.

“Kai, buddy, how ya been?”

A loud, Italian man clasps one of my hands in both of his, thick, cool rings pressing into my palm. I flick my gaze over to the woman resting her manicured hand on his shoulder, blindingly white smile filled with the same sugar-coating-vinegar sweetness my mother’s carries.

“Yeah, man, I’ve been good,” I tell him, easy smirk settling onto my lips against my will - practice makes perfect.

“You remember me, don’t ya?” he winks, chuckling as though forgetting him was impossible.

“Of course I do!” I join his laughter, offering his wife a playful wink.

I have never met this man in my life.

My mother, sensing that the interaction had expired, takes my face into her hands with a gentle squeeze, tossing a sufficiently flirtatious smile over her shoulder.

“Ma,” I sigh, rolling my eyes to play along with it.

She pinches my cheek, hard enough to hurt, and I see the malice in her eyes.

“I’ve got a friend you should meet, Kai, her daughter is gorgeous. Smart, too,” she winks, already beginning to tug me away.

“Bah, smart!” The Italian man laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “As long as they’ll sit pretty and quiet, what else do we need, eh?”

My father laughs as though this man is a jester of the modern day, placing a meaty hand on his stomach as though the laughter might just rip him open from the inside. I see my mother’s nose crinkle ever so slightly, mask slipping for a moment before she stitches it back together, smoothly tugging me along to the next couple.

For the next ten minutes, I mingle and chat, imitating my father in all things. I chuckle at jokes, flirt with wives, accept cigars and wave off, then eventually accept, offerings of cash to throw fights. The yard began to empty as people filtered into the cellar, surrounding the pit and crowding the bar, where Oria is flirting shamelessly and offering charming smiles as she hands out drinks and tucks cash into her skirt. I bound down the stairs, shuffling through the crowd towards the walled off area of cages, pushing through the door and squinting at the dogs in the dark. They whimper and bark, and I crinkle my nose at the stench of urine and anxious slobber. I hear my mother begin to work the room, asking for bets and calling out odds, making lighthearted jokes as she does so. I grab the chain looped around Tiger’s neck, yanking him towards me, slapping at his sides to get him amped up. He snarls and I smack his snout, clicking my teeth at him in the darkness. Tiger huffs and I can see the glint of murder in the one eye he has left.

Feedback comes over the microphone as my father taps it and clears his throat to gain the attention of the room, which falls relatively quiet. The silence lingers at first, then:

“Let’s get it started!” My father roars, and I can picture him tossing his hands into the air to rally the people, most of whom respond with an excited cry.

“For the first match of the night we have the fearsome, the one eyed, the deadly: Tiiiiiiigerrrrr!”

Cheers go up as those that have bet money on Tiger’s victory shout for their dog, slapping palms against the walls and stomping feet against the floor.

“Versus, the mighty, the brute force, the unstoppable: Heeeercccc!”

I lead Tiger out towards the pit, tugging on his chain to place him on the scale. Lark, also known as “H” because of his consistency with his dog names, steps forward as well, wrenching Herc out from the shadows. The dogs snarl at each other, nipping at air and clicking their teeth menacingly. We weigh each dog in turn, both coming in at fifty pounds even. With a customary nod, we swap dogs, running our hands over coats, feeling in between teeth and examining claws, searching for discrepancies that could give one dog a deadly advantage over the other. Once each dog has been vetted, we lift them over the wall, securing them in each corner, holding fast on their chains until my father gives the cue. Herc shifts awkwardly, back left leg clearly healed poorly from a few weeks ago, when the entire leg had snapped clean in half under the bite force of Titan, another one of our fighting dogs.

“Fight!”

Lark and I release the dogs at once and the room swells, shouting and clapping filling the room as everyone is drawn into the fight. Instantly, both dogs rush to the center of the pit, and Tiger locks his jaws around Herc’s throat. Herc’s paws flail and his jaws snap as he wriggles, desperate with each trash of Tiger’s head. He manages to pull himself free, snapping at Tiger’s face and catching the better part of his left ear in his mouth. With a sickening ripping sound, the ear comes free, falling bloody and mangled from Herc’s mouth. The room cries out, hollering and booing respectively, based on who they had gambled on. I look on with disinterest, glancing towards the bar and frowning when I see Oria leaning across the table, pouting her lips in a way that begs for lewd interest. Jaws snap, blood sprays, coins clink and smiles are exchanged as bets are taken on the death of one of the dogs. Some dogfighting rings make it a practice not to fight to the death, but my father has determined that death brings in cash, in which case anything goes once the dogs enter the pit.

“Halt!”

My father calls the first break and I quickly toss the chain around Tiger’s neck, simultaneously using the stick to push the dogs apart. I haul him backwards, securing him back in his designated corner as Lark does the same with Titan. Lark presses his lips together, fury simmering in his stare, hand raising to strike Titan before he even reaches the edge of the pit.

