Alive.
I killed someone today.
Well, not today. But "I killed someone yesterday afternoon and I was just now released from jail" doesn't sound as dramatic. They let me go, so I walked home. There was a list of taxi numbers by the door, but I passed by. No jacket, no gloves, dress shoes, hands stuffed in my pockets. The thermometer in my brain is telling me that it's at least a minus a thousand degrees outside, and demanding to know why am I not inside somewhere getting warm? And not a short distance, either. But I had a boulder to roll, and this was my hill.
Muscle memory tuned by instinct propelled me forward as I fumed upstairs; turn right here, watch out for that truck, a bit left here, under those tracks, all the way to the front door. Key in to the foyer, stare at the uncooperative voice auth screen. It won't take my password. It's kind of new, but it's never screwed up before. After my third try I realize that it's not working because "I'm sorry" isn't my password.
Inside, and I sit down. Stand up. Pace. Sit down again, different chair. Stare at the lamp on the table. I don't deserve it, but I mix a drink. Then a second. More staring. Pacing. Serious frowning going on, here. I lie down, stare at the ceiling; a new direction, so it's interesting now. Then not. How could I have done this? It's not like the war. Things like this happen.
No. No, not "happen". "It happens" means an accident, something unpreventable, an oops. "My bad, sorry bro." No. I didn't even need to be there yesterday. I didn't need to make that wrong turn onto that side street. I didn't need to be going that fast, I was in no real hurry. I didn't need to be paying that much attention to the iPod, trying to find some song that I can't even remember now.
Glance up, and freeze. Panic. React. More muscle memory, more instinct. Brakes. Brakes stop you, why aren't I stopping? That round thing that makes you go different directions, why isn't it making me go straight? Oh, right. It was wet, and cold, and wet plus cold equals oh shit.
Then a violent shudder. I didn't even see his face - surprise, maybe? Shock? Did he even notice me before the strike? - because I was staring at his belt, of all things. Khakis. That, and just below that, was where the bumper was going to go. And went. Hard.
Red everywhere, fluids. Explosions of color on the side windows, the coincidentally and formerly white car parked over there, the light poles. Intricate biology spread across my windshield before it shattered. I think I yelled, or screamed. I ended up stopping a meter or so after I would have not hit him. But I did. Dammit. I sat there, stunned for a moment, then threw open the door and performed the useless heroics. The first aid I knew wouldn't work for him, and the 911 operators were busy with other tragedies.
Just after I started hearing the sirens, the lights went out. I was no expert, but I could tell he was gone. Two ambulances, a police car, a special responder truck, all rolled up one after the other, only a bit too late. Flashing lights lit up the neighborhood like a German discothek. I envied their studded tires.
More useless heroics. Electric pads. Half-liter pouches of liquids essential to life. They did what they were trained to do, loaded him up as best they could as they did so, and flew off. I was left in the cold with the police, who were asking embarrassing questions I was already asking myself: What was I doing? Where was I going? What the fuck was I doing there?
My car was totaled. He was older, so he must have weighed nearly 200 kilos. It was like hitting a Dumpster. The radiator was caved in. The hood was crushed. The windshield was gone. The roof was mashed down. A mix of water, ice, and his shiny guts coated everything. I couldn't drive the thing again even if they could fix it. It's going to be hard enough to get back in the driver's seat... maybe the train from now on.
A tow truck took it away, and the police took me away. Handcuffs by rote. They weren't really sure what to do in this situation. Even if I didn't want to cooperate I was still too stunned to be squirrelly. Down to the station, book 'im, Danno. The chief knew the right forms. Speaking of, everyone knows you get that one phone call, but apparently it doesn't count if nobody picks up. They eventually finished their paperwork, let me stew in a cell for a bit, and because of the circumstances released me with no bail. A delicious kernel of corn in this pile of shit, to be sure.
Now I need a lawyer. I don't know if my insurance will pay for this, if I have the right coverage. A stressed-sounding voice from the robotics company that owned him already called, talking about backups and something else. I told him I can't talk now. I need to think.
