The car slowly rolled to a stop behind a long line of vaguely familiar cars, about five houses away. He glanced at the blue lit digital clock, it read eleven thirty-two. Late enough, as he preferred to mesh into a gathering with the pieces already in place. He turned the key toward himself--the car unwillingly spurted to lifelessness and the windshield wipers froze at two o'clock, allowing the scattering drizzle to fill the now unguarded space. As he killed the lights the street obscured in darkness.

Slowly, while cradling a bundle in his arms, he tested the pavement with his sneakers, still free from the commitment ahead. He paced up the walk, keeping, to the shadows, bypassing the semi-familiar, laughing figures seated on the front steps.

He halted before the side door, leaning his head back to allow the light rain to cool his face. The door suddenly swung inward, snatching him from the beginnings of a trance.

A darkened figure stood above him, on the other side of the white, battered storm door. "I need to get something from my car," it explained.

He anxiously used the accumulated dampness to push the startled hair from his eyes, before taking two steps back. Holding the door, he allowed the man to pass, as in the same breath stealthily entered the dim kitchen.

Retaining a pair of bottles, he placed the remainder of the two six packs of New Castile into the faded green refrigerator, one stuffed in the back for himself and the surplus, in sympathy, for those who wanted something other then a can of Bud. Disconnecting the magnetic bottle opener from the refrigerator, he opened both--taking a long, crisp swig from his own and moved to the threshold of the party to scan the artsy crowd that moved beneath the cigarette-marijuana haze, for a lead on Emily.

"Rob," cheerfully summoned a female's raspy voice from a hidden vantage in the room.

He gaped into the flock searching for the source as a girl sprung from cover. He felt the pressure of fingers and the pointy tips of her red painted nails press into his arm drawing him further into the room.

She kissed him softly beneath the ear. "I hoped you'd be here. I've been waiting for your call."

He gaped at her and betrayed surprise at not only her presence, but her blatant absence from his thoughts. Her nails and fingers slowly released him from their grip, as she mentally backed two steps away.

"I'm sorry, I haven't really been well."

"What else is new," she answered with a goodnatured smile but a hint of scorn. "Can we maybe go somewhere and talk?"

"About?"

"About, what's going on,... with you... and us."

Robert looked her in the eyes for the first time and felt guilty about the venerability they revealed. "I like you but things have been strange-" He took a breath to explain. "I find it very hard to just get out of bed and shower. Just to stop and get gas is pressure for me..." He again made contact seeing no change. "I hate all of these people. Everyone I see seems to be closing me in and covertly dictating to my subconscious where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do-" He stopped himself. "No change,... I'll be right back."

He turned and effected an abrupt escape swerving past a new wave of party goers who were pouring through the front door. He jogged upstairs. Intersecting the line of people waiting for the bathroom. Retreating to Emily's room he placed both bottles on the floor and firmly shut the door behind him. Removing his long, black raincoat, he thoughtfully laid it across an unmade bed and slowly undraped his gray, thrift-shop cashmere scarf, letting it twirl to the floor.

His hands found a sketchbook thrown atop a red milk crate and began to flip through it. He sank to a sit on the bed.

Drawings passed his eyes and occasionally a soundless flash of lightening would allow them form enough to find his envy.

He stopped upon an intimate island in the book of surrealism: A long, black haired, ageless woman, as seen through an old-fashioned window, was sitting, legs folded to the side, cozily on a couch. The couch rested in the middle of a barren leafless, winter woods.

This image sluggishly snaking through his mind, connected to a nightmare he had. When Emily's designs on being a witch were new and far stronger, she would analyze his and Scott's dreams.

..."The woman," said Emily, "sounds like me." She removed her legs from Robert's lap and dragged herself to the far end of the couch, sitting up. She studied Robert solemnly.

"And?," Scott primed her skeptically.

She groped for her wine glass on the floor and drained it. "And," she continued, "Robbie's watching me through a window..." she glanced at Robert. "And,... that implies a distance."