“Stupid mutt,” I hear him mutter, the venom underneath his words sizzling as they reach the dog.

His hand slices across Titan’s back, sharp and unforgiving, but Titan refrains from reacting. Titan’s eyes watch vacantly ahead, drool and foam dripping from his jowls as he pants and groans, blood pouring from bite marks that litter his body. The crimson mars his mottled gray coat, flesh poking through in places where his body could no longer withstand the blows. I run a hand down Tiger’s back, but draw back when he snaps at my hand. I hiss as his teeth graze my finger, coaxing blood out from underneath my skin, and promptly give him a firm bop on the head with a closed fist. He whines in response, leaning slightly off center as he stumbles, but there’s no time to allow him to be in pain - the fight is about to resume.

“Dogs ready?”

Lark and I lock eyes once more, nodding sharply, more at each other than at my father. I hear the room begin to amp up around me, bodies beginning to crowd me from every angle. I choke on the second-hand smoke that has replaced the oxygen in the cellar, despite the open doors for circulation.

“Fight!”

On the queue, Lark and I release the dogs once more, ready to watch one of them accept death, and the other just border on it. I gaze around the room, watching women turn away and tuck their faces into their husbands’ chests in disgust, and observing men pump their fists in the air as blood sprays across the pit. Crimson rivers spill onto the dirt floor of the pit, pouring out of bite marks and cuts as the dogs continue to battle.

Tiger catches Titan’s neck in his mouth again, dropping and rolling across the floor in a style that has become his signature move, the execution of which sends a flurry of energy through the crowd. Fists slam appreciatively on the walls and cheers go up again as Tiger thrashes his head back and forth. Finally, something tears free - it is not Tiger’s jaws. A piece of flesh, bloodied and torn, drops from Tiger’s mouth as he wrenches a piece of Titan away. Titan screams, louder and more viscerally than a dog should be able to, slumping to the floor as blood pumps out of him. I look on with calculated interest; that’s a lot of blood for a bite. I wrinkle my nose as I hear someone retch and throw up - I hate weak-stomached people. Tiger circles the pit, stare locked on Titan’s writhing form as though he might strike again. Chants of “do it!” arise as the spectators realize the same thing, recognizing the glint of violence in Tiger’s eye.

Titan stops moving, chest hardly rising at all, limbs twitching with a last ditch effort to survive. It fails. The final huff of Titan’s breath is nearly audible as the crowd hushes to ensure Tiger’s victory.

“And the fight goes to: Tiiiiiigerrrrrr!” My father stands up, roaring in triumph as I secure Tiger back on the chain, avoiding his bared teeth.

I see the smile curl across my mother’s face, the one that means the bets have swayed in our favor - we are sure to make money tonight. A little satisfied grin worms its way onto my face as I push Tiger back into his cage, resolving to deal with the blood dripping from his wounds later. Probably. Just as I shut the door to the cage room and step back into the crowd, ready to hype everyone up before the next fight, maybe even encourage a few extra hundred dollars out of those I know can spare it, I hear a loud shout. While shouting isn’t uncommon on fight night, the volume and anger that is behind these words is. I turn my head quickly, eyes scanning the room and canvasing everyone, brain registering too many weapons in too small of a space for this not to become dangerous. Awesome.

I don’t react sharply, rather, I make my way through the crowd slowly, meandering towards my father’s chair. I get there just in time to witness a fight night classic - Lark yelling at people. He stands before my father’s chair, fists clenched, jaw clenched even tighter, red hot anger rising in his cheeks. His eyes squint as he shouts, spewing obscenities and accusations, tossing his hands in the air in grand gestures.

“You were an honest man before, Irving, but you sure as hell aren’t now!”

I quietly reserve the opinion that my father has never been honest about anything a day in his life, so long as the lie benefitted him - and it almost always did.

“If you’re done?” My father says, tone flat and uninterested, waving a hand at the crowd and now-empty pit.

Lark is, evidently, not done. His tone goes cold and his stare goes blank, in the way they do when he is about to say something unforgivable. The catch is, he had never actually said the unforgivable thing out loud. There was no catch anymore.

“Malachi always said you would never be loyal enough to be in.” The way he said “in” made it very clear that the divide between the haves and have-nots was one of importance. “I can see what he meant now.”

I catch Oria’s gaze across the room and watch the same realization wash over her - this will not end well. In the relative quiet that has fallen over the cellar in anticipation of more violence, I hear my mother clear her throat, an imperfect action that she never does unless it is to gather attention. My attention, as it seems, so I dart my eyes over to her. She mimes looks at a watch, the question in her eyes asking how much longer this nonsense can go on before we are vastly off schedule. We have three more fights to get through, and omitting one of those would surely impact our income. I roll my hands around each other in a “we need to get going” motion and she nods, placing a single finger on my father’s back and tapping lightly. Despite the touch seeming insignificant, it would not bear well for my father to ignore her instruction, no matter how silent. So, he does as she tells him to; he ends the conflict.

