The Burnsfield Project

Chapter 3

Waking up was a disappointment; waking up with the worst headache in the history of human society, just the cherry on top of a big shit cake.  Why is the sun so bright, where the fuck am I?  The room is all white, bed, sheets, chair, curtains; shit the fucking television is white.  Secluded in a desolate room, beaten to shit, excellent.

"Beep, Bomp, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Bomp…"  Rotating my head as far as I could before the brace caught and then it became all too clear, the monitors and the IVs and all that jazz.  All I can hear is the "Beep, Bomp," of the monitor, nothing but "Beep, Bomp, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Bomp."…with every chime from the machines, time seemed to skate by.  The reality was, time was barely ticking away.  Second by second. 

That smell, that taste, the remnants of that fleshy dick in my mouth.  What the fuck happened to me, when is someone going to acknowledge me?  With all this fucking machinery in here, you'd think one of them would have alerted a doctor, a nurse, shit maybe even another patient. 

Yelling out, "Hello!?" in the raspiest thirst quenched voice possible.  How long have I been out?  Why is no one coming and checking on me or telling me what is happening?  My brain has hit full capacity, over loaded with fear and panic, my pulse begins to rise, causing my blood pressure to sky rocket.  The good ole panic attack, welcome back my friend.

These attacks are a normal occurrence.  No matter how big the room or how free my body and extremities are, the feeling of being trapped or locked down brings them on, whether mentally or physically.  My eyes will begin to twitch and manifest certain visual images that could only be real in the human mind.  Tears stream from each tear duct.  A feeling of hysteria, a world beyond panic sets in.  Trying to focus on breathing often works but not today, my breathing goes from rhythmic to rushed and off tempo. 

"Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp."  Alright, at least I know the machines are working.  "Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp."  Lights, alarms, new noises all begin sounding as my mind slowly destroys my body from the inside out. 

The door opens as briskly as it could have without flying off the hinges.  Two nurses dressed to the brim with face gear, coveralls, gloves, caps, booties, the works, flash into the room with needles and straps.  If this is their idea of hospitality then I never learned the correct definition. 

"Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep, Bomp," the monitor is starting to show signs of distress as it has never worked this hard in its short electronic existence.  In a stupor, I imagine a face on the monitors and it is spewing sweat and blood and teeth.  Begging me to calm down, pleading for its life. 

"FUCK YOU!" During this panicked state reality wasn't reality to me at that time.  Poor monitor, yelling wasn't the answer.

As the nurses struggled to regain control of a destroyed body and mind, my brain had other plans.  My bandages were worked from my head and face.  My wounds were beginning to worsen due to the immense physical stress that reigns over my frail rebellious body.  The blood vessels around my pupils slowly rupture, like a horrible magic trick.  Begging for help but all the while making it a lot more difficult for the nurses to administer it. 

The restraints the nurses successfully attached to me, suffocating to say the least.  They appeared to be so thin that they should have broken by now, at least in my mind.  Why can't I do that right?  I can't even break a small piece of fabric from my wrists and legs to release my body from captivity and let it breathe normal once again.

Miraculously, the IV's remained deeply buried and the nurses quickly pumped a heavy sedative through my system and I was out, again.  The room went silent, not a single, solitary noise.  No "Beep, Beep, Beep."  No talking.  No laughing.  This must be what death feels like.  Wait!  Am I dead!?

Shortly thereafter, actually hours after, my eyes opened, covered in sleep crust.  Someone is in the room, standing at the foot of the bed.  The glare from the sun and the blur from the drugs were making it very difficult to decipher the visual code as to whom it was. 

"Who the fuck is it?" Shouting served no purpose but it felt exceptional.

"Gregg, it's me, Sergeant Johnson." Sergeant Eric Johnson, my leader, my friend, my best friend.  The one person that could be trusted to shoot you straight and make you feel alright.

"What's going on Sarge?  What are they doing with me, to me?" My hands and arms raised up to attempt to feel the damage, the restraints made sure that didn't happen.

"Gregg, listen.  Just calm down and listen for a damn minute.  We saw the video from last night, specifically the part where you attempted to shoot and kill Officers Durts and Walker.  The Captain has it and it's not looking good.  It was all I could do to not have you brought up on charges." Like I said before, the man was an alright kinda guy. 