"And?," prodded Scott.

"And,... I'm getting some more wine," she tossed a throw-pillow in Scott's direction and left the room.

She reentered with a full glass, seeming mentally distant as well as sitting in the far corner of the room. She found her book next to the chair and began to quietly draw...

Some additional, unshared symbolism revealed only to Emily's mind, seemed to have sobered her for the rest of that night, as well as, at least, from the shelter of hindsight, seemed to have stinted the implied beginnings of their once budding, deeper relationship.

He closed the book and seemed to be studying some point resting just beyond the door as if seeing the winter woods. A rumble of nearing thunder sounded, followed in a space of seconds by a brilliant flash of lightening--a shadow constructed from the front yard willow tree and window-slats were eerily devised as a monster being projected on the wall.

Bending over to Reacquire the beers he sipped his own. Permitting the coolness to return his focus, He raised to a stand, kicked his shoes off into the far corner and exited the room barefoot to resume his search.

He found her lying on the back lawn, with her arms outstretched, as if attempting to catch all of the, heavily raining droplets.

"Emily?"

As her face contorted in happy recognition, she meticulously raised to a sit. He kneeled to meet her and sensed her pupil's acid inspired dilation. Disappointment began to fill him. He lowered a beer to her hand.

She slowly looked down to study her hand holding the bottle as if seeing something new she had recently grown.

"Hi Emmy."

This added tone soon aroused her greater concentration, bringing her eyes into loose focus around his face.

"Robbie," she quietly revealed to herself.

"Your going to get sick again, you know," he softly offered.

She concentrated on the small icy bursts hitting the exposed portions of her body. In rapid fire, thunder cracked loudly above them, with lightening lingering instantly behind. With a passive bliss, she admired the sky. "I know," she dreamily assured him, as her attention once again melted to the beer in her hand. Sluggishly raising it to her lips, she felt the outside coolness, now expanding within her. Robert wordlessly watched.

"It washes everything, all away... The rain," she explained. Robert made no reply.

With the absence of any added stimulus, she gave him a toothy, dismissing grin, that she meant for his reassurance and lowered herself back to the ground--returning her gaze to the sky, as if to search out the source of the now heavily falling rain. Robert noticed the wet grass beneath his feet. He jumped at the next wave of thunder now coupled with lightening; it seemed to have an only lyrical effect on Emily. A soft smile crept to her face. Deciding against dragging her inside in fear of rousing a bad trip, he kissed her on the forehead and in defeat, soundlessly left her.

Searching the refrigerator, he retrieved the full six pack from the kitchen and scanned the room to search for an empty plane of carpet where he could park himself, to drink and eventually pass out.

With a serviceable destination in sight and the absence of the girl who had grilled him earlier, he began to wade across the room, but snagged himself on a poetry class acquaintance, who after asking the usual questions: How is your writing?, How is mine?, Where's Emily and Scott, he soon excused himself. Not before introducing him to a blond, militant looking man. His hair was cut closely to his head and a finely trimmed mustache sat proudly on his face. He was wearing what seemed to be his favorite rayon shirt.

"So, where are you from?"

Robert quickly mused as to why he shouldn't tell this man where he lived, but just decided to answer. "Currently, I live in Selden."

"My brother's a cop in your precinct."

An involuntary sound of gibberish-disgust escaped through Robert's thought.

"Yeah, I know, Suffolk cops are all Nazis," he attempted to agree with the commentary, adding, half proudly, half in warning, that he was a New York City Police Officer, in the Bronx, just before Robert could allow his loathing for all cops to linguistically surface.

"Really," Robert exclaimed coldly, using his practiced, blatant brand of disinterest that he used to shut down his less productive and unwanted dialogue.

"Yep," answered the man, waving a slightly swollen index finger in Roberts face. "I broke it, tackling some nigger, last month," but they really take care of you when you go down, the medical benefits are outta this world, the best anywhere..."