Lark has pulled down his shirt collar to reveal a fresh tattoo, a symbol of curling lines that appear to be barbed wire. My father’s hand raises unconsciously to the same spot on his chest, which I am entirely aware does not bear the same tattoo. I see the moment my father decides to cut the interaction off; I see myself in the look he gets in his eyes - the one that says emotion is no longer a component in this argument.

Without a single shred of hesitation, my father grabs the gun from his hip and levels it at Lark, firing off two shots in succession. Simple, to the point and effective, just the way resolutions should be. I sigh as Lark’s body jerks twice, then drops, bullet holes showing nearly clean through his chest. If his dirty blood stains the floor…

My father tucks the gun away, resettling himself in the chair and nodding to me, stare carrying the message he won’t say out loud: fix this. As he gathers the attention of the room to begin collecting bets for the next fight, I do. I head over to Lark’s body, toeing at his ribs. When he groans, I mutter a quiet curse and raise my eyes, gesturing to my father for his gun. He tosses it to me, safety off, and I place it point-blank against Lark’s temple and fire one clean shot. At this point, the crowd doesn’t even react to the noise, too encompassed by the excitement of the next fight, which will be held between our best dog, Tundra, and Antony’s, a neighbor of ours, best dog, Hellfire. I shove the gun into the waistband of my shorts to get it out of the way, taking up a stance behind Lark’s head. I hook my arms underneath his armpits, grunting with the effort it takes to drag him to the base of the stairs. With annoyance coating every muttered curse like poison on Snow White’s apple, I begin to bump his body up the stairs, using strength that I have only accumulated by doing this exact thing more than a few times. I heave and tug, finally pushing his body out of the top of the cellar and rolling him onto the lawn. For just a moment, I catch my breath, hands resting on my hips, chest rising and falling as I huff. I listen as my father announces the next fight and I hear the chains rattle as each dog is led out. Not wanting to miss all of the next fight, I start to roll Lark’s body across the lawn, growing too lazy to actually drag him to the shed. I roll my eyes as his blood stains the grass, frustrated at the extra chore for later.

Finally, I get him all the way to the shed, opening the door and heaving his torso inside. This man is so unnecessarily heavy. I glance up like a startled deer when I hear a car door slam, casually trying to nudge Lark’s legs inside without seeming suspicious. Of course, of all the people to get home right now, it’s my police officer neighbor. In a t-shirt and shorts, he opens the back door of his sedan and swings a duffel bag over his shoulder, smiling when he sees me. He begins to stride across his front law, hand raising in a cheerful greeting. I forced myself to smile, eyes darting down to the body that is only partially obscured by the shed door, then back up to him, ready to play off any sense he has that something is wrong.

“Hey Kai!” He calls out, still walking closer.

Literally this could not be worse timing.

“Hey Officer Pendum,” I reply, stepping in front of the shed door, aiming to maybe hide Lark’s legs behind my own.

I witness him catalog the pumping music and shouting that is, while far away, definitely loud enough to hear. He squints, pausing his walk.

“Parents having a party?” he asks, flicking his gaze around the yard.

I think about the blood seeping into the dirt right now, praying it’s too dark to see anything.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “Oria made honor roll or something.”

He laughs, a small chuckle, but I see his shoulders relax in a way that makes my chest unclench. This could be fine.

“Tell her I said congrats,” Officer Pendum tells me, jutting his chin towards the source of the noise.

I nod, assuring him that I will. He turns to walk back to his house, duffel bag shifting on his hip as he turns all the way around. Or, almost, all the way around. A moment before I am safe, a moment before he walks away and notices nothing, he pauses. It’s that pause that sends my hand skittering across my waistband for the gun. The officer turns back towards me, dropping his eyes to the ground between my legs, where I suppose it is evident that there is a dead body in my shed. He looks at the body, then at me, then at the body again, all in the span of one weighted second. It is in that second of non-action that I pull the gun out, firing it at his head, cool and steady in my aim. I am sure not to miss. He too crumples to the ground, just like Lark, blood pouring down his previously fairly handsome features. I tuck the gun away again, picking up Lark’s feet and shoving them inside the shed, closing the door and letting the lock fall. Then, I walk across the lawn and around the fence, moving to stand next to Officer Pendum’s body. I look down at him; his glassy eyes that appear to see everything even though I know they can’t see anything anymore look back. I heave a deep breath, fingers trailing lightly across the handle of the gun.

I just killed a cop.

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