Aside from the headlights from the approaching airplanes, the eastern edge of the airport was dark and quiet, save for the window-rattling engines that pass overhead. Sitting on his car, mindlessly staring west following the plane’s decedent, reeking of smoke from the tires collapsing onto the concrete runway, he tipped and squeezed the final drop.

When he noticed another plane making its final approach, he quickly stood, calculating the moment that the plane would pass directly over him. As the plane grew closer, the exhilaration in his body grew; wondering if he could cause enough damage to bring the plane down. Not only was he nearly two hundred feet late, but the violence of his throw gave the bottle a low-ground linear path that crashed against the rocks, near the entrance of this gravel-paved road.

Uncomplicated functions, such as walking, became troublesome burdens. Fighting transparency, he walked to the passenger door of his Cherry-Red Cutlass, and pulled out another bottle from a large brown bag that was originally filled with five. Including the one in his hand with the cap already tossed over the 10-foot fence, only one remained.

Back atop his car, with his back pressed against the windshield, he cranked his head towards the stars that peppered the sky with resplendence. “Who are you,” he mumbled indiscriminately, picking out a star in the sky of thousands. He sighed loudly, then drained another fishbowl-sized drink into his suddenly uneasy stomach. Rolling to his right, he expected another cleansing session that his body never scheduled; nervously coming all too frequently. After another moment of protesting, his stomach eased, and he rolled onto his back.

It didn’t take a great effort of reminiscence to undoubtedly recover a dangerous level of depression. After all, he was a cop. He quickly understood the difficult life he would lead after joining Homicide at the Department. With the increasingly monetary rewards, came the vicious depression he acquired at home. He and his wife were childless; of which he blamed her. Sometimes he came home late in the morning, after an investigation, only sleep in their bed alone. Always feeling awful for not being around her anymore, he turned a blind eye, hoping that the rocky road would one day be smooth again; not that it’s an excuse, he later reasoned to himself.

The department issued nine-millimeter was an object of total obsession to him, staring at it while it sits in his lap. It would end the means for him, severing an impossible depression, with a bullet marked in imaginary print reading, “Michael Crawford.”

Three weeks ago, she filed for divorce on account of another; the same she had been seeing in recent months, he would learn. She’s taking the house, and mostly everything inside. He didn’t realize how much of an effect it would have on him until bumped into the two of them at a local bar, making their way out while he was ordering his poison. He took it so rough, that he was rushed to the emergency room due to alcohol poisoning.

To dissolve the violent emotions that formulated during his down time, he immersed himself into his work. While examining the corpse of a 19-year old girl, he started developing immoral meditations. During drinking binges, the thought materializes; taking his shotgun into his old house and performing cleansing rituals. Ultimately, his mind wonders off after he concludes that he could never hurt her. And he never will.

Another plane made its approach, bigger and much louder than the handful that’s passed before; he supervised it until it turned off the runway into the terminal. Finally, he returned to the stars; begging answers to resolve higher-purpose questions. “What the hell”, he thought.

He rolled off the hood of his car, knelt beside the front tire and began praying. His head began to lower, leaning against his interlaced fingers when a powerful light erupted from the gravel-paved entrance. When he stood up, he counted three approaching sets of headlights. Once the cars stopped, thick heavy boots rapidly displaced pebbles on the road; like men rushing to him. He thought of his partner, Jones; always concerned that he would erratically end his own life one day. Jones was just being cautious; he was grateful for that.

Someone shouted, “Freeze!”
“It’s all right. I’m a cop,” he said pulling out his badge from inside his jacket. “I’m a Detective for the City Police Department.”

Someone yanked his hands together behind his back, tying them together at his wrist; his badge fell to the ground. “What are you doing,” he started shouting. “I’m a fucking cop.” No one acknowledged while a black hood was thrown over his head, fastened with a draw string around his neck. The last thing he remembered was the butt of an assault riffle, slammed against his head; making him see nothing but nervous dreams.

When he awakened, three men were shrieking words never heard by his ears before. All wore black masks, with white symbols near their foreheads, military fatigues and assault riffles harnessed over their shoulders. A stationary video camera stood 30 feet away, directly pointing at him. A red light illuminated from the camera and the two men standing behind him lifted him to his knees, with his hands still restrained behind him. Another stood behind the recorder while a fourth started reading from a piece of paper, using words of a language heard in the news, or in the movies. Finally, he began to panic.

Once the man reading the script finished, a cold sensation flared across his neck, like sliding metal. At first, it felt like fresh air penetrating an open wound. Angels began to sing with harps sitting on clouds smiling genuinely, reaching out to him. A dove flew across the sky, while he walked on the beach with warm sand canvassing his feet. More singing was heard, relaxing and loving, like a mother caressing her child.

“Soon, my child, soon,” one of the angels reassured.
“Father?”

His body lifted, like going down an elevator, while his sights were stationary. Exploding with utopias, a massive light overwhelmed him. Closing his eyes, he could feel the swirling warmth, not of wind, air or fire, but of everything dormant. His skin felt a prickling sensation that started at his shoulders, expanded beyond his arms while his hair took shape of wind ravaged love. When he opened his eyes…

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