Lying there listening to my friend tell me that I was fucked, after being mouth fucked the night before, was somewhat torturous.  My best friend explaining that the Captain watched the entire video and the only part he really had a problem with was my inability to act when the pistol was drawn on John and me.  My ability to lose control when I consciously pulled the trigger on a gun that I thought was loaded to the brim with 9mm rounds was the focus, not being orally raped. 

"Gregg, Gregg?  You still with me bud?"  Apparently a look of death had taken up residence on my face and Eric thought I had finally followed the light into the afterlife, which consists of nothing but darkness in my mind.

"Yeah, Sarge, I'm still here." Just got lost in the pondering of my future was all.

"As of today, you are suspended without pay and you are deemed no longer fit for duty as a Newport News Police Officer, Gregg.  You are being transferred out.  That's all I know.  The Captain will not press charges because of what happened to you in the beginning of the video.  When you leave this hospital in the coming days, you will report to me at the station and we will go sit with the Captain and get the details of your new assignment.  You got my, Gregg?"

His voice was stern, yet reassuring, "Yeah, I heard you, I don't have the strength to argue with you, but would it really do any good?"

"No Gregg, it wouldn't at all."  The Sergeant left my lovely room with a genuine solemn look upon his face, he wasn't happy about this situation and he certainly wasn't happy at the way I handled myself.  Letting that man down is one of the worst feelings I've had in a long time. 

Shortly after his exit, my mind slowly falls into a morphine coma sleep.

I had a mother and father, Judith and Andrew, a big brother too, Daniel, six years my elder.  On my twelfth birthday my brother had already enlisted and was deployed in the U.S. Marine Corp.  He was stationed in Kuwait from what I remember.  There I was, twelve years old, living with Judith and Andrew in a dilapidated house in the middle of no-where.

This house was so unstable that when a good gust of wind came along the entire structure would lean with it.  I was very surprised it never collapsed in on all of us, ending the miserable life my family was living.

Judith was a house wife, a servant to Andrew, whenever he came home that is.  Andrew claimed he worked long, hard days but even I could smell the pussy juice stench slithering out from his pants, I KNOW Judith could, but she said nothing.  Judith was the most passive person I had ever known.  She would get a beating and say nothing, she would get verbally massacred and continue on with her chores.  Her happiness was a mask, a facade but I was just a small child, I couldn't do anything to help her.

Andrew was well known by the local Sheriff's Department for his notorious, ritualistic beatings of Judith and me.  He was also well known by the Sheriff's Department because he played poker three nights a week with them at the station.  Needless to say, he never got locked up, not even when he smashed her left hand so bad that she lost functionality in three fingers.

One night he viciously beat Judith so badly that I just knew she wasn't going to survive or that she even wanted to survive, but being the strong woman that she was she picked herself up and continued her household duties.  Later that night, Andrew proceeded to rape her, in a very horrifying manner; all I heard were screams of pain and discomfort for hours.  Then he emerged from the bedroom only to enter my cold, dark safe haven.

All I could do was pull the covers over my face and just hope that he wouldn't come near me, that he wouldn't hurt me like he had done in the past.  Prayer actually exited my mouth for the first time in my life, to no avail.  It was more of a wish that there was actually a God above me but where was he, I needed desperate help.  Andrew proceeded to molest me, rub me in places so unnatural that it makes me nauseous now just visiting that sad, hidden part of my brain's hard drive.  The definition of sodomy was taught to me three times that night and I was forced to do horribly grotesque things to him too.

After he had violated ever orifice of my body, Andrew masochistically laughed and called ME a faggot.  He had the audacity to call me a faggot after violating my most private of areas in such a manner that I could never repeat it to another living being.  To this day, I still have nightmares of that life changing night.

Let's get back to Danny.  Judith was in the kitchen and Andrew was gone "at work".  An all-black Lincoln Town car pulled in front of the slowly rotting place I called home. Like every small child, I rushed straight to the tattered and torn screen door.  Waiting anxiously, practically dancing back and forth, for the occupants to get out because I just knew they were going to tell me Danny was coming home very soon.  Two men, dressed as highly decorated Marines exited the vehicle in a very somber, robotic fashion.  One man had an envelope and the other a triangularly folded American Flag.

