Safety
By
J.L. Young

I could see the dance of the firelight through my eyelids. The heat of the flame stung my face. The sickeningly sweet scent of Brylcreem, leather, and exhaust churned my stomach. I must’ve shifted because somebody took notice. A Boston accent rang out, “Hey! The bastahd’s awake.”

“Good job, Mass. Have some cake. I got it from here.”

“You sure, Westbrook?”

‘Surely, they’re using aliases.’ I thought.

“I’m sure.” I felt a square-toed boot push me over. A greaser with a duck-ass haircut came into view. He was eating ice cream from a black tub. “Looks like you’re about to have a party. Where was my invite?” He looked at the label on the tub, “Burgundy Cherry, how did you know my favorite?”

“I know why you’re here. Whatever you do to me, it won’t change my vote tomorrow.”

“A man of integrity is hard to find in your profession, Senator. You must feel rather proud of yourself.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Yes, doing what your constituents want. That’s how it works. To quote Tacitus, ‘The desire for safety stands against every great and noble enterprise.’ But you don’t care for your safety. That’s what makes you dangerous. I know people like you, Senator. You follow the formula, even if you realize it or not. As a boy, you grew up hearing you’re destined for great things. You believe it down to your very soul. Then as the formula dictates, you find a skirt, and the biological imperative dictates your actions. Nine months later, you have a bouncing baby girl and a deceased wife. How old is your girl now, twelve? Thirteen? A veritable woman. I assume you care a great deal for her safety, Senator.”

My arm shifted from beneath me. From my proximity to the fireplace, I expected my hand to hit the tools. Alas, they were missing. I turned my bleeding face towards Westbrook. He took delight in the treat. My hand shot into the fireplace and gripped an ornate andiron.

I stood over Westbrook when the smell of searing skin brought to my attention the andiron was still in my hand. I dropped it on his chest as the pain took hold. I had crushed the side of his head.

Mass looked up from stuffing my daughter’s cake into his mouth. I took to the mantle, procured my 1911 from its box, and aimed it at him. My hand shook from the pain as I disengaged the safety.

“I was just fawllowin’ ohdahs,” he mumbled.

The report attacked my ears as Mass fell over in the cake. His weight pulled him to the kitchen floor. My pistol fell from my blistering hand.

When I realized what had happened, an hour had passed. I telephoned the police.

I arrived at the Capitol building the following morning and submitted my vote. The news of the law declaring war on the mob had passed.

For her birthday, I took my daughter to watch NASA launch a satellite into orbit. I hope it’s something she will never forget.