Robert dropped his polite ignorance and let his eyes wander the perimeter of the room. He watched a joint going from hand to hand to a woman's over painted red mouth. rgjklfgfgu They found a black clad figure seated on a couch with the poise of a model in a New York Times Magazine ad. She appeared centered by the opposite end of the room. The bare fact that she wore black wasn't extremely unique. Ninety percent of the people there, including himself, happened to be wearing black on this night. It was just that she seemed to hold it honestly to her skin.

He absently stared into her eyes, creating one of his many twenty seconds relationships. When the voice ceased he became aware of this and meaningful contact was broken. The cop sat watching him expectantly.

"Can you excuse me?," Robert asked already in transit, as he also shyly avoided a second meaningful glance. He stumbled over to and retired to the desert stretch of carpet of his original destination. He had hoped that he and Emily would get a chance to talk, when he waked and she was coming down. He'd envisioned them swinging on the swings later in the playground, just as many times past.

"You mind If I have one of these?" asked the black clad, woman, gesturing to the six-pack. Her hair and completely black attire, gave a breath of sophistication and poet's wisdom that, more than slightly intimidated Robert.

"Sure," he replied, overenthusiastically opening one with the bottle opener attached to his key-ring and handing it to her.

She took a long swig, reacting genuinely refreshed. She gracefully lowered to a sit Indian-style closely before him. "I'm just sick of drinking Budweiser."

"Yeah," he said with too much of a sneer, "I think people who drink Bud, don't really like beer, that's why they choose to drink one that doesn't really have a taste."

She agreed politely. They watched each other for an uncomfortable space seconds.

"I'm Kate." She held out her hand.

"Hi," he said, gaping at it.

"I came over here, because you seem more sensitive then most of the people here."

He quickly put down his beer. "Thanks,... I,... I'm Rob,.. Sorry, I've been drinking." He meekly shook her hand.

"It's OK, it's healthy, sometimes."

"Yeah, sometimes," he agreed cynically.

"Really, my name is Catharine, but I have people call me Kate, because Catharine is too tedious to say, so people tended to call me Cathy and I really hate Cathy." She took in a breath.

He laughed. "Actually, I like Robert better, but I think it is very pretentious to say, call me Robert, It's like Lord Byron or something." He extends his hand. "Hi, my name is Byron, but you can call me LORD Byron." They both laughed, as they again shook hands. Uncomfortably, they shared a second meaningful look. Robert's eyes were the first to waver.

"OK, I'll call you Robert, If you call me Catharine."

"Hello Catherine." Inspired by a growing confidence he allowed her dark eyes, another dramatically felt glance.

"Do you go to Stony brook, also?"

"Yes, for years it seems"

"What do you do,... your major?"

"Sort of English. I'm down as an English major, but really take more liberal artsy courses. How bout you, are you a student?"

"Oh, I was, an art major, but I have my Sylvie and all. I just don't really have the time anymore."

"Sylvie?"

"Yeah, she's my little girl. Home in bed right now," she answered timidly but with a hint of pride.

"Wow, I feel so young, you have a daughter while I just go to school and drink at these stupid parties."

"So do I... Getting here wasn't hard. You could be a father, you know. It just takes the-" she stopped herself.

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"It's OK." She touched his hand, instantly calming him.

"Do you still paint and stuff at all, anymore," he continued attempting to pull her back to him.

"Yeah, sometimes," she said sadly, slightly withdrawn. "I paint, sketch, but mostly, I like to sculpt."

"It must be hard," he said in admiration, but sounded, more condescending. He awkwardly touched her hand, looking now to her eyes for reaction.

"Can you excuse me for a minute?" She abruptly raised recoiling from his touch. "I'll be back." She walked off in the general direction of the bathroom, leaving her beer behind--resting alone on the stained, off white carpet.

He started on another beer and waited for her return, giddy with the prospect of meeting an artist. He always projected an artist as his ideal.

