Blue Bloods

Drew Williams stared at her bathroom mirror in disgust. Six years on the force wasted. Four years of college, four years of graduate school, all shot to hell by one stupid bust. Fog crept up the mirror as the reprimand played over and over in her head. The rhythm of the words settled into the pounding of her pulse, reinforced the headache that dragged her from her bed.

She reached groggily for the medicine cabinet door, even that slight motion caused pain to shoot through her skull. The latch stuck. She pulled harder. It gave with a crack, swinging open and smacking her in the forehead. Aspirin forgotten, she slammed the door open, driving it against the wall over and over. The glass shattered, sending shards across the floor. She kept hammering at the cabinet until the door tore free.

She stood panting, her twisted, broken prize clutched in one hand, leaning against the sink with the other. The shower head had slipped free of its cheap setting again, and it dangled into the tub, spraying water against the door.

Stupid cheap shower tub. Stupid cheap medicine cabinet. Stupid cheap apartment.

She turned to throw the shattered remains into the wastebasket.

Her feet slipped out from under her on the slick, wet floor. She slammed butt-first into the tile, pain spiking through her head as it bounced off the hard ceramic of the sink. Her feet and thighs slid through the shattered remains of the mirror, covering her with painful cuts. She howled, her fists and feet lashing out at the sink, toilet, and shower tub. Over and over again she struck, pounding out frustration, pounding out depression, pounding out the injustices of the world.

Long, uncounted minutes later she lay in a puddle of bloody water, her rage burned out. Her bathroom was a bloody, broken mess. She wasn’t much better. An alarm went off in the other room, and she groaned as the sound cut through her head. She had to get cleaned up for the party tonight. At least she had another two days before she had to be back at work. At the training, anyhow. She wouldn’t be going back to work for a while.

A mostly clean washcloth wiped across her face let her know that at least there were no cuts there. That was good, she didn’t want to give the shrink any more ammunition than he already had. A quick glance told her she might need some work on her hands, but it was hard to tell with all the old scars. Her legs would need all kinds of little bandages and stitches. Without thinking, she groped for her first aid kit, dragged herself into the tub, and poured alcohol on the cuts.

Her adrenaline spent, nothing remained but depressed disgust in its wake. Nothing she did made a difference. All the attaboys in the world got erased by one oh shit. She’d had no idea the suspect had been an undercover cop. She had no idea he was going for his badge. She had no idea why, after the fact, they blamed her for his injuries, docked her pay to cover his insurance deductible.

And I don’t need any fucking anger management training!

***

Charlie looked through his book collection. He thought about bringing some of them along to the party. At first it seemed like a good idea. Everyone loved books. After a while, he decided against it. People did stuff like eating, drinking, or doing other stuff with their hands at parties. After that, they wanted to handle his books. They never wanted to take the time to properly clean their hands, never wanted to let their hands dry.

As he put his boxes of books back on the shelf, his cell phone chirped. A text message from the hospital administrator. Something had gone wrong with the electric in the older elevator again. Charlie shrugged, holstered his cell phone and grabbed his gear vest. The denim settled comfortingly on his shoulders; the weight of each tool pulling from its accustomed spot. He walked to the door, pulling his keys from the retracting lanyard on his belt.

Three locks and a chain to open the door, four locks and a security system to arm, and he was ready to leave. A single button press initiated the deep roar of his pickup truck’s engine coming to life. He sauntered down the walk, giving the truck time to warm up. Mrs. Gardner next door called out to him, and he walked over to find out what she wanted.

“How are you doing, Charles?”

“Excellent, Miz Gardner. How are you?”

“It’s good to hear you’re well, Charles. I’m getting on in years, and I’d hate to think what’s going to happen to you when I’m gone.”

“I’ll be fine, Miz Gardner.”

“I’m sure you will. You’ve always been such a good boy. My arthritis is acting up again. Could you carry my bag down to the curb for me?”

“Sure, Miz Gardner. I’ve got to get going to the hospital now.”

“Such a good boy.”

He smiled, picked up the bag, and took his time carrying it to the street. By the time he had it firmly ensconced in the trash can, his truck had warmed up, the engine running smoothly, with no funny knocks indicating it had been tampered with.

The trip to the hospital went uneventfully. The classical station had something weird playing, so Charlie toggled his built-in mp3 player, bringing up a playlist heavy on Mozart and Beethoven. The music soothed him as he plodded through the traffic to the hospital. Traffic clogged the roads, and it took him nearly half an hour to drive the ten short miles to the hospital. Most of that traffic came from the turnpike. Some folks headed to the shore to see the light show when the meteorites hit. The smarter ones drove west, getting out of the potential flood zone.

Charlie backed his truck carefully into his reserved parking spot. When he finished, he took a few minutes to ponder the asteroid once more. Everything he read online said it wouldn’t hit the Earth. It would do one close pass around the planet, then slingshot toward the sun. When he thought about it, he got a tight feeling in the pit of his gut, fear that gripped and wouldn’t let go.

He gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on breathing. In, out, in, out, he focused on the endless cycles of his body, the way they’d shown him so long ago. After a little while the fist let go of his gut and he forced his hands from the steering wheel. The asteroid would make some pretty lights in the sky, then go away forever. The elevator needed fixing, now. Charlie thumbed his cell phone, sending a preprogrammed “I’m here” text to the hospital administrator, and gathered up his tools.