Daboo on :
Walls are jerks.
Tuesday, February 20. 2007The Nature of Things, Part 4
I'm not usually the type to skip classes. My parents sacrificed a lot to give me the opportunity to attend school, and I've always felt like I owed it to them to attend my classes. Somehow, though, classes seemed unimportant to me that day. I called police stations all over town looking for David. None of them would tell me anything. I searched the newspapers. His name was never mentioned. I even visited a paranoid friend who spent most of his time listening to police scanners, but he could tell me nothing.
David's warning words about witches dying young ran endlessly through my brain. I was guilty. It was my fault. If not for me, no one would have known. And now, he was the victim of that rabid violence that we reserve for the things that we fear most. When night fell, I found myself sitting in my car, rocking back and forth, unaware of how I had gotten there, or what I intended to do. I started the car, and sat there in the darkness, listening to the sound of the engine. When the idea first came to mind, I dismissed it immediately. I couldn't do that! But it poked and prodded at me until I could no longer ignore it. I began forming a picture in my brain, and as I formed it, I tried, in some strange, inexpressible way, to form it into a request, and to pass that request to the air that surrounded me. The voice startled me. I can't say that I heard it, or even that I felt it. I simply knew what it said, and that the whispering was the voice of the wind. "Why?" I spoke aloud, knowing that there was no need, but needing to hear the sound of my own voice to reassure myself. "I owe it to him. He is innocent."
I followed the whispers of the wind as it guided me to a part of town that I had never seen. Part of me rebelled, telling me that I was crazy, but another part of me reached so eagerly for the guidance that it easily overcame my misgivings. A single streetlight illuminated a dingy, run down police station. I pulled into the parking lot, whispering my thanks, and wondering what I was doing. I sat in the car, staring at the glass doors and the bare flourescent lights in the entryway. "What am I going to do? It's not like I can break him out." "You got here, didn't you?" I shivered, wondering if the voice I heard was my own. I watched myself push the car door open, wondering what I was doing, and why I was walking into the police station. "Yes," said a grumpy voice from behind the front desk. "I'm here to see my roommate, David Serra." At that, a grey head and thick glasses poked up above the desk. "Another D'arville witch, eh?" "I'm not from D'arville." I hesitated for a moment. "And I'm not a witch." "Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba, and this," she gestured wildly with her pen, "is King Solomon. Visiting hours are past. Come back tomorrow." Time seemed to freeze. Somehow, I was sure that if I didn't save him, he would be gone the next day. I looked at the heavy block walls around me, and began to imagine them opening up, making way for David to walk out, unharmed. As I pushed the image toward the walls, a new voice startled me. This was no whisper. It was a grating, powerful voice that shook me. "We are sworn to uphold the laws of men. We do not break such a vow lightly. Why whould you have us grant freedom to this prisoner?" "If you don't, they will kill him." The grey head poked up above the desk again. "You still here? I thought I told you. Visiting hours are past. Now get out before I kick you out." She may have had more to say, but the other voice drowned her out. "Is that a fact?" It sounded sarcastic. "Do you know this?" "Yes." "How?" "I . . . I don't know." "Exactly. You don't know." The voice pronounced the words slowly, distinctly. "You know nothing of the fate of this prisoner. And we do not honor the requests of liars." As the voice enunciated the last word, the floor seemed to shake, pitching me backward. I collapsed in a heap on the worn vinyl couch, my energy drained, my confidence shattered. I looked up at the light. My vision seemed to spin and narrow, and all I saw was black. Trackbacks
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The Mad Giggler on :
Stupid earth elements.
Ancient of Days on :
I love that the stones of the police station have a sense of duty about their own purpose.
It added that ineffable "Jared quality" that always makes me jealous of your particular talent. :) Radar on :
But what if the duty of the stones was to blindly obey and what they really did was wrong. What if they had been brainwashed by the police department?
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