Judith shuffled to the door just as the men creaked their way up the three step porch.  My smile was huge as I was waiving at the men.  The excitement inside of me at this moment was inexplicable.  Somehow, it hadn't clicked in my tiny little brain that something wasn't right.  Judith collapsed to the floor and began to cry, she didn't scream or pass-out, she just cried.

The marines came in and told me to exit the area so they could speak with Judith.  "Yes Sir!" saluting both of the Marines during my marching departure.  It turns out my brother was sitting in a meeting in the South-East region of Kuwait.  An enemy soldier, outfitted in American standard issue fatigues entered the room, camouflaged but in plain sight.

Once in the room, which was full of Generals, Commanders and my brother, the enemy soldier shouted some non-sense about Allah and blew himself up with an incendiary bomb, killing nine American military officials.  My brother was one of the nine, ripped to shreds by the blast.

Judith had finally reached her boiling point and decided that enough was enough.  She took me down to the farthest bedroom on the left side of the house and asked me to fetch a dark plastic spoon from the top of the cabinet in the kitchen.  Again, I was twelve at the time so I did as I was told.

Returning with the spoon in hand, there was Judith, my mother, stripped fully nude standing in the middle of the room.  Her body was bruised and swollen, clear signs of Andrew's "love" for her.  Her face was that of a mannequin, lifeless, soulless. I had never seen my mother nude and frankly it caught me enormously off guard.

Judith's right hand clutched Andrew's Smith and Wesson .38 Special.  We stared at each other for at least fifteen seconds, but time seriously stopped right then, every breath brought about the sensation of blacking out.  My adrenaline was through the mold infested roof above my head.

I didn't speak, I COULDN'T speak.  Judith slowly raised the pistol to her temple, smiled at me and softly said, "Goodbye Gregg."  I was in so much shock that I didn't even hear the gun shot.  The room began to spin on many different axes' as Judith's stiff body hit the floor.  My mother's body evacuated all internal fluids it contained instantly.  Piss and shit lined the area where her body now rested and it slowly inhabited the entire floor.

It wasn't known to me at the time but when the brain is struck with a bullet, all upper body muscles constrict in a seizure like manner.  After Judith hit the floor, I could see her limbs begin to slowly loosen and relax.  Somehow, I knew she was dead, really dead.  Judith, my only ally left in the world had performed the most cowardice act she could but I didn't blame her.  I only resented her for leaving me alone with Andrew.

I didn't react enough; I didn't speak or try to make any sort of effort to get that silver revolver from her hands.  Judith died because of my inability to act, I let my Mother die.  A failure to act lead my Mother to be buried behind our sad little home in a patch of ground my worst enemy didn't belong in.

Andrew arrived home in his loud, squeaky Buick.  He entered the house and instantly knew something was aloof because Judith wasn't making dinner and I wasn't crippling her with my usual grasps of terror.

Entering the bedroom where Judith had chosen to make her grand exit from the shit hole we call life, Andrew spotted me just sitting on the floor, sitting and staring at Judith.  Every now and then, I would see her arm twitch as every ounce of life tried to squeeze its way from her empty carcass.

Andrew's face met mine.

"The fuck happened to her?" he asked, as he bit into a fresh Granny Smith that Judith had plucked from the only tree in our yard.  "Ah, fuck it.  What the fuck are you doing?  Get up, get the mop and start mopping this shit up you little faggot.  I better not have to ask again."

My little hand was wrapped in hers, letting go wasn't an option, I didn't want to.  There wasn't even any blood or brain matter or anything like you would see in the movies.  She really looked as if she were sleeping, other than the scorched hole in the side of her head.

I gather a bucket, mop and some old towels and did everything I could to get the area around Judith cleaned up.  Every now and then, Andrew would walk by the room checking on my progress as he scoffed at how long it was taking me.  While mopping, I accidently hit Judith with the filthy strands hanging freely from the end of my cleaning tool.  Dropping the mop, I fell to my knees, tears making a steady stream from my eyes.  Not a peep escaped my little mouth though because I knew Andrew would come through and beat the fuck out of me.

Finally able to gather myself, my composure was regained and I did the best job I could cleaning all the fecal matter up.  The floor looked pretty good for what had just occurred.  Andrew went out the back door to the shed, looking out the window he started to dig.  What the fuck was he doing?

His sad attempt at digging a resting place for his wife left him with only a three foot deep oval hole in the ground.  The level of exhaustion on that scumbags face was immeasurable, the shovel dropped as he headed indoors.