...Parked in his corner, he watched her sitting on the couch speaking to a philosophy type grad student with long hippie tied back hair, the essential philosophers catalogue beard and round glasses. He always seemed to be at the same functions as Robert. Though he didn't really know him, every once in a while, they found their selves muttering their hellos. She had noticed him watching and allowed a friendly smile. Robert almost took it as an invitation, but quickly looked away and drained the remnants of his first can of Bud.

He unsteadily raised and without a glance and attempted to pass them by.

"You leaving?," she addressed him. Her voice immediately halted him.

"No, just going to wander around the playground, across the street," he answered, abruptly, continuing on, hoping she would follow.

The new outside air immediately freed his thoughts. He crossed the street, jumping from puddle to puddle. Entering the park, he began to tromp around--enjoying the feel of barefeet on the cool wet grass.

He stopped before a swing sitting and allowed the wet plastic sling to tighten around his bottom. The moisture began to penetrate his jeans. Slowly as he began to sway he imagined he and his sixth grade best friend, Daren on the swings during recess.

...They would sit and vocalize jazz; their voices mimicking horns and brush played cymbals, as the boys and Mister Busch would keep to the status quo, playing baseball or football, whichever happened to be in style. The girls usually kept to themselves on the fashionable swings located more strategically social, closer to the thick of things.

Often Daren would join the boys, leaving him alone. Occasionally, Robert would also play, but only enough to keep up appearances. He was gifted with unique balance and a strong athletic body, performing well enough to command some respect, enough, at least, as not to be fatally blackballed.

When he did play, he tended to be stuck in center-right field where he usually talked to himself--ignoring the few stray fly balls that would land initially unanswered; that he would have to doltishly scramble after. He tended to bat somewhere in the middle of the lineup for lack of asserting himself and in turn was usually chosen just before the fat boy, a few of the less adept and David Schwartz.

One day when the fifth graders were out later then usual, the sixth graders were forced to share the playground. The demand for swings that day were at a premium. Daren seeming to have been privy to the information that morning, brought his mitt to school and ran straight out to join the game, again leaving Robert alone, this time with no established space of his own. He stood with his legs crossed and waited in vain for a vacant swing. He soon realized how conspicuous he would have seemed if he actually swung with the girls. Little by little, he found himself drifting further and further from the brunt, to the fringes of the playground. He looked to a distant Mister Busch, standing on the mound--pitching to Ronnie Coons. He looked to the fifth and sixth grade girls swinging on the swings and to the small group of teachers just standing around. To his surprise, they all seemed completely oblivious to his existence. Allowing one more glance for the pitching Busch, Robbie ran the incredibly short length of remaining field and dove for the formally out of reach perimeter of school property, to the safety of the surrounding woods.

Once the rush of fear dwindled he just sat as an outsider and watched the boys finish the game and to finally desert the field. As he realized that he was now on his own and would not find a ride home on the bus without getting caught. He began his four mile trek home...

Robert began to swing higher, furiously higher and higher. The wasteland wind, whistling through his earrings conjured a wolf's howling in his ear. It soon reached, a theoretical textbook height, as his seat began to collapse downward to the point that he needed to grip more tightly on to the chains to keep from clamoring to the wet ground.

Finally, unable to achieve any more, he stopped pumping, allowing himself to sway less and less, as his feet skimmed the puddle beneath him, to heighten his, constant decent. He swayed to a calm wobbling stop. He closed his eyes, slightly disoriented, the bottoms of his feet hanging, submerged in the cool puddle. He looked to the door, hoping she was watching such a display of insanity; another show of uniqueness that he now began to grow excessively fond of, but saw only the set of generic stoop sitters.

Robert dismounted the swing, his feet now touched the muddy bottom of the small lake. With thoughts of being Godzilla, he roared, halting the stoop conversation and stamped all the tiny boats, crushing them beneath his feet--splashes, wet his jeans well above the knees. He stopped. A few of the people watched, but the conversation slowly generated again.

