Adam speaks
Leon Schmidt, twenty-six, was a handsome man once. He is tall, his hair done in neat cornrows, and his skin is mocha-coloured, impossibly smooth. His open, staring eyes are light brown. He has awesome facial structure, with high cheekbones and a once-straight nose which is now a bloody mess. Judging from his current attire, he was a snappy dresser. He could have easily been a model.
According to what I find in his wallet, he attended law school prior to his sudden, violent and untimely death in this dark alley. His body lies where it fell when his killer finished beating him, sprawled over garbage bags and trash. My flashlight catches a pair of glowing eyes for a moment, and then the rat vanishes into the shadows with the faintest scuttling noise as the rain comes down.
The cause of death isn't immediately apparent - Schmidt had the crap beaten out of him, and his injuries are many and severe, but judging from the frothy dried blood at his mouth, I'm betting on a punctured lung from a broken rib. I am, however, not Sutherland. She's the one with the degree, she'll be able to say for sure what killed this man. But there is a sinking feeling in my stomach, because the markings on his body are commensurate with knuckles. Someone killed this man with their bare hands.
I shouldn't even be here. Freezing rain soaks my hair, and through my sweater and my leather jacket I can feel the biting cold of a New York pre-winter. Miles away, in a hospital where the fluorescent lights are glaringly bright on the green walls, Ashley is in labour. My beautiful wife, who I love more than this city or this job. She's out there, and my cell phone rings with reports of complications and distress and insufficient dilation.
What do you want to do, Adam? Trent asks me. Poor kid, he's probably scared shitless. He's only twenty-five, what does he know about pregnancy and the obligation I have to the job? The doctors want to cut her. But it's dangerous. You have to give them permission.
He wants to know what I want. What is more important, my twenty-three-year-old wife or our unborn child. I don't know how to answer those questions. I can't answer them. And the decision I make seems like the easiest decision I've ever made. I dial Russell, get him out of his warm bed, and tell him there's been a murder. I tell him Ashley's in labour and I tell him I'm putting my faith in him and in his partner Bates to get this done.
Russell knows me. He knows Ashley. He understands what this means to me. He'll be on the wet, cold crime scene within ten minutes.
And then I'm sprinting to the nearest cab and telling the driver to get me to my wife. My life, my world. My earth doesn't turn without her. I die without her. My phone rings. They couldn't wait, Adam. They're taking her into surgery.
The rain stops falling as my own tears begin.
According to what I find in his wallet, he attended law school prior to his sudden, violent and untimely death in this dark alley. His body lies where it fell when his killer finished beating him, sprawled over garbage bags and trash. My flashlight catches a pair of glowing eyes for a moment, and then the rat vanishes into the shadows with the faintest scuttling noise as the rain comes down.
The cause of death isn't immediately apparent - Schmidt had the crap beaten out of him, and his injuries are many and severe, but judging from the frothy dried blood at his mouth, I'm betting on a punctured lung from a broken rib. I am, however, not Sutherland. She's the one with the degree, she'll be able to say for sure what killed this man. But there is a sinking feeling in my stomach, because the markings on his body are commensurate with knuckles. Someone killed this man with their bare hands.
I shouldn't even be here. Freezing rain soaks my hair, and through my sweater and my leather jacket I can feel the biting cold of a New York pre-winter. Miles away, in a hospital where the fluorescent lights are glaringly bright on the green walls, Ashley is in labour. My beautiful wife, who I love more than this city or this job. She's out there, and my cell phone rings with reports of complications and distress and insufficient dilation.
What do you want to do, Adam? Trent asks me. Poor kid, he's probably scared shitless. He's only twenty-five, what does he know about pregnancy and the obligation I have to the job? The doctors want to cut her. But it's dangerous. You have to give them permission.
He wants to know what I want. What is more important, my twenty-three-year-old wife or our unborn child. I don't know how to answer those questions. I can't answer them. And the decision I make seems like the easiest decision I've ever made. I dial Russell, get him out of his warm bed, and tell him there's been a murder. I tell him Ashley's in labour and I tell him I'm putting my faith in him and in his partner Bates to get this done.
Russell knows me. He knows Ashley. He understands what this means to me. He'll be on the wet, cold crime scene within ten minutes.
And then I'm sprinting to the nearest cab and telling the driver to get me to my wife. My life, my world. My earth doesn't turn without her. I die without her. My phone rings. They couldn't wait, Adam. They're taking her into surgery.
The rain stops falling as my own tears begin.
posted by Ariana at 4:55 PM
4 Comments:
Nice beginning.
It feels like a first draft though.
Good intro to characters--
and I like the locale...
/s/ Andrew
That's actually the fourth story. Adam's life is a series of short stories. I've done three already, that's an exercise in the fourth.
See why I want to come to NY? It's the Caribbean down here, the lowest the temperatures get for the year might be 25 degrees Celsius. I've never experienced a winter.
And you didn't even find it suspect that a forty-five year old man has a twenty-three year old wife.
He's forty five?
That's a bit old for a 23 year old wife (lol)
But really, you didn't tell me he is forty five!
Even if he is, attraction isn't based on age
(not always at least)
it's based on interaction and challenge and sexual chemistry.
He was forty-four in the beginning. Now enough time has passed that he's forty-five. It's strange, I still think of him as forty-four.
Adam's good for Ashley. I like the dynamic created when they're together. She's genetically predisposed to paranoid schizophrenia (her mother has it), and post-partum she hits a downward spiral and is diagnosed by three different doctors with bipolar disorder, undifferentiated schizophrenia and post-traumatic stress disorder from her troubled past. Adam responds to this by caring for her himself - without medication and generally without help.
I don't know how many people would make that kind of sacrifice for someone they love.
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