Andrew entered the suicide room and grabbed Judith's leg.  He yanked and tugged her all the way down the hall, like she was a rag doll.  When he reached the back door, he didn't even bother to pick her up, just pulled her directly through the doorway onto the dirt.  Dropping the leg, ceasing the movement as my mother's body was close enough to the make shift grave.  My name rang out.

Andrew had forgotten to grab the gun from the bedroom floor while he was in there removing the only person that had nurtured and cared for me more than anyone else in the world.  With little hesitation I tucked the revolver into my back pocket and stomped outside.

"Hurry up faggot, say goodbye to your stupid ass mom and then get the fuck back inside and finish cleaning the shit up." There wasn't a hint of compassion or sadness in his voice, only vulgarity and hatred.

Grabbing me by the scruff, he shoved my face very close to Judith and said, "How about those titties?  Don't you want to touch them before she's buried?  Don't you want to grab a woman's breast while you have a chance?  Oh, I forgot, you're a cock sucking fag.  I'll never forget the screaming and moaning you were doing last night.  Wasn't hard for me to tell you liked my caresses."  My body swelled up, rage intensified, boiling over.

Taking a nice step back just as Andrew kicked Judith a few hard times for old times' sake, a plan hatched in my brain. Like an egg with a baby chick inside finally chipping its way to freedom.  I took another step back, spreading my wings and gathering my footing, and when he leaned down to roll Judith into her shallow, heartless grave I jerked the .38 from the safety of my back pocket.

Once Judith had finally been placed roughly in the ground, my announcement was made, "It's your turn Andrew, I may only be twelve but even I know deep down inside, you aren't a human, you're a monster." My hands were oddly steady even when Andrew turned to face me, witnessing my first act of bravery.

Obviously he thought this was a good opportunity to bully me out of this situation with intimidation, "Listen you little shit; you don't have the fucking bal…"

Boom!  The trigger pull was harder than my twelve year old mind could imagine, not mentally hard but physically.  Andrew's chest rippled as the bullet passed through his shirt, then his skin, then his ribs, heart, lungs, vertebrate and back out again. As my father, the monstrous shit pile of a man, dropped to the ground with a reverberating solid thud, I knew the wound from the bullet wouldn't have killed him instantly but it did incapacitate him.

A twelve year old's racing mind is a dangerous thing, instantly my legs propelled me into the kitchen.  A knife would do the trick, a long sharp fillet knife. It was so shiny, gleaming with pride at the apparent damage it could cause.  The knife, black handle and all, seemed as if it were smiling, encouraging me to go cut this man into a million pieces and be done with it.

Hustling back outside with an eagerness built up inside me I had never felt before.  The feeling, the knowing, of finally being free from the clutches of a rapist and child molester, it was majestic.  Andrew had slowly squirmed his way in to the grave lying beside Judith.

I jumped in the grave and stood over him just like the many times he had done that to Judith and me.  It felt very liberating, almost orgasmic.  Grabbing each arm one by one, the knife slid easily into both of his wrists straight down from the elbow to the palms of his hand, very deep.  My weapon of choice had gone so deep that an indention was visual on the other side when it had almost popped out.

Andrew bellowed out in excruciating pain, it had finally set in that he was going to die at the hands of a twelve year old boy that he used as a sex doll to fulfill his most devilish of fantasies.  Locking eyes with him, nose to nose, "Night, night Andrew.  I hope hell accepts you as graciously as they would accept any other child molesting, wife beating sadist that enters their gates."

The blood didn't soak into the dirt as much as you'd think, my retreat from the swallow grave was quick, nevertheless, with each splash of dirt my transformation into adulthood took place.  Judith was at peace now and Andrew was in complete and utter misery.  As the dirt rained down on him, every spec made his face slowly distort with the grim reality of certain death growing in his brain.

The grave site was completely covered with dirt and it was packed in tight with the flat end of the shovel, just to make sure Andrew was still conscious.  His fading moans confirmed that to be a reality.  Andrew's head was still exposed, did that on purpose.

Snatching the beautifully sharp knife from the dirt I positioned myself directly above Andrew.  Bastard's body was unable to react, incapable. He couldn't move a muscle, couldn't stop the wrath that was coming, the pain he was feeling right now was nothing compared to what was next.  The pain surging through his tattered body was merely the appetizer before the main course.