Well, not today. But "I killed someone yesterday afternoon and I was just now released from jail" doesn't sound as dramatic. They let me go, so I walked home. There was a list of taxi numbers by the door, but I passed by. No jacket, no gloves, dress shoes, hands stuffed in my pockets. The thermometer in my brain is telling me that it's at least a minus a thousand degrees outside, and demanding to know why am I not inside somewhere getting warm? And not a short distance, either. But I had a boulder to roll, and this was my hill.
Muscle memory tuned by instinct propelled me forward as I fumed upstairs; turn right here, watch out for that truck, a bit left here, under those tracks, all the way to the front door. Key in to the foyer, stare at the uncooperative voice auth screen. It won't take my password. It's kind of new, but it's never screwed up before. After my third try I realize that it's not working because "I'm sorry" isn't my password.
Inside, and I sit down. Stand up. Pace. Sit down again, different chair. Stare at the lamp on the table. I don't deserve it, but I mix a drink. Then a second. More staring. Pacing. Serious frowning going on, here. I lie down, stare at the ceiling; a new direction, so it's interesting now. Then not. How could I have done this? It's not like the war. Things like this happen.
No. No, not "happen". "It happens" means an accident, something unpreventable, an oops. "My bad, sorry bro." No. I didn't even need to be there yesterday. I didn't need to make that wrong turn onto that side street. I didn't need to be going that fast, I was in no real hurry. I didn't need to be paying that much attention to the iPod, trying to find some song that I can't even remember now.
Glance up, and freeze. Panic. React. More muscle memory, more instinct. Brakes. Brakes stop you, why aren't I stopping? That round thing that makes you go different directions, why isn't it making me go straight? Oh, right. It was wet, and cold, and wet plus cold equals oh shit.
Then a violent shudder. I didn't even see his face - surprise, maybe? Shock? Did he even notice me before the strike? - because I was staring at his belt, of all things. Khakis. That, and just below that, was where the bumper was going to go. And went. Hard.
Red everywhere, fluids. Explosions of color on the side windows, the coincidentally and formerly white car parked over there, the light poles. Intricate biology spread across my windshield before it shattered. I think I yelled, or screamed. I ended up stopping a meter or so after I would have not hit him. But I did. Dammit. I sat there, stunned for a moment, then threw open the door and performed the useless heroics. The first aid I knew wouldn't work for him, and the 911 operators were busy with other tragedies.
Just after I started hearing the sirens, the lights went out. I was no expert, but I could tell he was gone. Two ambulances, a police car, a special responder truck, all rolled up one after the other, only a bit too late. Flashing lights lit up the neighborhood like a German discothek. I envied their studded tires.
More useless heroics. Electric pads. Half-liter pouches of liquids essential to life. They did what they were trained to do, loaded him up as best they could as they did so, and flew off. I was left in the cold with the police, who were asking embarrassing questions I was already asking myself: What was I doing? Where was I going? What the fuck was I doing there?
My car was totaled. He was older, so he must have weighed nearly 200 kilos. It was like hitting a Dumpster. The radiator was caved in. The hood was crushed. The windshield was gone. The roof was mashed down. A mix of water, ice, and his shiny guts coated everything. I couldn't drive the thing again even if they could fix it. It's going to be hard enough to get back in the driver's seat... maybe the train from now on.
A tow truck took it away, and the police took me away. Handcuffs by rote. They weren't really sure what to do in this situation. Even if I didn't want to cooperate I was still too stunned to be squirrelly. Down to the station, book 'im, Danno. The chief knew the right forms. Speaking of, everyone knows you get that one phone call, but apparently it doesn't count if nobody picks up. They eventually finished their paperwork, let me stew in a cell for a bit, and because of the circumstances released me with no bail. A delicious kernel of corn in this pile of shit, to be sure.
Now I need a lawyer. I don't know if my insurance will pay for this, if I have the right coverage. A stressed-sounding voice from the robotics company that owned him already called, talking about backups and something else. I told him I can't talk now. I need to think.