How You Got Here

I don't write short stories as often as I'd like, but I'm somewhat proud of this one, so I'm posting it.

Thanks for reading

Rated 12+ for mild language. 'Damn', 'hell', and 'bitch' being mild.

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You were having a terrible day.

First of all, there was that crick in your neck from lying spread-eagled on the hardwood floor for what felt like hours. The splitting headache that was probably an accompaniment to your floor-landing didn’t help, either. Third, the last thing you remembered was an enormous rubber duck squeaking in your face, and fourth, possibly strangest, you were clutching a bloody knife.

I wouldn’t have advised you to jump to conclusions, or even to hop to them like stepping-stones, for that matter. You had no evidence beyond the circumstantial to suggest you were guilty. Of course, there was the shattered window behind you and the trail of blood that led to it, the scuff marks on the sill, and -- when you peered out over the street below -- the mass of traffic congealing around the exact spot a jumper might, might just have fallen.

This presented you with a slight dilemma. You could try to escape, dirtied up with someone else’s blood as you were, but in the event that you were not actually guilty of anything, things could get a bit embarassing when you were subpoenaed.

On the other hand, if you actually were guilty, waiting there until your memory came around wasn’t going to get you anywhere but a maximum-security cell.

You looked around the room, and it suddenly occurred to you that you were wearing glasses. They were cracked and smeared with blood, never a good sign. As you peered through them you recognized the room as some fluorescent-lit, badly furnished office space. Therefore, you had to admit that the enormous iron-buckled clothing chest in the corner looked at least a hair out of place.

It was convenient to find the oddly realistic wigs and janitorial costumes inside, good enough for any crook’s arsenal, if they happened to specialize in business park robbery. As it was, you took what you could get. The blood smudged off your face with a bit of well-placed saliva, and the wig you found neatly covered the dried bits tangling your hair.

Somehow, you saw no police as you descended the steps with an affected pitter-patter walk and the hunching posture of a man who either has something to hide, or deep self esteem issues. It was the longest walk of your life -- or at least I imagine it was, but what do I know? -- around the corner, past the quaint little bakery, before you broke into a jog across the street. Out of sight.

That, of course, is when your day really started going badly.

Just as you ducked into a back alley, you saw him. An ordinary-looking man, the likes of which you probably saw every day. Clean-cut, white-collar sort. His tie was nicely pressed and ironed, his shoes were glossy with fresh shine, and his shirt was ripped jaggedly open and soaked in blood.

You looked at him askew and quite possibly cursed very nastily under your breath. He was staring at you with a gut-wrenching terror, and you could hardly blame him -- those guts seemed to be wrenched all over the knife you were, embarassingly enough, still holding.

Your voice came out in a croak. I’m sure you meant very much to say, “Excuse me, I think there has been a terrible mistake. Can I call an ambulance for you?”

What came out, however, was more along the lines of “Don’t move an inch,” along with what I’m sure was an accidental flourish of the knife. All very much unnecessary, of course, seeing as the bloodied man wasn’t in much condition to be moving anywhere, and I’m certain that he was quite aware of the knife before you shook it in his face.

At this point, it had to have been your confusion and desperation that compelled you to pick the injured man’s pockets, and it was only good fortune that delivered $147 and his bank card into your hands. You took off running along the adjacent street, cleverly pocketing the knife as you ran, finally emerging at the intersection between Fourth and Conway Street. The bank was only a crosswalk away, so you walked in, posture much straighter now, a wide feigned smile on your face. Maybe it even helped mask the fact that your wig was now askew and you were wearing a denim blue janitor’s onesie.

You approached the first desk and asked to withdraw. The teller smiled a much-too-white smile. “I.D.?”

Damn. Technicalities.

Well, it was time to move past the pleasantries. You leaned in toward her and whispered something, some sort of very earnest warning about the knife in your pocket and your honest desire not to have to stick it in her gut. She leaned back, a bit discomfited by the encouraging smile on your face, and screamed for security.

After that, I think you’ll agree that your bad day took a roller-coaster plummet to hell.

Security guards swarmed around you and patted you down, pulled the knife from your pocket. Irritatingly, they seemed unmoved by your pleas of amnesia and insanity. You were pulled aside into a separate room. Fastened to a chair. An oddly bright, interrogative light glared suddenly and rudely into your corneas, and that may have contributed to the vision you experienced next.

The man sitting in the chair opposite you, aside from a few knife wounds that seemed to have disappeared with a change of his shirt, was the same one you’d seen, pickpocketed, and left for dead in the alley. As they say, karma's a bitch.

“I understand you’re confused,” I told you -- kindly, which was big of me. “Induced amnesia isn’t a pleasant state to be in, despite the progresses of modern medicine. It does, however, often display a person’s true nature.”

You may think it cruel of me that at this moment I pulled a rubber duck from my inner pocket, squeaked it twice, and watched you cower in your seat as your memory flooded back. Psychological tricks are so entertaining.

“And with such a resource at our disposal,” I continued, “it would be...wrong, to squander the lives of our criminals without at least testing if they can reform. Second chances are hard to come by. Sadly for you, taxpayer dollars don’t cover a third.”

I swept out the door and locked it behind me. I have a weakness for dramatic partings, I must admit, and the last look on your face as I left the room was better pay than my salary could ever cover.