Holding the knife firmly with both steady hands, the blade hovered directly over his left eye.  He didn't speak a word or mumble a sound, except for the occasional gurgle of discomfort.  I slowly touched the tip of the blade to his eye, right in the pupil.  The best part was yet to come.

The blade was being manipulated by my hands in a twirling manner, spinning clockwise as it drilled itself into his eyeball.  The amount of pressure that was used to force the knife down was barely more than the pull of gravity itself.  Oh, the screams came now, loud screams, agonizing horror movie screams.  Slowly pulling the knife out from his left eye, I turned to the right eye and did the same except I went counterclockwise just to see if anything different happened.  The remains of his eyeballs and eyelids turned to slush, oozing outward and spilling out slowly covering spots of his face.

Taking the blade, poking it through the cheek tissue and basically sawing back and forth towards the front of his mouth made for a very interesting experience.  Now Andrew could open his mouth, wider and wider.  That had to be uncomfortable just judging by the look on his face.

My final move was to grab wads of dirt and sprinkle them into his ravaged eye balls, just to add to the discomfort.  Then it seemed fitting to place a good sized chunk of dirt in his mouth to eliminate any sounds from exiting his throat area anymore.

I left the grave open, just where his head was, so I could gaze upon him and my handy work.  It took four hours for Andrew to finally die physically, his mental death took place long ago.  These were the best four hours of my entire twelve years on the Earth.  My mother, my sweet Judith had been graciously avenged and my life had been changed for the rest of my existence.

The lights in the room are dim, just how I like it.  Quiet as an empty church, like it should be.  The pain in my face isn't as bad as it had been and my broken jaw has finally put a halt to the constant clicking when I attempted to talk or chew. 

All I needed now was to stay the fuck asleep so I could enjoy this serene, peaceful moment or a few milligrams of Xanax, either one would do.  Xanax is the most emotionally delicious drug that has ever been invented, without it I would have been dead a long time ago.  Just get a nice sip of water, drop the pill in and let it slide down your gullet like a toddler on a swirly slide.  Weeeeeeeeee! It doesn't even take long to kick you in the pants and then you can just sit back, relax and have a clear head for once in your life while the X takes over setting your brain on auto pilot. 

Twitching my foot deliberately, trying to subconsciously fall into a state of rest, relaxation, calm if you will.  The hospital door creeks open and slams shut quickly.  Sad excuse for a door anyways, dark colored wood with no window.  Gazing in its direction, the golden door knob catches my eyes.  It's filthy and not so golden anymore, covered in germs, dirt and shit probably.  All the smudges and filth, how can this hospital feel confident in its staff to save lives when they can't even keep the fucking door knobs clean?   

My visitor appeared to be a nurse, a blonde at that.  Her hair was straight, hanging below her shoulders an inch or so.  She was six foot tall if she is an inch.  What the fuck kinda hospital let's their nurses wear five inch pink stiletto heels and skirts so short that some of that tight round ass hangs out?  Not that I'm complaining or anything. 

This seductress turns slowly, as if someone had just hit the slow-mo button in the replay booth of a pro football game for the fans to marvel in the glory of an amazing catch.  Her blouse is unbuttoned down to the bottom of her perfect C cup breast.  Obviously she wasn't wearing a bra, who needs one when your tits were as firm as that?  She still hasn't spoken to me yet but that's fine, I would hate for her to ruin this moment by opening her fucking mouth, at least opening it to speak anyways.

"Good Morning Mr. Burnsfield." Her voice was like a well lubricated hand tickling my balls. Ejaculating off of her voice alone wouldn't have been a stretch.  "I'm just here to look over your chart." 

"Uh, okay.  What do you want me, umm, need me to do?" replying with a slight hesitation due to the fact that all the blood in my body had rushed south rather quickly.  My dick could have probably supported the weight of three cinder blocks right now.

Unexpectedly, this beautiful, voluptuous nurse ripped open her top, shooting at least two buttons across the room like the bullets that were intended to enter those two jack-asses the other night and unleashed her supple, firm breasts from the confines of that restricting uniform.  Unable to control my jaw, it dropped like a rock; this is the type of shit that goes down in those wet messy dreams.

