11:00, July 27
I stepped out into the back of the bar, a pungent odor stains the small parking lot like the intoxicating smell of death. The night had a odd silence in the depths of the city. I hear the sound of every step I take, along with the black plastic bag wrinkling in my hands. I haul the bag towards the massive green dumpster across the lot.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man run up the street in a panic. At first, I shrug it off, but then come three more, all equally panicked. Before I can catch onto the situation, tires rape the bare floor and shots are fired.
bangs ring between the tall city buildings like thunder, screams shout out and all hell seems to break loose in an instant as several car alarms begin screeching and the sound of shattering windows pierce my ears. I am blind, but I am aware of the decision I have to make.
The most humane choice would be to retreat , find a phone and try not to panic. A less humane choice would be to indulge in the madness and hostility.
My curiosity can't deal with being blind, so it considers stepping forward to see what's happening. I'll remain as a bystander, yes, that is who I am... A witness, a bystander, an observer, a spectator. That is the role I play in life. I do not judge, I simply watch, I look for common ideals and reproduced scenarios.
There wasn't really a question as to what I would see, I mean... clearly there would be flashes from gun shots, men shot down; bleeding out on the floor, and shattered windows from cars and buildings. I'd see groups of men ducking behind what ever cover they can find as they shoot across the street. They are probably screaming hateful comments, feeding the fire and cycle of hate.
I don't have to move too close to the edge of the lot before a bombardment of people run across the driveway with their backs to me as they shoot across the street.
They were all too focused to notice the odd woman behind them. which is convenient, because I have little interest in being shot.
My mind races with wringer, to the point that my mind failed to acknowledge that a man had suddenly dashed around the corner. I hardly begin to react as he rushes directly for me.
Why are they killing each other?
When will they stop?
How many are down?
Has this become a story of every man for themselves?
Does this man intend on killing me, or is he fleeing?
I hear bullets ricochet against the trash can a few feet behind me. The man running my way grabbed my shoulder and yanked me behind cover.
"Wow, you really have a death wish, don't you?" He says, dragging me down so that we are squatting behind the large metal waste can. I immediately take note of his heavy breathing and his shaky hand. I doubt that he signed up for the mess out in the streets-yet-He has an oddly mild reaction.
Maybe he's experiencing shock, or adrenaline. I wonder if there is a difference...
The gunfire doesn't seem to cease but he released my shoulder, leaving me kneeling on the floor beside him as he checks around the corner. He doesn't even flinch at the gunshots, smell of gunpowder or sight of blood. Maybe he is a military guy?
"Death is an odd concept, isn't it? Do we really fear death, or do we fear the unknown?" I say automatically.
I need to keep my mouth shut sometimes, these topics make people uncomfortable.
"Are you really talking about life and death concepts right now? " he says giving quick glances over his shoulder.
See? It IS odd. To others, speaking of death before dying is an oddity. I'm not sure why. He must be panicked because he's afraid that he is going to die here.
Oh well...? I suppose that's the only logical reason to do anything, right? Survival. We live to work, to eat, to sleep, and function.
I stand up and walk towards the trash bag that I dropped in the middle of the alley, I threw it away and and was about to head back to work. I stand by the dumpster, allowing my eyes to absorb the sight before me for a few moments longer.
Honestly, this is a waste of time. Why should I fight something that isn't my battle?
Then I got that itch again.
Why are they behaving this way?
What would upset someone to the point of murder?
I've asked myself this before, shootings and gang wars are fairly common here. It was about a year ago, I was satisfied with the reasoning that they were all on two separate and colliding band wagons of pride.
Don't let him talk shit, stand up for yourself, be a man. It's a mix testosterone and the desire for dominance.
It's agitating really. People die for such simplistic matters.
" Are you done with your rant? I don't really care about what your opinions are, those guys are drug lords, that is the mafia out there. They are killing each other over loads of doe. Meanwhile, you're getting you're panties in a bunch about hormones?" The man next to me said tensely , "and before you ask, yes. You did say that out loud. I recommend keeping those outbursts to yourself, they're the type of things that get you shot. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
As I listen to his voice I realize that he has a bit of a Boston accent. How entertaining! He's probably involved in this gang nonsense, but if that were the case; why is he here taking cover?
Maybe he's like me...
No... That's not very likely.
I remained standing beside the dumpster, at war with myself. In the end I decide to leave. I look at the shadowy figure ducking behind the trash can, "wow, I'd like to meet the fucked up bastard that did that." He mutters, I wouldn't have caught it if he didn't want me to.
I wasn't exactly sure what he was referring to.
Possibly the gangs,
Possibly me.
Gunshots began to let up when the whisper of sirens could be heard echoing from some distorted direction, however the tension never left.
Before I closed the door I glanced at the man hiding in the shadows.
He was just staring at me.
He didn't follow, or speak.
What an odd character.
YOU ARE READING
Curious
Mystery / ThrillerI feel something deep inside of me begin to shift to resolution. "I can't let you do that." I say, he gives me a familiar look. That same look that's made me doubt everything I've done. It's a lie. He is lying. He doesn't want to help, he can't help...