"Sheep!," he yelled, walking back across the grass, to his car. He debated whether to drive away now, really drunk, or to give Catharine another chance. His wet feet created a hovering chill that made him shiver and more pessimistic. He climbed up, sitting Indian style on the hood, closed his eyes and breathed slow and deeply, inhaling as far as he was able--holding--and exhaling, forcing all air from his lungs. He repeated this a few times. I had too much to drink......... But I just can't stay here any longer..... I'm going to get in my car, start it up, and drive straight home, without being bothered by anyone,........ get home, lock them all out and go straight to bed......

"What are you doing?," asked the artist, good-naturedly, but startling him into quick focus.

"Sort of meditating," he admitted.

"I just saw you over here and thought I'd say good bye."

"Oh," he said, attempting to hold her, "I'd like to see you again."

"We probably will," she assured him. "It was nice meeting you." She resumed walking to her yellow Volkswagen bug, started it, flicked on her headlights, to effect a modest take off down the dark street. Robert watched the taillights slowly converging to eventually round a distant corner. With the strength of his arms, he shakily lifted his body to a hover above the car and like a rusty gymnast, vaulted away from it.

Fumbling with the keys, he got in and coasted off in the opposite direction

I almost never do this. I can do the speed limit, he reassured himself, as any hint of Emily's house disappeared from his rear-view mirror...

Good, I'm on familiar roads again, almost half way to bed... Nobody ever really does the speed limit; I'll go ten miles an hour above- no seven. No one would pull a person over for seven miles an hour,... but fascists really hate not working break lights; I should have fixed them. Should have put in the damn fuse- Just put on a tape...

"Oh shit, oh shit!" OK, it's just a cop; hundreds of cars must have passed him without incident. I'm just another car, just another-

The police car pulled out and kept far behind Robert.

Fascist's following me. Fascist's fucking following me. Leave me alone. Leave me alone fascist!

It seems to keep an unnatural, measured distance away from Robert's car.

"You're still following me. Enough all ready!" Turn off, come on, please turn off...

The car wouldn't waver

Yeah, you have power, don't you, looming behind me like the angel of death. "Angle of death power, you got." You have the `right' to stop my car, forcefully handcuff me and bring me somewhere against my will, "don't you, fascist," he yelled behind him.

"Police state," he exclaims, "people don't seem to understand that. We live in a fucking police state... We can be locked up totally at the digression of an under-intelligent, bowling cop, with a gun. They can hold me twenty four hours, I'll get a hearing, some burnt out judge will blankly stair at me as I explain to them the same story, little variation, of why I was driving drunk, eventually stopping me in mid sentence, to tell me that what I did was against the law. It doesn't matter to him how unhappy I was surrounded by people who don't give a shit about me, outside the fact of how much I could entertain them, that I just needed to be home, asleep, to keep from dying. It doesn't matter that I've never been in real trouble before in my life."

"He'll just set some bail, which seems a minor amount of money for someone who makes enough, to buy his third child a new, Hyundai Excel, with a red bow on top; when they get their licenses and get them out of trouble, as they get caught driving drunk. Bail that I can't pay and I will be stuck in jail for a longer period of time."

Weren't they trying to keep the ideally innocent in jail for another twenty-four hours?

"Yeah, just lock me up in some hole and forget about me. annihilate my fuckin' life. OK, he doesn't matter anyway. "You're a bad person, now. You don't matter!"

"That's one thing I just will not tolerate."

"For me to be `legally' taken and locked up at four in the morning, will forever be totally unacceptable. I mean, it's not that different, I always have lived, locked in a little fenced in area of rules, where I'm not really allowed to stop anywhere I want, to sit and read a book. People don't realize that you need to pay just about anywhere for a place to stop moving, for any real amount of time.

"Sorry, no parking here."

Just try to remain anywhere for over one hour, that you don't have to pay to get in. You have to wait until five to get in the beach for free, but you can only stay until ten, we can't afford to pay Big Brother to watch you after ten, move along, but I don't want to go home, I'll sit in this parking lot for a little while.