The brain activity rushing through my cerebellum at the time was intense.  What was next to come.  Maneuvering into position with the hospital gown up, dick out prepared for a joy ride when suddenly reality hits as the dream ends.

The soulless hospital door slammed shut.  BAM!  Rudely awakened by a three-hundred pound behemoth of a woman nurse.  My dick was rock hard, telegraphing through the sheets and somehow I managed to wrap my hand around it like the thing was going to grow wings and fly away or something.  Impossible to hide it but even harder to maintain it with her fucking fat four chinned face glaring at me. 

This monstrosity had on a nurse blouse that was about eight sizes too small and when she stretched out over my damaged body to begin removing my IVs and all the other equipment, her cottage cheese belly drooped out just enough for me to throw up in my mouth and then swallow that shit back down.  Now my fucking erection was gone, problem solved.

She smelled like fucking toe jam mixed with barbeque Fritos mixed with old man cum.  The stench was so nauseating that instead of gagging, vomit spewed from deep inside my belly soaking the sheets.  The only benefit to not ingesting solids for days was the only thing that came up was bitter, yellow stomach acid. 

As the nurse spoke to me all my eyes could do was focus on the slimy stomach acid throw up seemingly floating on my sheets.  Back and forth it slid around as if the bed were on the ocean riding each wave as they crashed against the railing.  Lost in the world of beds floating on water and stomach acid vomit until one word rang out.

"…..home."

"Home?" Smiling was excruciating but well worth it.  "I get to go home today?" My insides instantly transformed into small fluttery butterflies which didn't help the nausea.

"Yes sir.  Your Sergeant is here for you out in the waiting room." She enunciated on her S's so hard.  Her breath was revolting, almost suffocating.  Obviously this lady wasn't a flosser, the stench of rotting meat and cheese between her teeth will forever haunt my nightmares. 

"Let's go." Whatever was on the other side of the hospital door, be it a firing squad or a rabid Siberian Tiger, couldn't hold a candle to stinky here; trying to not breath through your nostrils for so long that you almost pass out from oxygen deprivation was growing tiresome. 

The cold, firm grip of the hospital bed was motivation enough to gingerly swing my legs over the side.  Standing for the first time in three or four days; it felt surreal, awkward almost.  The floor was very gritty, similar to a slip resistant floor, but it had a sheen to it like linoleum.  Bare feet are not my thing, even on carpet in my own home.

"I need shoes.  I'm not going anywhere without shoes." Grumbling my demands as if I were the king of some exotic land, hands and head held high to emphasize my proclamation and significance.

"Sir, we have a change of clothes for you right over here.  Just come on over and let's get you changed.  Take your time now." Nurse Peanut Butter pointed over to a raggedy pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt that even a homeless Alzheimer patient wouldn't willingly wear. 

Peering over in the direction indicated, "Damn, where'd you find this get up?" Taking my time, sliding towards the elastic grey sweatpants and tattered purple Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt, she chuckled.  Not smiling, I'm a fucking Redskins fan, what an insult but at least it wasn't the Cowboys.

Her smile quickly dissipated, "Sir, no one could find anyone to bring you clothes, family wise.  The Sergeant went to the thrift store across the street and got all this for you.  Free of charge."  The hint of superiority in her voice was a touch beyond aggravating.

Needing to bring tubby down a notch, "Free of charge, huh?  The fucking thrift store should have paid him for taking it out of the goddamned building." The anger that came out of my mouth wasn't the usual Burnsfield hostile attitude, it was legitimate anger.  The sweatshirt was purple for God's sake! 

Slipping the sweatshirt on over my slightly larger than average head (my brain is really big) and then pulling the tattered sweatpants up my bruised legs, it was clear they were both about two inches too short.  "Perfect, fucking perfect."

The nurse tried to grab my arm as we departed from the silent, off white hospital room but I reacted quickly enough and yanked my arm from her fat, crusty sausage fingers.  Who the fuck knew where those hands had been, probably the bottom of a Cheetos bag or in her nasty, sweaty woman parts?  The ninety degree right turn from the room placed both of us in the hallway staring down a desolate waiting area.

Scanning urgently, "Where's Sarge at?  I'm not leaving without him!"  My voice struggled to reach an appropriate volume.  These people needed to know who was in charge around here.  However, the strain from my exclamation caused a glitch in the system causing me to fall to my hands and knees and crash down to the floor.

