The musty jewelry store is empty, save for you and a tiny middle-aged man with glasses sitting behind the counter. You glance around nervously before grabbing a gold chain necklace off a shelf and shoving it into your coat pocket. You turn and immediately make for the glass door. Outside are the wet streets of Detroit. Your hand is on the handle when you hear the stool slide from behind the counter and the tiny man approaching you. You let your hand fall, the other hand holding the chain inside your pocket, and step away from the entrance.
"Are ye payin' for that, mister?" His voice carries an accent that sounds Irish. You peek out from the hood that covers your head. He seems like a nice guy; your conscience tells you to give him the necklace and try again elsewhere. However, another part of you steadies itself, forcing your hand into your other coat pocket. The cool feel of the metal handle calms you slightly.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say quickly. You can feel the sweat run down the back of your neck, past the circle of bruises and onto the smooth skin of your spine. Your eyes flit to the doorway again; the option to merely walk away is overwhelming. The man folds his arms and frowns.
"I watched ye grab that chain," he says, gesturing towards your bulging pocket, "Ye goin’ ter hand it over, or shall I call them coppers on ye?"
You blink rapidly, gulp, then pull the revolver out of the pocket. The storekeeper raises his hands, taking a few steps back. Your tongue flicks out over dry lips, then immediately vanishes back behind your your gritted teeth. You close your eyes for a moment, recalling the scene you had imagined for days now.
"Here's... Here's what's gonna happen," you say, stuttering slightly. You don't look the man in the eyes as you continue: "I'm gonna walk out of here with this, and you're not going to move until I'm gone. Got that?" The store owner stares at the barrel of your gun, terrified, but manages to nod in response. You feel sick to your stomach, but you back towards the door and again put your hand on the metal door knob. "Good," you say, holding the gun in a quivering grip, "Just... Just stay there." You glance around the room one more time before pushing through the door and into the cold October of Detroit.
You can't feel the cold, though. The shock of your robbery - you robbed someone - still pounds through your veins like your last shot of horse. It makes you feel giddy, almost, but still makes you feel nauseous and queasy.
As you walk down the grimy sidewalk, you realize he's probably called the police by now, and you only have a few minutes before you will be completely surrounded by the blue vehicles with sirens mounted on the roofs. You quickly withdraw your hands from your pockets, and pull out your phone. It’s a lousy flip-phone, the kind that don't have a keyboard and made texting annoying and difficult, but you don't have enough money to buy anything newer. Your twitching fingers push seven numbers in and press the call button, then raise the device to your ear. You listen to the ringing of the phone; the repetitive electronic tone is almost soothing to your panicked state of mind. After only a few rings, you hear it click and a young voice answers.
"H... Hello?" Her voice is quivering, as though she's been crying for some time and has only just stopped. Your mouth twitches upwards a bit, but you can feel tears welling up behind your eyes
"Hey, Christine. It's-"
"You!"
"Yeah, uh, I just-"
"Go to hell, you... You creep!"
“No, wait, Christine! I wanted to-”
“What? What the hell do you want?”
“I wanted to say... I’m sorry. There was no excuse for what I did, and I-”
“Yeah. Mm-hmm. No excuses. When a girl says no, you back off, pervert. You don’t pull them into a hotel while they’re drunk and-”
“I’m so, so sorry, Christine. Please-”
“You know what, I’ve had enough of your apologies. That’s all you do. You do something that messes them up forever, and you have the audacity to think they’ll let you off and forgive you if you just say you’re sorry? No. That isn’t how it works.” Her voice is harder, but her crying is still
there.
“Christine-”
“Don’t call me again.”
The line clicks and goes dead. You feel the tears finally come out, and you fall against the side of a warehouse. Sobs wrack your tired body, sending spasms through your skinny torso. The shaking sends waves of pain through the deep tracks along your arm, hidden underneath the thick coat and dirty long-sleeve shirt. You know it's hopeless; she'll never love you.
Sirens emerge from the constant sound of traffic, coming down the street. You wipe your eyes, sniffing the watery mucus that has built up in your nostrils, and quickly rise to your feet. You turn and run, your feet hitting the pavement in a constant thudding rhythm. Three blue cars pull up at the pavement in a semi-circle round you, barely settling into a stop before officers with navy blue uniforms jump out. They rush behind their vehicles, steadying their arms on on the hoods and roofs of the cars. They all stare at you, pathetically standing in front of the large Mackinac Straits Fish Company sign, from behind the iron sights of their guns. You feel your face grow hot, knowing you're terrible deed is about to be repaid in full.
Because of what you did to her, you know Christine will never forgive you, much less return your love. You deserved to die. No crime like that should go unpunished. The tears return, pouring down your face, and you know that this is the end. Nooses hadn't worked; neither had cutting. Your hand goes into your pocket, feeling the metal again, which is warm and covered with sweat. You blink several times, looking at each officer in turn as you do, before pulling the pistol out of your coat and into the chilled October air.
For a brief moment, you wish it was loaded.
