You Put the Gun In My Hands || Self-Para
There are things in life you choose to do, and then there are the things you are forced into, metaphorical gun to your head, knot in your stomach, your own pulse ringing in your ears. Sometimes, late at night, Nick would close his eyes and pretend he didn’t see the dead faces of two innocent women staring back at him in the dark, pretended that his sheets were not stained with blood he could never wash out, pretend that he didn’t see Reese Holden’s decaying body in the mirror, but come morning, his sins were as clear as day, written into his skin, present in every step he took. He was a walking, talking time bomb, and he could put the guitar away, could rip out his vocal chords, but it wouldn’t stop what he’d done; just days without music, and he was losing weight at a rapid pace, felt as though his head was caving in and the drumming--not from music, not from the band he missed more than life itself--but from the never ending migraines--simply wouldn’t stop, and Nick knew he would cave. Sooner or later, whether it was tomorrow, a week from now, or even years, he would cave, and he would hurt someone else. He’d never pretended to be a hero, would never even come close to the spectrum of a “good man,” but he had never planned to be this cold-hearted murderer that he had become. If the police would not put an end to it, then he’d do it himself. This was the end.
Nick made two calls before he left that day; one to Arcadia, and the other to Rosie. He told Rosie what an honor it had been to meet her, told her he really had wanted that date to work out--he’d bought her ten different types of flowers and thrown them all away, thought it was too cliche, so he’d tried to write her a song instead; he’d never worked it out. Nothing was good enough. He didn’t tell her goodbye. As for Arcadia, he told her to meet him just outside the town bank. Nick didn’t have a lot of friends in this life--he’d finally started to figure out why--but Arcadia was the closest thing he’d ever had, and he only hoped she’d show.
Pulling the mask down over his head--cheap black ski mask bought at the Denning’s shop earlier that morning (little planning had gone into this--his one last spur of the moment adventure)--Nick pulled the gun from his waistband and entered the bank. He’d heard that things like this--robberies and pulse-pounding action--provided a high, but he’d tried all the drugs in the world, and this was nothing in comparison. It was over in a matter of minutes, cuffs slapped onto his wrist, his whole body dragged through the streets and into the nearest cop car; he noted that there were over a dozen vehicles, even more officers, and he felt a sick rush of pride that he’d caused such a commotion--his last “crowd” of sorts. He should have known infamy would suit him better than fame. He never did make bail; the evidence was “overwhelming.”
They took his phone, but it didn’t matter; the calls had already been made. They took the money, but that had never been the purpose (and the small envelope filled to the brim with hundred dollar bills that was left on Arcadia’s dashboard was enough to get away with; he wouldn’t need the money where he was going). They took his shoelaces, and they took his clothes--replaced it all with orange jump suits--and then it was over: just Nick and all his ghosts trapped in a cell for what he hoped was a very, very long time.