"`Excuse me,' says officer Fascist, `but, are you leaving soon,... well you betta,' he screams, with the weight of his gun in his statement of fact demand."

"Park your car on a strange street and walk around. Someone's paranoia brings the fascists again."

"Move on."

"I'd like to! Off this barrier beach fenced in crowded island, republican prison, all the way to a faraway stretch of land in the mountains, with a stream, a pleasant walk off in the woods; far away from society. Some how I'll buy it all; a wind generator; Become totally self sufficient. Maybe a little greenhouse.

"Taxes!"

"I'd need income, to pay taxes."

"I don't want your fucking income,"

"But you force me to fit your plan!"

"You either play by the rules, or don't play at all."

"Only one game's allowed."

"Yes communism is nice for the dreamers, but can we really tolerate people so different from us. It took us seventy some odd years to shatter your dreams."

"Heck, we didn't need to; human nature and the absolute laziness there of, really eroded it from inside, we just egged them on and waited..."

"Gotta hand it to those Chinese though, had to kill a few of their citizens, but their holding on. Poor little yellow buggers."

"Nope!, either work in our little plan, be benign,.... but the newscasters and the president will assure us that we're aware, by stating that `all of New York's heart went out to the family who lost their little pink blanket girl, do to the toxic shampoo, but don't worry, the cooperation will be fined,' `it was the American people's will to bomb your third world country back to the stone age,'

"Electric death from the sky!"

"Hell it's only about a three year setback anyway."

"Yes, be born, go to school, maybe college, but after, be nice and preoccupied with your job and die, or be locked up or go to a home for the crazies, but better do the latter soon; happy homes like communism look good on paper and seem like a nice and humane idea, but once corrupted by thousands of teaming human-roaches hands and it's instantly contaminated."

"Heck, humans are all inherently evil, so all thoughts must be evil, so why complicate matters with all these different philosophies, but we're slowly being phasing them out and I say hurray for that."

Hurray for that!," he shouted, his voice faltering.

He began to breath too heavy to continue.

"...You're lucky we still have jails, where your fed; It really makes more sense to kill off all the little deviants and we'll all be Bob, OK?"

The officer began to shorten the space in between the two cars...

"Pull me over, man. I'm ready for you!"

"No, I won't just sit here, smiling, giving you the power over me, in hope that you'd act human, human's not so good, anyway."

He accelerated the car an extra five miles an hour. The patrol car matched his speed.

"Still with me, asshole."

"You're just a person, just a person, with pretty lights on his car roof, a gun and a radio connecting you to the grandest power base." He accelerated his car another five miles an hour.

"Getting nervous, are you, you little shit?," challenged the officer, to the back of an unhearing head, in the speeding car before him. He again adjusted his speed to that of lead car.

As Robert searched through his tapes for something powerful and appropriate, his foot further weighed down upon the gas... Finding Stravinsky's Right of Spring, he slapped it into the tape deck, raising the volume just slightly too high. The bass began to agitate his rapid fire thumping speakers...

Lowering his hands on the controls, the windows simultaneously descend, to allow the seventy-nine mile an hour cooling autumn wind to expand into his car. It violently began to toss his hair and lift stray Taco Bell wrappers, to be blown about with a mixture of other garbage and forced out the windows...

Dizzying in the mixture of the wind and music, rationing a heightened feel of power, he ignored the flickering lights illuminating his dash and the surrounding area, as he continued ripping on.

"Looks like you have something to hide," accused the officer through his windshield, as he flicked the switch for the siren.

Just as the siren began it's first rotation, Robert found his feet, involuntarily stepping on the break, in response to the yellowing traffic light about forty feet before him. His car slowed to a brisk stop as the patrol car, unwarned by Robert's defective break lights, screeched to a stop behind the lead car. Robert absently watched two speeding cars silently swish by, to intersect his potential path.

