Caught

Chapter 1 - Success is a Line Best Snorted

The woman's mouth opens wide to let out a scream. I feel bad for her, despite the affair. Her husband drops the knife and runs away, which is a bit of a let down, and the alley begins to fill with blood. So much blood. Way too much to be believable.

I think it's a detective movie, although true crime wouldn't surprise me. The main character being brutally murdered by her husband makes sense either way. Evil jealous husband kills poor adulterer wife who never meant to hurt him. Predictable, especially since I missed the first half of the film.

A large torso suddenly blocks the television screen causing me to forget the movie altogether. A man, old and scruffy, walks into his kitchen and opens the fridge to scan for snacks. I choose now to pull out my camera and snap a few photos. He hasn't been this close to the window in a while and the moonlight makes for a great shot.

This piece will go well with the one I got earlier of a woman clipping her nails over the toilet. The way she leaned over its shiny porcelain bowl crying felt almost haunting. Any other art teacher would find such a project creepy. Or worse, criminal. Lucky for me Ms. Augustus has always had a flair for the unusual. Zooming my lens onto the man's deep plumber's crack, I feel more confident in this fact than I should.

The winter air outside is cold. Even through the thick walls of my brother's old pickup. It's dark enough that I can't tell which button the heating is, so I push the one closest to the wheel. Wrong choice. Michael Bublé's sexless voice blares through my speakers. Any stealth I had from parking behind a line of bushes is gone.

It doesn't take long for my camera model to notice. He turns to look out the window and finds my truck immediately. The bright red paint job must not help.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

My voice is lost amongst a Bublé power ballad. I shut off the radio and fumble for my keys. Too little too late. A front door slams not far away prompting my neck to snap sideways. He's jogging towards me, bare feet crunching in February snow, with downturned lips and slits for eyes. I snap another photo before turning on the ignition.

"Hey! You there! Give me that camera!" He shouts.

Considering my project is due tomorrow I opt for switching from neutral to drive. My engine pops as I move forward, like a gunshot piercing steel. The suburban neighbourhood lights up all around me and his demand seems more reasonable. Not that I'll listen. I jerk the stick shift into reverse and bury the gas pedal. Six feet under and waiting for a funeral, I feel it touch the truck's carpeted floor. Things wheeze. Puff. Grind. Choke on their diesel dinner, but the cops could be here in minutes.

I'm far enough away now that the man's yells are just vague noises of anger. I roll up my window. Now he reminds me of the woman from the movie, mouth wide and silent. Fake blood is replaced with very real sweat dripping down my chin.

The speed limit no longer exists; it's a mere suggestion. One I decide to ignore in favour of white mailboxes passing me by. Confused cries of middle-class paradise are replaced with silence very quickly. Houses lining the street become larger, now built from marble rather than stone. I see a brass statue of a naked man sitting on someone's front lawn. I worry that this is a bad place to hide.

No student in the history of twelfth grade has ever been this desperate for a grade. Even I'll admit that saving my GPA may not be worth going to jail. Getting accepted into university, however, is worth my freedom and then some.

I look in my rear-view mirror and take a sigh of relief. The road behind me is quiet, free from the flashing lights I was beginning to expect. It's still not enough to stop my eyes from lingering. A simple pedestrian on a midnight stroll would have caught me going thirty over the speed limit. My eyes flicker ahead just in time to see the empty car.