Hatchet

another piece of flash fiction

I'm in pain. Physical, mental pain. The high’s worn off and my demons are staring me in the face.

I'm ashamed to even look at myself. I knew my pupils are dilated eclipsing the blue irises, and it's all streaked with red veins. I never used to take drugs. Straight and narrow; that was the road I walked, punctuated by the occasional bump and dip.

That was before her.

Even thinking about the woman makes bile crawl up my throat. I haven't eaten for a couple days. I don't want to. My dad's starting to notice. It's getting to be a problem. My entire life is getting to be a problem.

"Bury the hatchet, Jules," I say to my reflection.

I gnawn a hole thrown my cheek as ants crawl along my skin and my hair bursts into flames. That's how it feels anyway. The dealer told me coming down would be bad; he hadn't lied.

Reaching for the faucet, I turn it on, cup my hands under the cool running water, and splash my face. The cold invigorates me, wakes me up, slaps me in the face. I need more than that.

"Bury the hatchet, Jules," I mumble under my breath as I remember what I did was right; was good and fair and...

I snarl at myself in the mirror, wanting to smash the liar staring back at me in the face. "Bury. It."

What I did wasn't right. No matter what topping I put on my s**t, at the end of the day, it's still s**t.

I bite down hard on my cheek and wince as blood flows over my tongue. I swallow, and it hits my stomach with the impact of a rare steak. It hurts. I need to eat.

I run my wet hands through my hair and stare back at my reflection. I smile, but it's forced. So I'd killed a dangerous serial killer. That was great! I'd saved at least a dozen intended victims, rid the world of one more evil, and saved a kid.

What did it matter that the woman had been my lover? That we'd been engaged? Looking to adopt? She'd killed people. A lot of people.

"You did the right thing." I’ve been repeating that to myself for five days, 14 hours, and about 57 minutes. I'd shot her just as the clock chimed the hour.

I hear a knock at the door, but before the person on the other side can speak, I call out: "Just a second."

That’s a lie. I need more than a second, and more than cold water drying on my face. More drugs would be destructive, but great. It would help with the speech I about to give. Help me smile and blink past the flashing cameras and say that I would continue to serve the great city of Minneapolis, continue to protect and honor the badge.

I wasn't the first officer to shoot someone close to them, someone they knew, and I wouldn't be the last.

"Bury the hatchet, Jules," I say to myself again. 

I force myself to stand straighter as I adjust the tie on my uniform so it's neat. I pick up the uniform hat and tuck it on my head, wide bill covering my eyes.

I was a murderer about to smile and play the savior. I'd killed someone. That stain would always follow me, always be apart of me. I just had to take it one day at a time, make a speech, smile at my partner, and get drinks with friends. I'd still be a killer, but maybe the meaning would change over time, switch to something like protector.

I reach out for the doorknob and pull the door open. My trigger finger twitches, but I just ball my fist and stride out. Everyone thinks I did something right. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but none of that matters now. This wasn't for me, it was for all the families I'd saved, all the people alive because I pulled the trigger.

That's why I need to do this. Accept the pain as a new part of me. I just got to wrap my bloodied hands around a shovel, dig a grave, and bury my hatchet.