I didn't lose consciousness for long, not even enough for a miniature flashback.  In a weakened state, Sarge turned the corner and rushed to get me upright again.  The nurse could merely hover over me as if she were a vulture just circling its prey until it finally expires.  It was very apparent that she couldn't bend over because of her fat jelly roll excuse for a stomach. 

"I got him, I got him."  Sarge quickly rushed in and helped me to my feet.  He leaned in and whispered, "Good God, she must have eaten an entire elephant this morning. No one can get that big, not naturally at least."  He chuckled for a second and then tried real hard to put his serious face on.

His voice was always so calming, so relaxing.  I could listen to Sarge talk all day long; he was my best friend, my only friend.  No matter how many times I fucked up royally, my sergeant was there to pick up the small shattered little pieces.

For the first six months of my career he was my senior ride along.  I'd fuck up, he'd fix it.  I'd fuck up, he'd teach me.  I'd fuck up; he'd take the heat for me.  He was a very genuine, whole-hearted person.

On my very first patrol alone, I stopped a 1992 Silver Chevrolet Camaro for speeding through a school zone.  Sixty something in a twenty-five.  Approaching the car from the rear, hugged tight to the bodywork, my adrenaline raced.  Once I was about five feet away, the Camaro peeled out, the throaty V8 stating the driver's intentions and also causing the rubber of the tires to turn to throat clogging smoke.

Sprinting back to my patrol car, snatching the radio, I called it in as the pursuit began.  To my surprise, Sarge was talking on the other end, shouting instructions.  He knew me so well, he knew I hadn't put my seatbelt on and he knew I was getting that police pursuit tunnel vision.  His voice was like a huge yellow Xanax controlling my nerves and chemically pushing me into a state of relaxation.

Sarge's every word was my guide as the chase continued.  Perhaps listening too closely allowed for my other senses to decrease, causing my eyes to miss the simple fact that the intersection I was flying through had changed from green to red about four seconds earlier.  A civilian smashed into the side of my car, right behind the driver's seat of the brand new police cruiser.  As the car went up on the two passenger side wheels, my eyes slammed shut and my arms pressed against the roof as I mentally thanked Sarge for reminding me to put my seatbelt on before the pursuit really got started. 

The car barrel rolled four times, flinging metal, glass and plastic debris in every direction as if it were a piñata that had been beaten by a blind folded obese child.  No serious injuries resulted from the accident but my next day back at work began with a meeting with Sarge, my Lieutenant, my Captain and the Chief of Police.  It wasn't pretty, in fact, it was ugly.  Worst part, the Police Chief liked to spit when he talks and he also liked to breath his scotch coated breathe all over people's faces.

Anyways, Sarge helped me up from the hospital floor and proceeded to fight off every halfwit nurse with a wheelchair yelling about hospital policy.  We stumbled outside without another falling episode right into Sarge's Black Bimmer that was waiting out front, engine running.

Sarge had some heavy shit to lay on me, his face was covered with despair as we drove through the city.  Not wanting to initiate the conversation, we rode in silence for twenty minutes.  The hand that was dealt was probably going to be unbearable.

Finally, pulled up at my apartment building, silence still lingered, sitting in the car, engine running, and air conditioning blowing.  Like the end of an awkward first date when one person wants to make out and the other person wants to get out.

The tension is broken, "Gregg, listen…" Sarge was doing his best to get it out of his mouth, the man had never hesitated so much before, he's always been so confident in his speech and directions.  That's what I respected the most about him.

I put a quick stop to that hesitation, "Sarge, just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

Clearing his throat, looking down at his lap, "Tomorrow morning, you need to report to 713 Brunswick Dr.  Ask for Debra.  Eight o'clock SHARP!  That's all I know, I promise you.  This came straight from the top Gregg."  The body language he showed was equivalent to that of a grieving widow at her husband's funeral.

My sarcasm was about the only thing still working, "I don't even get a hint?"  Shaking his hand probably for the last time, "Thanks Sarge, thanks for everything."         

Sarge smiled at me like how a father would smile at a son, I think, "No problem Gregg, do good work wherever you're going and stay out of trouble, please." 

Cracking the door and half stepping out, "Yes sir, I'll see you when I see you.  How hard could this new place be if they want me to show up tomorrow and I'm not even able to maintain consciousness?"  We shared a laugh, shook hands again and off he went.