Waist Deep

1

One February night, I dreamt I was a police officer again. I drove my patrol car around like it was some kind of lordly chariot. I blessed the peasants of the city with my presence.I dismissed their cries for help, as my time was too valuable and not to be wasted on trivial matters.

I drove and ignored the citizens lining the streets.They held their hands out to me, begging for attention, for service, for protection.

The radio in my car chirped incessantly but I disregarded the drone of voices.

When I took the time to look at them, the citizens had no faces.Only chins and eyebrows framed every empty countenance.Some of them pointed their fingers at me.Soon, the rest joined in, until all of them were pointing at me as I drove past.

I guided my cruiser into a large empty parking lot and rolled through the entrance to Joe Albi Stadium.The conquering hero returning home after battle.Trumpets blared my arrival as I parked at the fifty yard line.The rotators atop my patrol car washed the green turf with red and blue light.When I stepped out of the car, the trumpets faded and were replaced by the boos and angry mutterings from the faceless crowd.

The voices on the patrol radio grew and fell in rhythm with the crowd.I strained to make out the words.They were incomprehensible, but I knew what they meant.

You killed Amy Dugger.

She was six and you could have saved her. But instead, you killed her.

That’s what the voices on the radio accused me of.

That’s what the faceless masses screamed.

That’s what a disembodied Amy Dugger whispered in my ear.The soft pitch of her little girl’s voice rang and echoed like thunder as all the others fell silent and stared.

A jagged blade of regret and guilt ripped through my chest. I didn’t bother to protest against the accusation, because they were right.

It was my fault.

I woke and stared at the ceiling, not knowing who to curse.