Cancer: tired

I see the look on Gemme's face as she looks around my room in the den, and I can see that she's trying to conceal the tears I caused her, and beyond that, she's trying to mask her disgust. I could almost hear her asking "is this really where you live?" I can't help what that did to my temper. By the time she goes, I'm in the mood to beat the crap out of whoever it is that wants to challenge my being in the den.

As Gemme leaves, finally, I remember a little stash of coke I hid in my mattress. Locking the door as the police come in shouting, yelling for me to come out with my hands up. They must think I'm nuts.

Instead, I lift the duvet up and lean it over the door, looking for a little split in the material that now faces me. I push my fingers into the damp fibre that's stuffed in around the weary springs, looking for my coke. The feel of a little plastic bag against the tip of my finger makes me smile and I hook it out.

The sight of a little bag of white powder has never made me smile more. Truth is, I've never much liked coke. It makes you paranoid and you literally think there are people outside ready to take you away. I have enough of that when I'm sober, I don't need to make it worse. But coke makes me recklessly violent, too, so I tip it out onto the back of my hand, shifting it into a line and holding the door shut with my telekinesis at the same time. Days like this make you realise... you got a long time to live, so enjoy it.

I snort up the coke like an expert, heal away the urge to sneeze and wait for it to take effect. The police realise, during this time that I'm hidden in the bedroom, and they're banging on the door. Coke takes literally seconds to get to work and I feel wired a moment later. Jaw clenched, eyes wide and my heart racing off without me at 100 mph, my fists ball up and the police knock down the door, the mattress thudding to the floor. As this happens, I realise my knife is in my bag. Gemme has my bag. I swear loudly and the police throw themselves into my room words being yelled here there and everywhere.

"I live here! Get out!" I shriek. They don't listen, funnily enough.

I have twenty minutes to do as much damage as I can with just my fists. Against guns. A grin lifts my lips wildly and one of them announces what I just took to the rest of the morons.

Giggling like a maniac, I back away from them and alarmed by my behaviour, despite the fact I'm moving away, one of them pulls out his gun. Aimed at me.

I'm buzzing. I forget why I stopped liking coke.

I lunge for the gun and when I miss, I punch the guy in a place his bullet proof vest doesn't reach. As he doubles over, I snatch the gun away from him and take advantage of the confusion to skip out of the door into the rest of the apartment. I like guns. I like knives more though. As an irrational stab of anger at leaving the knife in the bag surges through me, I shoot the first thing through the door.

S'ok. They're all wearing Kevlar vests. I'm not aiming to kill them. Just break a few ribs. They open fire on me, all four of them. Did I not mention there're four? Well, I have now.

For some odd reason, every shot misses. I stand there and laugh at them. The rest blurs into a whirl of fists and guns. I'm sure I broke at least three ribs, made one man infertile, and left a lot of bruises. After about half an hour, I've come down from the coke, and one guy is passed out on the floor, one of them talking into his radio and the other two are wrestling me to the ground.

"Get off me!" I scream, biting down hard on one of the arms that's pushing me to the floor. He swears and whacks me around the head. I swear right back at him and spit in his eye. It was a good shot. He didn't appreciate it.

My temper had gone down a bit until he punched me and I was sober enough to care. I snap and his gun finds its way into my hand. The magazine is empty, I discover as I try to blow his face off, but I use it as a makeshift club kinda thing, beating him around the neck with it. The other guy, though, the one helping to get me on the floor, he tasers me and a wordless wail escapes me as I collapse, twitching helplessly on the floor.

Handcuffs are snapped swiftly around my wrist and when the effects of the taser cease, I groan, staying limp. I think I pissed my pants from the electric shock. I don't even care as they force me back to my feet and throw me in the back of the police car.

As they drive me to the station, I begin to laugh again.

"I got you guys good," I grin. I'm wedged between two of the police guys, both of them grimacing. The other is driving. An ambulance came and picked up the other one.

"Shut it," the one on my right snaps.

"I got you so good," I say again, deliberately winding him up. But... I'm tired. I haven't slept yet, and a coke high is tiring. Eventually, they put me in a cell and I go straight to sleep. Smiling.

The End

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