Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“Until some fucking idiot put a bullet in my gut.”
I don’t even bother not to sound bitter. Friendly fire happens, but it still feels as though the friendly fire that has maimed me forever was intentional. Someone wanted me dead. Or worse, someone wanted me broken.
In an instant, the agency I pledged my life to did more reckless damage to me than Angelo and Bobby ever did in the two and a bit days they had me in their custody. I was safer with ruthless, lawless criminals than I feel I am right now.
“Alright. Well, you go on home and you get better,” Kurt says after glancing at the one-way mirror. Someone’s said something in his ear. Either they’re finally satisfied, or they’re going to try another angle later. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I feel guilty. Or more specifically, I feel like I’m a suspect.
Kurt sticks his hand out to shake mine.
“It’s good to have you back, Agent Cooper.”
“It’s good to be back,” I lie.
Days later…
A fruit basket sits on the table in the center of my apartment, attracting flies. There’s a Get Well Soon card perched in it. My name is spelled incorrectly on the interior. Apparently, one of my colleagues thinks my name is Rally.
I do a lot of field work and sure, I haven’t made a lot of friends at the office, but still. I’d almost rather they’d gifted me an actual bag of dicks and told me to suck them than this insipid offering.
I sit on my couch. It’s an old orange thing that I used to think was cheerful, but now seems a little too loud, the way some people who secretly want to die but instead keep throwing pizza parties are.
The apartment is quiet and small and dingy. Dust bunnies are marching their way along the skirting boards. Right now it seems as though they have more purpose and meaning in their lives than I do.
My gut aches low from where the bullet hit me. Damage has been done. Damage of the kind that makes my ears start to ring hollow when anybody talks about it and feels even worse when I think about it. So I don’t think about it. I pretend the ache is from a cramp, though the doctors have made it clear I won’t have periods anymore.
Weeks later…
I don’t know when I got to the office. An hour ago? Three days ago? Some amount of time. I’m staring at a man who is sitting across from me at a desk. I know his name, but I don’t care to remember it right now. He has a beard with a small piece of corn chip in it. I watch the corn chip move up and down, slightly side to side.
“We’re going to transition you out of the field and into the office. Data processing. Your field work will provide an invaluable perspective for…”
The ringing is starting in my ears again, a sort of high-pitched whine that drowns out the words but can’t do anything to stop me from occasionally catching glimpses of his fake sympathetic face. They’re moving me to data-processing because that is where the burnouts go.
“Riley? Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say. “Perfectly clear.”
Weeks after that…
Data processing involves staring at a screen and moving the screen around and occasionally making a note about the thing on the screen. I can do that. I can watch a video and then watch a video and then watch a video and then…
More time passes…
“Riley, we’re very sorry, but we’re going to need you to begin mandatory counseling. Your performance has been understandably substandard of late, and though we understand the reason for it, we have to maintain minimal….”
My hearing goes back into blessed tinnitus. I nod and I smile.
Days roll into each other…
“You’ve experienced trauma…”
A nice lady with a streak of gray through deep brown hair is talking to me in very soothing tones. She is relating to me and commiserating with me. It is all very nice. She wants me to talk about what happened to me and process all the terrible pain that is now wrapped up in scar tissue in my belly.
I am playing with a little fidget toy she has, a sort of metallic ball contraption, baubles that spin around and stick together and reflect my face and my empty eyes…
“It’s understandable that you’re not interested in discussing the matter, but I think it would really be helpful to explore some of the emotions around…”
Someone throws a fidget toy at the nice lady.
A little bit after that…
I am on drugs designed to make things better. They might be making things better, I’m not sure. Sometimes people ask me questions like how are you, or how are you doing? And to them I stare blankly and respond with the most recent meal I ate.