The officer takes two quick breaths. The adrenalin's tingle began to drain from his stomach and the tips of his fingers as he swung his car into the turning lane--moving parallel to the stopped car.

Lowering his passengers window, he yelled, "Pull over!," He frantically pointed, just beyond Robert's car, to the shoulder.

The light turned green and his hands began to shake. After a moments hesitation he passed under the traffic light, reluctantly pulling his car to the side of the road...

Hand shivering more profusely, his fear sends it probing under his seat...

The patrol car pulled behind him. The officer paused for a more profound, psychological effect, or `to scare the living shit out of this asshole.' Exiting the car, he stride up to the window.

"Can I help you... sir?," inquired Robert, over the continued detonation of Stravinsky.

"Lower the fuckin' Music!"

With a forced nonchalance, his hand stiffly moved to soften the stereo to a film soundtrack level.

"Took you pretty long to pull over," observed the officer. "Don't have anything to hide, do you?"

"I'm sorry, I just thought you were an eccentric, wanting to be noticed. I didn't realize those pretty lights held any significance."

"Don't get smart with me."

"What?"

"License registration and insurance," he demanded.

"Excuse me," he tightened his hand around the object now wedged between seats, "but I don't recognize what authority you have to-"

"I'm a Fuckin' police officer!," yelled the police officer.

"Oh," revealed Robert, to the man, "I thought I read something about them in the Times," he said, fishing in his wallet for his license and registration.

"Well, is this your car?"

"You see, I used to have no immunity to germs, like the Aids virus and I've lived in a plastic bubble all of my life and my parents wouldn't let me watch TV-

"Step out of the car!"

"I'm sorry," said Robert, while drawing gun, originally had stolen for killing himself and fired three times into the officers chest.

He soberly watched the impact cast the man backward to limply fall dead in the scattered, grassy beginnings of the Autumn woods and sat there watching the flickering red lighted figure lying at peace. Stray cars passed as if all was normal.

He raised his window, to ward of the shivering chill and turned up the music. He pulled away from the scene and peacefully continued on, toward home. The gun fell from his hand, to land invisible, among a diverse selection of tapes, spewn on the floor. The lights of the patrol car faded from his rear-view mirror as if from being...

He Pulled into his apartment complex, the music ceases, playing a stream of unrecorded silence at the end of the tape. He cautiously took the car over two speed-bumps and parked it next to the others, that shared his building. Exiting, he ignores the dim black smudges sprayed across the cars windshield and walks to his unit. He fumbled for his keys. While emerging from the darkness, a cat's side brushed against his legs. He unlocks the door. Opening it he walked to his unmade bed to collapse upon it. The cat followed close behind him, jumped atop his carefully bundled body walking in circles, until she found a depression on the comforter, in which to make her own bed...

Hours have passed and the cat wakes, excitedly jumping to the window, stretching her body to watch the invaders converge on the house. Robert soon buried his head in an attempt to ward of the annoying pounding, that lingered at the edge of his consciousness...

The room was large and a freshly painted stark white, covering knocks and unspackled bruises on the wall. Emily imagined that they were the result of many an interrogation. Beginning to feel sick, she focused in on the lone haggard figure's hands, that were chained to the table. Her eyes were drawn to the beginnings of a smile, forming on his moderately bruised face.

"Remember when we camped at Smith's point and everybody, except you and Scott, thought I was going to attack the ranger, that was rummaging through our tent, as I playfully threatened him with the sharp end of my hatchet."

Speechless, she let him continue, as tears, which he seemed unaware of began to fall down Roberts face.

"Does someone have my cat?," he asked, as he noticed them--attempting to wipe his face on the tee-shirt that he normally slept in. "They say I'm violent," he said, playfully, rattling the handcuffs.

Emily's gaze was once again drawn to the chains, which she watched, rubbing smoothly, into the worn out groove on the table. Scott's staying at your place right now. he feeds her"

"Good, He's the only other person she really liked anyway.."